O for the hopes and for the feelings, Childhood, that I shared with thee-- The high resolves, the bright revealings Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me, Gentle Love, woe worth the day, Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, Woe worth the day thou fled'st away-- A shade across the wind-waved corn-- A dewdrop falling from the leaves Chance-shaken in a summer's morn!

Woe, woe is me! my sick heart grieves, Companionless and anguish-worn!

I know it well, our manly years Must be baptized in bitter tears; Full many fountains must run dry That youth has dreamed for long hours by, Choked by convention's siroc blast Or drifting sands of many cares; Slowly they leave us all at last, And cease their flowing unawares.

THE BOBOLINK.

Anacreon of the meadow, Drunk with the joy of spring!

Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow I lie and drink thy jargoning; My soul is full with melodies, One drop would overflow it, And send the tears into mine eyes-- But what car'st thou to know it?

Thy heart is free as mountain air, And of thy lays thou hast no care, Scattering them gayly everywhere, Happy, unconscious poet!

Upon a tuft of meadow gra.s.s, While thy loved-one tends the nest, Thou swayest as the breezes pa.s.s, Unburthening thine o'erfull breast Of the crowded songs that fill it, Just as joy may choose to will it.

Lord of thy love and liberty, The blithest bird of merry May, Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me, That say as plain as eye can say-- "Here sit we, here in the summer weather, I and my modest mate together; Whatever your wise thoughts may be, Under that gloomy old pine tree, We do not value them a feather."

Now, leaving earth and me behind, Thou beatest up against the wind, Or, floating slowly down before it, Above thy gra.s.s-hid nest thou flutterest And thy bridal love-song utterest, Raining showers of music o'er it, Weary never, still thou trillest, Spring-gladsome lays, As of moss-rimmed water-brooks Murmuring through pebbly nooks In quiet summer days.

My heart with happiness thou fillest, I seem again to be a boy Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover, O'er the bending gra.s.s-tops hover, Quivering thy wings for joy.

There's something in the apple-blossom, The greening gra.s.s and bobolink's song, That wakes again within my bosom Feelings which have slumbered long.

As long, long years ago I wandered, I seem to wander even yet, The hours the idle school-boy squandered, The man would die ere he'd forget.

O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted, Nodding his gray head toward my books, I dearer prize the lore I tasted With you, among the trees and brooks, Than all that I have gained since then From learned books or study-withered men!

Nature, thy soul was one with mine, And, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other, Such love for me was thine.

Or wert thou not more like a loving mother With sympathy and loving power to heal, Against whose heart my throbbing heart I'd lay And moan my childish sorrows all away, Till calm and holiness would o'er me steal?

Was not the golden sunset a dear friend?

Found I no kindness in the silent moon, And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend, Low singing evermore their pleasant tune?

Felt I no heart in dim and solemn woods-- No loved-one's voice in lonely solitudes?

Yes, yes! unhoodwinked then my spirit's eyes, Blind leaders had not _taught me_ to be wise.

Dear hours! which now again I over-live, Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive Of my young heart came laden with rich prize, Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be My spirit's food in days more wintery.

Yea, yet again ye come! ye come!

And, like a child once more at home After long sojourning in alien climes, I lie upon my mother's breast, Feeling the blessedness of rest, And dwelling in the light of other times.

O ye whose living is not _Life_, Whose dying is but death, Song, empty toil and petty strife, Rounded with loss of breath!

Go, look on Nature's countenance, Drink in the blessing of her glance; Look on the sunset, hear the wind, The cataract, the awful thunder; Go, worship by the sea; Then, and then only, shall ye find, With ever-growing wonder, Man is not all in all to ye; Go with a meek and humble soul, Then shall the scales of self unroll From off your eyes--the weary packs Drop from your heavy-laden backs; And ye shall see, With reverent and hopeful eyes, Glowing with new-born energies, How great a thing it is to

be

!

FORGETFULNESS.

There's a haven of sure rest From the loud world's bewildering stress As a bird dreaming on her nest, As dew hid in a rose's breast, As Hesper in the glowing West; So the heart sleeps In thy calm deeps, Serene Forgetfulness!

No sorrow in that place may be, The noise of life grows less and less: As moss far down within the sea, As, in white lily caves, a bee, As life in a hazy reverie; So the heart's wave In thy dim cave, Hushes, Forgetfulness!

Duty and care fade far away What toil may be we cannot guess: As a ship anch.o.r.ed in the bay, As a cloud at summer-noon astray, As water-blooms in a breezeless day; So,'neath thine eyes, The full heart lies, And dreams, Forgetfulness!

SONG.

I.

What reck I of the stars, when I May gaze into thine eyes, O'er which the brown hair flowingly Is parted maidenwise From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, Over thy cheeks so rosy white?

II.

What care I for the red moon-rise?

Far liefer would I sit And watch the joy within thine eyes Gush up at sight of it; Thyself my queenly moon shall be, Ruling my heart's deep tides for me!

III.

What heed I if the sky be blue?

So are thy holy eyes, And bright with shadows ever new Of changeful sympathies, Which in thy soul's unruffled deep Rest evermore, but never sleep.

THE POET.

He who hath felt Life's mystery Press on him like thick night, Whose soul hath known no history But struggling after light;-- He who hath seen dim shapes arise In the soundless depths of soul, Which gaze on him with meaning eyes Full of the mighty whole, Yet will no word of healing speak, Although he pray night-long, "O, help me, save me! I am weak, And ye are wondrous strong!"-- Who, in the midnight dark and deep, Hath felt a voice of might Come echoing through the halls of sleep From the lone heart of Night, And, starting from his restless bed, Hath watched and wept to know What meant that oracle of dread That stirred his being so; He who hath felt how strong and great This G.o.dlike soul of man, And looked full in the eyes of Fate, Since Life and Thought began; The armor of whose moveless trust Knoweth no spot of weakness, Who hath trod fear into the dust Beneath the feet of meekness;-- He who hath calmly borne his cross, Knowing himself the king Of time, nor counted it a loss To learn by suffering;-- And who hath worshipped woman still With a pure soul and lowly, Nor ever hath in deed or will Profaned her temple holy-- He is the Poet, him unto The gift of song is given, Whose life is lofty, strong, and true, He is the Poet, from his lips To live forevermore, Majestical as full-sailed ships, The words of Wisdom pour.

FLOWERS.

"Hail be thou, holie hearbe, Growing on the ground, All in the mount Calvary First wert thou found; Thou art good for manie a sore, Thou healest manie a wound, In the name of sweete Jesus I take thee from the ground."

--_Ancient Charm-verse._

I.

When, from a pleasant ramble, home Fresh-stored with quiet thoughts, I come, I pluck some wayside flower And press it in the choicest nook Of a much-loved and oft-read book; And, when upon its leaves I look In a less happy hour, Dear memory bears me far away Unto her fairy bower, And on her breast my head I lay, While, in a motherly, sweet strain, She sings me gently back again To by-gone feelings, until they Seem children born of yesterday.

II.

Yes, many a story of past hours I read in these dear withered flowers, And once again I seem to be Lying beneath the old oak tree, And looking up into the sky, Through thick leaves rifted fitfully, Lulled by the rustling of the vine, Or the faint low of far-off kine; And once again I seem To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream; Or 'neath the odorous linden trees, When summer twilight lingers long, To hear the flowing of the breeze And unseen insects' slumberous song, That mingle into one and seem Like dim murmurs of a dream; Fair faces, too, I seem to see, Smiling from pleasant eyes at me, And voices sweet I hear, That, like remembered melody, Flow through my spirit's ear.

III.