Yet, while sin remains On this saddened earth, Humbly walk my ways!

For my garments are as chains; And I fear to praise My frame with careless mirth.

Joy and penance go Hand in hand, I see!

Would I could live so well, Soul of me should never know When my coverings fell, Nor feel this nudity!

HELEN AT THE LOOM.

Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom, Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over-deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full Of men that struggle close, complex; Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks Arching high; spear, shield, and all The panoply that doth recall Mighty war, such war as e'en For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.

Purple is the groundwork: good!

All the field is stained with blood.

Blood poured out for Helen's sake; (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) But the shapes of men that pa.s.s Are as ghosts within a gla.s.s, Woven with whiteness of the swan, Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan From the garment's purple fold Where Troy's tale is twined and told.

Well may Helen, as with tender Touch of rosy fingers slender She doth knit the story in Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, Feel sharp filaments of pain Reeled off with the well-spun skein, And faint blood-stains on her hands From the shifting sanguine strands.

Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: What has been must be to-morrow; Meekly to her fate she bows.

Heavenly beauties still will rouse Strife and savagery in men: Shall the lucid heavens, then, Lose their high serenity, Sorrowing over what must be?

If she taketh to her shame, Lo, they give her not the blame,-- Priam's wisest counselors, Aged men, not loving wars: When she goes forth, clad in white, Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, With her fair hair, amber-hued As vapor by the moon imbued With burning brown, that round her clings, See, she sudden silence brings On the gloomy whisperers Who would make the wrong all hers.

So, Helen, in thy silent room, Labor at the storied loom; (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) Let thy aching sorrow make Something strangely beautiful Of this fabric, since the wool Comes so tinted from the Fates, Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.

Thou shalt work with subtle force All thy deep shade of remorse In the texture of the weft, That no stain on thee be left;-- Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, Grief and wrong, to soft relief.

Speed the garment! It may chance.

Long hereafter, meet the glance Of ?none; when her lord, Now thy Paris, shall go t'ward Ida, at his last sad end, Seeking her, his early friend, Who alone can cure his ill Of all who love him, if she will.

It were fitting she should see In that hour thine artistry, And her husband's speechless corse In the garment of remorse!

But take heed that in thy work Naught unbeautiful may lurk.

Ah, how little signifies Unto thee what fortunes rise, What others fall! Thou still shalt rule, Still shalt work the colored crewl.

Though thy yearning woman's eyes Burn with glorious agonies, Pitying the waste and woe, And the heroes falling low In the war around thee, here, Yet that exquisitest tear 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be Than life, to friend or enemy.

There are people on the earth Doomed with doom of too great worth.

Look on Helen not with hate, Therefore, but compa.s.sionate.

If she suffer not too much, Seldom does she feel the touch Of that fresh, auroral joy Lighter spirits may decoy To their pure and sunny lives.

Heavy honey 't is, she hives.

To her sweet but burdened soul All that here she doth control-- What of bitter memories, What of coming fate's surmise, Paris' pa.s.sion, distant din Of the war now drifting in To her quiet--idle seems; Idle as the lazy gleams Of some stilly water's reach, Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach A heavy arch, and, looking through, Far away the doubtful blue Glimmers, on a drowsy day, Crowded with the sun's rich gray, As she stands within her room, Weaving, weaving at the loom.

"O WHOLESOME DEATH."

O Wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array, My deeds in long procession go, that are As mourners of the man they helped to mar.

I see it all in dreams, such as waylay The wandering fancy when the solid day Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star, Aloft there, with its steady point of light Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep.

Ah, when I die, and planets take their flight Above my grave, still let my spirit keep Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse, 'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse!

BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER.

Now the last wreath of snow That melts, in mist exhales White aspiration, and our deep-voiced gales In chorus chant the measured march of spring, Whom griefs of life and death Are burdening!

Slow, slow-- With half-held breath-- Tread slow, O mourners, that all men may know What hero here lies low!

O music, sweep From some deep cave, and bear To us that gasp in this so meagre air Sweet ministerings And consolations of contorted sound, With agonies profound Of n.o.bly warring and enduring chords That lie, close-bound, Unstirred as yet 'neath thy wide, wakening wings; So that our hearts break not in broken words.

O music, that hast power This darkness to devour In vivid light; that from the dusk of grief Canst cause to grow divergent flower and leaf, And from death's darkest roots Bring forth the fairest fruits;-- Come thou, to quicken this hour Of loss, and keep Thy spell on all, that none may dare to weep!

For he whom now we mourn, As if from giants born, Was strong in limb and strong in brain, And n.o.bly with a giant scorn Withstood the direst pain That healing science knows, When, by the dastard blows Of his brute enemy Laid low, he sought to rise again Through help of knife and fire,-- The awful enginery Wherewith men dare aspire To wrest from Death his victims. Yea, Though he who healed him shrank and throbbed With horror of the wound, Brave Sumner gave no sound, Nor flinched, nor sobbed, But as though within the man Instant premonition ran Of his high fate, Imperishable, sculptured state Enthroned in death to hold, He stood, a statued form Of veiled and voiceless storm, Inwardly quivering Like the swift-smitten string Of unheard music, yet As ma.s.sively and firmly set As if he had been marble or wrought gold!

Built in so brave a shape, How could he hope escape The blundering people's wrath?

Who, seeing him strong, Supposed it right to cast on him their wrong, Since he could bear it all!

Lo, now, the sombre pall Sweeps their dull errors from the path, And leaves it free For him, whose hushed heart no reproaches hath, Unto his grave to fare, In shrouded majesty!

His triumph fills the air: Behold, the streets are bordered with vain breath Of those who reverent watch the train of death; But he has done with breathing!

Wise Death, still choosing near and far, Thou couldst not strike a higher star From out our heaven, and yet its light In falling glorifies the night!

Leader in life, his lips, though dumb, Still rule us by their restfulness, their smile Of far-off meanings; and the people come In tributary hosts for many a mile, Drawn by an eloquence More solemn and intense Than that wherewith he shook The Senate, while his look Of sober lightning cleft the knotty growth Of error, that within the riven root Uplifted, lit with peace, truth's buds might shoot, And blow sweet breath o'er all, however loth!

Unspeaking, though his eyes forget The light that late forsook Their chambers, there doth rise Mysteriously yet A radiance thence that glows On brows of them, the great and wise, Poets and men of prophecies, Who, with looks of strange repose, Calm, exalted, here have met Him to follow to his grave.

Well they know he's crossed their bound, Yet, with baffled longing brave, Seek with him the depths to sound That gulf our lonely life around.

Oh, on these mortal faces frail What immortality Falls from the death-light pale!

Ev'n thus the path unto thy tomb, Sumner, all our brave and good Still shall pace through time to come, For in distant Auburn wood Seeing the glimmer of thy stone, They a shaft shall deem it, thrown From a dawn beyond the deep, And so haste with thee to keep Angelic brotherhood!

O herald, gone before, For these throw wide the door, Make room, make room!

Now, music, cease, And bitter brazen trumpets hold your peace!

Now, while the dumb, white air Draws from our still despair A purer prayer.

Then must the sod Fulfill its humble share, Meek-folded o'er his breast, Here where he lies amongst the waiting trees: They shall break bud when warm winds from the west And southern breezes come to touch the place Made precious by this grace Of memory dear to G.o.d.

We leave him where the granite Lion lies And gazes toward the East, with woman's eyes That read the riddle of the undying sun, Bearing within her breast the stony germ Of continents, but--lasting no less firm-- The memory of those marvels done, The battles fought, the words that wrought To free a race, and chasten one.

We leave him where the river slowly winds, A broken chain; The river that so late its hero finds, Without a stain, Whose name so long expectantly it bore; And, echoing now a people's thought, The Charles shall murmur by this reedy sh.o.r.e His fame forevermore.

ARISE, AMERICAN!

The soul of a nation awaking,-- High visions of daybreak I saw, And the stir of a state, the forsaking Of sin, and the worship of law.

O pine-tree, shout! And hoa.r.s.er Rush, river, unto the sea, Foam-fettered and sun-flushed, a courser That feels the prairie, free!

Our birth-star beckons to trial All faith of the far-fled years, Ere scorn was our share, and denial, Or laughter for patriot's tears.

And lo, Faith comes forth the finer From trampled thickets of fire, And the orient opens diviner Before her; the heaven lifts higher.

O deep, sweet eyes, and severer Than steel! he knoweth who comes, Thy hero: bend thine eyes nearer!

Now wilder than battle-drums

Thy glance in his blood is stirring!

His heart is alive like the main When the roweled winds are spurring, And the broad tides sh.o.r.eward strain.

O hero, art thou among us?

O helper, hidest thou still?

Why hath he no anthem sung us, Why waiteth, nor worketh our will?

For still a smirk or a favor Can hide the face of the false; And the old-time Faith seeks braver Upholders, and sacreder walls.