On a Palmetto.

Through all that year-scarred agony of height, Unblest of bough or bloom, to where expands His wandy circlet with his bladed bands Dividing every wind, or loud or light, To termless hymns of love and old despite, Yon tall palmetto in the twilight stands, Bare Dante of these purgatorial sands That glimmer marginal to the monstrous night.

Comes him a Southwind from the scented vine, It breathes of Beatrice through all his blades, North, East or West, Guelph-wind or Ghibelline, 'Tis shredded into music down the shades; All sea-breaths, land-breaths, systol, diastol, Sway, minstrels of that grief-melodious Soul.

____ 1880.

Struggle.

My soul is like the oar that momently Dies in a desperate stress beneath the wave, Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea: Each second I'm new-born from some new grave.

Control.

O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness thee And make thee harrow all my spirit's glebe.

Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet He made a wolf to plow his land.

To J. D. H.

(Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.)

Dear friend, forgive a wild lament Insanely following thy flight.

I would not c.u.mber thine ascent Nor drag thee back into the night;

But the great sea-winds sigh with me, The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old, And I would that I might lie with thee There in the grave so cold, so cold!

Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee, And the round skies are far and steep; A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe, Pain is proud and scorns to weep.

My heart breaks if it cling about thee, And still breaks, if far from thine.

O drear, drear death, to live without thee, O sad life -- to keep thee mine.

Marsh Hymns.

Between Dawn and Sunrise.

Were silver pink, and had a soul, Which soul were shy, which shyness might A visible influence be, and roll Through heaven and earth -- 'twere thou, O light!

O rhapsody of the wraith of red, O blush but yet in prophecy, O sun-hint that hath overspread Sky, marsh, my soul, and yonder sail.

Thou and I.

So one in heart and thought, I trow, That thou might'st press the strings and I might draw the bow And both would meet in music sweet, Thou and I, I trow.

____ 1881.

The Hard Times in Elfland.

A Story of Christmas Eve.

Strange that the termagant winds should scold The Christmas Eve so bitterly!

But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old, Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I,

Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew More frontward of the mighty fire, Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew The heaven that Christian dogs desire --

Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave, Huge nose on heavy paws reclined, With never a drowning boy to save, And warmth of body and peace of mind.

And, as our happy circle sat, The fire well capp'd the company: In grave debate or careless chat, A right good fellow, mingled he:

He seemed as one of us to sit, And talked of things above, below, With flames more winsome than our wit, And coals that burned like love aglow.

While thus our rippling discourse rolled Smooth down the channel of the night, We spoke of Time: thereat, one told A parable of the Seasons' flight.