The laurel leaves are cool and green, But the thorns are hot and sharp, Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp; Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, Grim want thrusts in the warp.

And if beyond this darksome clime Some fair star Hope may see, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy-- Where the harvest-time of faith sublime Not always is to be--

Yet would the true soul rather choose Its home where sorrow is, Than in a sated peace to lose Its life's supremest bliss-- The rainbow hues that bend profuse O'er cloudy spheres like this--

The want, the sorrow and the pain, That are Love's right to cure-- The sunshine bursting after rain-- The gladness insecure That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, To do and to endure.

High natures must be thunder-scarred With many a searing wrong; From mother Sorrow's b.r.e.a.s.t.s the bard Sucks gifts of deepest song, Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Wax the Soul's sinews strong.

Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Patience that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go Up to each n.o.bler state, Whose voice's flow so meek and low Smooths the bent brows of Fate.

Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift, And, o'er the spirit's eyes, Life after life doth change and shift With larger destinies: As on we drift, some wider rift Shows us serener skies.

And though naught falleth to us here But gains the world counts loss, Though all we hope of wisdom clear When climbed to seems but dross, Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear, At least may share his cross.

FAREWELL.

Farewell! as the bee round the blossom Doth murmur drowsily, So murmureth round my bosom The memory of thee; Lingering, it seems to go, When the wind more full doth flow, Waving the flower to and fro, But still returneth, Marian!

My hope no longer burneth, Which did so fiercely burn, My joy to sorrow turneth, Although loath, loath to turn-- I would forget-- And yet--and yet My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian!

Fair as a single star thou shinest, And white as lilies are The slender hands wherewith thou twinest Thy heavy auburn hair; Thou art to me A memory Of all that is divinest: Thou art so fair and tall, Thy looks so queenly are, Thy very shadow on the wall, Thy step upon the stair, The thought that thou art nigh, The chance look of thine eye Are more to me than all, Marian, And will be till I die!

As the last quiver of a bell Doth fade into the air, With a subsiding swell That dies we know not where, So my hope melted and was gone: I raised mine eyes to bless the star That shared its light with me so far Below its silver throne, And gloom and chilling vacancy Were all was left to me, In the dark, bleak night I was alone!

Alone in the blessed Earth, Marian, For what were all to me-- Its love, and light, and mirth, Marian, If I were not with thee?

My heart will not forget thee More than the moaning brine Forgets the moon when she is set; The gush when first I met thee That thrilled my brain like wine, Doth thrill as madly yet; My heart cannot forget thee, Though it may droop and pine, Too deeply it had set thee In every love of mine; No new moon ever cometh, No flower ever bloometh, No twilight ever gloometh But I'm more only thine.

Oh look not on me, Marian, Thine eyes are wild and deep, And they have won me, Marian, From peacefulness and sleep; The sunlight doth not sun me, The meek moonshine doth shun me, All sweetest voices stun me-- There is no rest Within my breast And I can only weep, Marian!

As a landbird far at sea Doth wander through the sleet And drooping downward wearily Finds no rest for her feet, So wandereth my memory O'er the years when we did meet: I used to say that everything Partook a share of thee, That not a little bird could sing, Or green leaf flutter on a tree, That nothing could be beautiful Save part of thee were there, That from thy soul so clear and full All bright and blessed things did cull The charm to make them fair; And now I know That it was so, Thy spirit through the earth doth flow And face me wheresoe'er I go-- What right hath perfectness to give Such weary weight of woe Unto the soul which cannot live On anything more low?

Oh leave me, leave me, Marian, There's no fair thing I see But doth deceive me, Marian, Into sad dreams of thee!

A cold snake gnaws my heart And crushes round my brain, And I should glory but to part So bitterly again, Feeling the slow tears start And fall in fiery rain: There's a wide ring round the moon, The ghost-like clouds glide by, And I hear the sad winds croon A dirge to the lowering sky; There's nothing soft or mild In the pale moon's sickly light, But all looks strange and wild Through the dim, foreboding night: I think thou must be dead In some dark and lonely place, With candles at thy head, And a pall above thee spread To hide thy dead, cold face; But I can see thee underneath So pale, and still, and fair, Thine eyes closed smoothly and a wreath Of flowers in thy hair; I never saw thy face so clear When thou wast with the living, As now beneath the pall, so drear, And stiff, and unforgiving; I cannot flee thee, Marian, I cannot turn away, Mine eyes must see thee, Marian, Through salt tears night and day.

A DIRGE.

Poet! lonely is thy bed, And the turf is overhead-- Cold earth is thy cover; But thy heart hath found release, And it slumbers full of peace 'Neath the rustle of green trees And the warm hum of the bees, Mid the drowsy clover; Through thy chamber, still as death, A smooth gurgle wandereth, As the blue stream murmureth To the blue sky over.

Three paces from the silver strand, Gently in the fine, white sand, With a lily in thy hand, Pale as snow, they laid thee; In no coa.r.s.e earth wast thou hid, And no gloomy coffin-lid Darkly overweighed thee.

Silently as snow-flakes drift, The smooth sand did sift and sift O'er the bed they made thee; All sweet birds did come and sing At thy sunny burying-- Choristers unbidden, And, beloved of sun and dew, Meek forget-me-nots upgrew Where thine eyes so large and blue 'Neath the turf were hidden.

Where thy stainless clay doth lie, Blue and open is the sky, And the white clouds wander by, Dreams of summer silently Darkening the river; Thou hearest the clear water run; And the ripples every one, Scattering the golden sun, Through thy silence quiver; Vines trail down upon the stream, Into its smooth and gla.s.sy dream A green stillness spreading, And the shiner, perch, and bream Through the shadowed waters gleam 'Gainst the current heading.

White as snow, thy winding sheet Shelters thee from head to feet, Save thy pale face only; Thy face is turned toward the skies, The lids lie meekly o'er thine eyes, And the low-voiced pine-tree sighs O'er thy bed so lonely.

All thy life thou lov'dst its shade: Underneath it thou art laid, In an endless shelter; Thou hearest it forever sigh As the wind's vague longings die In its branches dim and high-- Thou hear'st the waters gliding by Slumberously welter.

Thou wast full of love and truth, Of forgiveness and ruth-- Thy great heart with hope and youth Tided to o'erflowing.

Thou didst dwell in mysteries, And there lingered on thine eyes Shadows of serener skies, Awfully wild memories, That were like foreknowing; Through the earth thou would'st have gone, Lighted from within alone, Seeds from flowers in Heaven grown With a free hand sowing.

Thou didst remember well and long Some fragments of thine angel-song, And strive, through want of woe and wrong, To win the world unto it; Thy sin it was to see and hear Beyond To-day's dim hemisphere-- Beyond all mists of hope and fear, Into a life more true and clear, And dearly thou didst rue it; Light of the new world thou hadst won, O'erflooded by a purer sun-- Slowly Fate's ship came drifting on, And through the dark, save thou, not one Caught of the land a token.

Thou stood'st upon the farthest prow, Something within thy soul said "Now!"

And leaping forth with eager brow, Thou fell'st on sh.o.r.e heart-broken.

Long time thy brethren stood in fear; Only the breakers far and near, White with their anger, they could hear; The sounds of land, which thy quick ear Caught long ago, they heard not.

And, when at last they reached the strand, They found thee lying on the sand With some wild flowers in thy hand, But thy cold bosom stirred not; They listened, but they heard no sound Save from the glad life all around A low, contented murmur.

The long gra.s.s flowed adown the hill, A hum rose from a hidden rill, But thy glad heart, that knew no ill But too much love, lay dead and still-- The only thing that sent a chill Into the heart of summer.

Thou didst not seek the poet's wreath But too soon didst win it; Without 'twas green, but underneath Were scorn and loneliness and death, Gnawing the brain with burning teeth, And making mock within it.

Thou, who wast full of n.o.bleness, Whose very life-blood 'twas to bless, Whose soul's one law was giving, Must bandy words with wickedness, Haggle with hunger and distress, To win that death which worldliness Calls bitterly a living.

"Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!"

Muttered earth, turning in her sleep; "Come home to the Eternal Deep!"

Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep, As of thy doom o'erflying; It seem'd that thy strong heart would leap Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep, But not with fear of dying; Men could not fathom thy deep fears, They could not understand thy tears, The h.o.a.rded agony of years Of bitter self-denying.

So once, when high above the spheres Thy spirit sought its starry peers, It came not back to face the jeers Of brothers who denied it; Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps Of G.o.d, and thy white body sleeps Where the lone pine forever keeps Patient watch beside it.

Poet! underneath the turf, Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow, Thou hast struggled through the surf Of wild thoughts and want and sorrow.

Now, beneath the moaning pine, Full of rest, thy body lieth, While far up is clear sunshine, Underneath a sky divine, Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth; Oft she strove to spread them here, But they were too white and clear For our dingy atmosphere.

Thy body findeth ample room In its still and gra.s.sy tomb By the silent river; But thy spirit found the earth Narrow for the mighty birth Which it dreamed of ever; Thou wast guilty of a rhyme Learned in a benigner clime, And of that more grievous crime, An ideal too sublime For the low-hung sky of Time.

The calm spot where thy body lies Gladdens thy soul in Paradise, It is so still and holy; Thy body sleeps serenely there, And well for it thy soul may care, It was so beautiful and fair, Lily white so wholly.

From so pure and sweet a frame Thy spirit parted as it came, Gentle as a maiden; Now it lieth full of rest-- Sods are lighter on its breast Than the great, prophetic guest Wherewith it was laden.

FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD,

PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER.

Who prest you here? The Past can tell, When summer skies were bright above, And some full heart did leap and swell Beneath the white new moon of love.

Some Poet, haply, when the world Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue, Ere its cold, inky waves had curled O'er the numb heart once warm and true;

When, with his soul brimful of morn, He looked beyond the vale of Time, Nor saw therein the dullard scorn That made his heavenliness a crime;

When, musing o'er the Poets olden, His soul did like a sun upstart To shoot its arrows, clear and golden, Through slavery's cold and darksome heart.

Alas! too soon the veil is lifted That hangs between the soul and pain, Too soon the morning-red hath drifted Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain!

Or were you prest by one who nurst Bleak memories of love gone by, Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst In dark and erring vacancy?