To him you still were fresh and green As when you grew upon the stalk, And many a breezy summer scene Came back--and many a moonlit walk;

And there would be a hum of bees, A smell of childhood in the air, And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair!

Then would you suddenly be blasted By the keen wind of one dark thought, One nameless woe, that had outlasted The sudden blow whereby 'twas brought.

Or were you prest here by two lovers Who seemed to read these verses rare, But found between the antique covers What Spenser could not prison there:

Songs which his glorious soul had heard, But his dull pen could never write, Which flew, like some gold-winged bird, Through the blue heaven out of sight?

My heart is with them as they sit, I see the rosebud in her breast, I see her small hand taking it From out its odorous, snowy nest;

I hear him swear that he will keep it, In memory of that blessed day, To smile on it or over-weep it When she and spring are far away.

Ah me! I needs must droop my head, And brush away a happy tear, For they are gone, and, dry and dead, The rosebud lies before me here.

Yet is it in no stranger's hand, For I will guard it tenderly, And it shall be a magic wand To bring mine own true love to me.

My heart runs o'er with sweet surmises, The while my fancy weaves her rhyme, Kind hopes and musical surprises Throng round me from the olden time.

I do not care to know who prest you: Enough for me to feel and know That some heart's love and longing blest you, Knitting to-day with long-ago.

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1844.

A FRAGMENT.

The night is calm and beautiful; the snow Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon And the cold stars, as if it took delight In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue, Secure as if angelic squadrons yet Encamped about her, and each watching star Gained double brightness from the flashing arms Of winged and unsleeping sentinels.

Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, The sea that flows between high heaven and earth, Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find A stray leaf floated from those happier sh.o.r.es, And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower Which we had watered with our holiest tears, Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, O'er the same ocean piloted by love, May find a haven at the feet of G.o.d, And be not wholly worthless in his sight.

O, high dependence on a higher Power, Sole stay for all these restless faculties That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare Wherein our human knowledge hath its home, Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day, With each new-found oasis, wearied soon, And only certain of uncertainty!

O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less, That this huge Minster of the Universe, Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds, With painted oriels of dawn and sunset; Whose carved ornaments are systems grand, Orion kneeling in his starry niche, The Lyre whose strings give music audible To holy ears, and countless splendors more, Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all; Whose organ music is the solemn stops Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good; Whose choristers are all the morning stars; Whose altar is the sacred human heart Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably, Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace; With all its arches and its pinnacles That stretch forever and forever up, Is founded on the silent heart of G.o.d, Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life Through the least veins of all created things.

Fit musings these for the departing year; And G.o.d be thanked for such a crystal night As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast A mild home-glow o'er all Humanity!

Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts a.s.sail the skyey panoply of Faith, Though the great hopes which we have had for man, Foes in disguise, because they based belief On man's endeavor, not on G.o.d's decree-- Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly, Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart That rankles in the soul and makes it sick With vain regret, nigh verging on despair-- Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this, We well can feel how every living heart That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot, Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known Of other homestead than the arching sky, Is circled watchfully with seraph fires; How our own erring will it is that hangs The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart, And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek.

Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle, Bent over always by thy mother Heaven!

We all are tall enough to reach G.o.d's hand, And angels are no taller: looking back Upon the smooth wake of a year o'erpast, We see the black clouds furling, one by one, From the advancing majesty of Truth, And something won for Freedom, whose least gain Is as a firm and rock-built citadel Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes; Or, leaning from the time's extremest prow, If we gaze forward through the blinding spray, And dimly see how much of ill remains, How many fetters to be sawn asunder By the slow toil of individual zeal, Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain, We feel, with something of a sadder heart, Yet bracing up our bruised mail the while, And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit, How great it is to breathe with human breath, To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks Of our old exiled king, Humanity; Encamping after every hard-won field Nearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains.

Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep Under this armor, free and full of peace: If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains, Endurance, too, the crowning faculty Of n.o.ble minds, and Love, invincible By any weapons; and these hem us round With silence such that all the groaning clank Of this mad engine men have made of earth Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones, That wander from the dim surrounding vast, Or far more clear melodious prophecies, The natural music of the heart of man, Which by kind Sorrow's ministry hath learned That the true sceptre of all power is love And humbleness the palace-gate of truth.

What man with soul so blind as sees not here The first faint tremble of Hope's morning-star, Foretelling how the G.o.d-forged shafts of dawn, Fitted already on their golden string, Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force, The ozier hauberk of a ruder age?

Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth, Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched, Nor thy fierce eye enticed from its watch, Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap; By wasted lives of prophets, and of those Who, by the promise in their souls upheld, Into the red arms of a fiery death Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee Sinks in the sleepy poppy's cup of flame By the long woes of nations set at war, That so the swollen torrent of their wrath May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge By time's long gathered dust, but cobwebs still, Which bind the Many that the Few may gain Leisure to wither by the drought of ease What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown;-- By all these searching lessons thou hast learned To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy's front, Knowing that G.o.d will make the lily stalk, In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness, Stronger than iron spear to shatter through The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield.

A MYSTICAL BALLAD.

I.

The sunset scarce had dimmed away Into the twilight's doubtful gray; One long cloud o'er the horizon lay, 'Neath which, a streak of bluish white, Wavered between the day and night; Over the pine trees on the hill The trembly evening-star did thrill, And the new moon, with slender rim, Through the elm arches gleaming dim, Filled memory's chalice to the brim.

II.

On such an eve the heart doth grow Full of surmise, and scarce can know If it be now or long ago, Or if indeed it doth exist;-- A wonderful enchanted mist From the new moon doth wander out, Wrapping all things in mystic doubt, So that this world doth seem untrue, And all our fancies to take hue From some life ages since gone through.

III.

The maiden sat and heard the flow Of the west wind so soft and low The leaves scarce quivered to and fro; Unbound, her heavy golden hair Rippled across her bosom bare, Which gleamed with thrilling snowy white Far through the magical moonlight: The breeze rose with a rustling swell, And from afar there came the smell Of a long-forgotten lily-bell.

IV.

The dim moon rested on the hill, But silent, without thought or will, Where sat the dreamy maiden still; And now the moon's tip, like a star, Drew down below the horizon's bar; To her black noon the night hath grown, Yet still the maiden sits alone, Pale as a corpse beneath a stream And her white bosom still doth gleam Through the deep midnight like a dream.

V.

Cloudless the morning came and fair, And lavishly the sun doth share His gold among her golden hair, Kindling it all, till slowly so A glory round her head doth glow; A withered flower is in her hand, That grew in some far distant land, And, silently transfigured, With wide calm eyes, and undrooped head, They found the stranger-maiden dead.

VI.

A youth, that morn, 'neath other skies, Felt sudden tears burn in his eyes, And his heart throng with memories; All things without him seemed to win Strange brotherhood with things within, And he forever felt that he Walked in the midst of mystery, And thenceforth, why, he could not tell, His heart would curdle at the smell Of his once-cherished lily-bell.

VII.

Something from him had pa.s.sed away; Some shifting trembles of clear day, Through starry crannies in his clay, Grew bright and steadfast, more and more, Where all had been dull earth before; And, through these c.h.i.n.ks, like him of old, His spirit converse high did hold With clearer loves and wider powers, That brought him dewy fruits and flowers From far Elysian groves and bowers.

VIII.

Just on the farther bound of sense, Unproved by outward evidence, But known by a deep influence Which through our grosser clay doth shine With light unwaning and divine, Beyond where highest thought can fly Stretcheth the world of Mystery-- And they not greatly overween Who deem that nothing true hath been Save the unspeakable Unseen.

IX.

One step beyond life's work-day things, One more beat of the soul's broad wings, One deeper sorrow sometimes brings The spirit into that great Vast Where neither future is nor past; None knoweth how he entered there, But, waking, finds his spirit where He thought an angel could not soar, And, what he called false dreams before, The very air about his door.

X.

These outward seemings are but shows Whereby the body sees and knows; Far down beneath, forever flows A stream of subtlest sympathies That make our spirits strangely wise In awe, and fearful bodings dim Which, from the sense's outer rim, Stretch forth beyond our thought and sight, Fine arteries of circling light, Pulsed outward from the Infinite.