"And I beheld high scaffoldings of creeds Crumbling from round Religion's perfect Fane: And a vast noise of rights, wrongs, powers, needs, -- Cries of new Faiths that called 'This Way is plain,'

-- Grindings of upper against lower greeds -- -- Fond sighs for old things, shouts for new, -- did reign Below that stream of golden fire that broke, Mottled with red, above the seas of smoke.

"Hark! Gay fanfares from halls of old Romance Strike through the clouds of clamor: who be these That, paired in rich processional, advance From darkness o'er the murk mad factories Into yon flaming road, and sink, strange Ministrants!

Sheer down to earth, with many minstrelsies And motions fine, and mix about the scene And fill the Time with forms of ancient mien?

"Bright ladies and brave knights of Fatherland; Sad mariners, no harbor e'er may hold, A swan soft floating tow'rds a magic strand; Dim ghosts, of earth, air, water, fire, steel, gold, Wind, grief, and love; a lewd and lurking band Of Powers -- dark Conspiracy, Cunning cold, Gray Sorcery; magic cloaks and rings and rods; Valkyries, heroes, Rhinemaids, giants, G.o.ds!

"O Wagner, westward bring thy heavenly art, No trifler thou: Siegfried and Wotan be Names for big ballads of the modern heart.

Thine ears hear deeper than thine eyes can see.

Voice of the monstrous mill, the shouting mart, Not less of airy cloud and wave and tree, Thou, thou, if even to thyself unknown, Hast power to say the Time in terms of tone."

____ 1877.

VII. A Song of Love.

"Hey, rose, just born Twin to a thorn; Was't so with you, O Love and Scorn?

"Sweet eyes that smiled, Now wet and wild; O Eye and Tear -- mother and child.

"Well: Love and Pain Be kinsfolk twain: Yet would, Oh would I could love again."

To Beethoven.

In o'er-strict calyx lingering, Lay music's bud too long unblown, Till thou, Beethoven, breathed the spring: Then bloomed the perfect rose of tone.

O Psalmist of the weak, the strong, O Troubadour of love and strife, Co-Litanist of right and wrong, Sole Hymner of the whole of life,

I know not how, I care not why, -- Thy music sets my world at ease, And melts my pa.s.sion's mortal cry In satisfying symphonies.

It soothes my accusations sour 'Gainst thoughts that fray the restless soul: The stain of death; the pain of power; The lack of love 'twixt part and whole;

The yea-nay of Freewill and Fate, Whereof both cannot be, yet are; The praise a poet wins too late Who starves from earth into a star;

The lies that serve great parties well, While truths but give their Christ a cross; The loves that send warm souls to h.e.l.l, While cold-blood neuters take no loss;

Th' indifferent smile that nature's grace On Jesus, Judas, pours alike; Th' indifferent frown on nature's face When luminous lightnings strangely strike

The sailor praying on his knees And spare his mate that's cursing G.o.d; How babes and widows starve and freeze, Yet Nature will not stir a clod;

Why Nature blinds us in each act Yet makes no law in mercy bend, No pitfall from our feet retract, No storm cry out 'Take shelter, friend;'

Why snakes that crawl the earth should ply Rattles, that whoso hears may shun, While serpent lightnings in the sky, But rattle when the deed is done;

How truth can e'er be good for them That have not eyes to bear its strength, And yet how stern our lights condemn Delays that lend the darkness length;

To know all things, save knowingness; To grasp, yet loosen, feeling's rein; To waste no manhood on success; To look with pleasure upon pain;

Though teased by small mixt social claims, To lose no large simplicity, And midst of clear-seen crimes and shames To move with manly purity;

To hold, with keen, yet loving eyes, Art's realm from Cleverness apart, To know the Clever good and wise, Yet haunt the lonesome heights of Art;

O Psalmist of the weak, the strong, O Troubadour of love and strife, Co-Litanist of right and wrong, Sole Hymner of the whole of life,

I know not how, I care not why, Thy music brings this broil at ease, And melts my pa.s.sion's mortal cry In satisfying symphonies.

Yea, it forgives me all my sins, Fits life to love like rhyme to rhyme, And tunes the task each day begins By the last trumpet-note of Time.

____ 1876-7.

An Frau Nannette Falk-Auerbach.

Als du im Saal mit deiner himmlischen Kunst Beethoven zeigst, und seinem Willen nach Mit den zehn Fingern fuehrst der Leute Gunst, Zehn Zungen sagen was der Meister sprach.

Schauend dich an, ich seh', da.s.s nicht allein Du sitzest: jetzt herab die Toene ziehn Beethovens Geist: er steht bei dir, ganz rein: Fuer dich mit Vaters Stolz sein' Augen gluehn: Er sagt, "Ich h.o.e.rte dich aus Himmelsluft, Die kommt ja naeher, wo ein Kuenstler spielt: Mein Kind (ich sagte) mich zur Erde ruft: Ja, weil mein Arm kein Kind im Leben hielt, Gott hat mir dich nach meinem Tod gegeben, Nannette, Tochter! dich, mein zweites Leben!"

____ Baltimore, 1878.

To Nannette Falk-Auerbach.

Oft as I hear thee, wrapt in heavenly art, The ma.s.sive message of Beethoven tell With thy ten fingers to the people's heart As if ten tongues told news of heaven and h.e.l.l, -- Gazing on thee, I mark that not alone, Ah, not alone, thou sittest: there, by thee, Beethoven's self, dear living lord of tone, Doth stand and smile upon thy mastery.

Full fain and fatherly his great eyes glow: He says, "From Heaven, my child, I heard thee call (For, where an artist plays, the sky is low): Yea, since my lonesome life did lack love's all, In death, G.o.d gives me thee: thus, quit of pain, Daughter, Nannette! in thee I live again."

____ Baltimore, 1878.

To Our Mocking-Bird.

Died of a cat, May, 1878.