POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 1844. 
 
T'o\ 
 
 t,k'\ 
 
 Tl 
 
 Co^ 
 
 '' .>f 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 
 CAREY AND HAE.T, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 7 8 '06 
 
 C. Sherman, Printer. 
 
TO 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 
 
 « 
 
 AS 
 
 AN IMPEUFECT TESTIMONY OF REGAUD 
 
 AND GRATEFUL ADMIRATION, 
 
 EiiU Uttle Tc7olume Is JBetJfcatetr, 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
(Hollege iCgfe. 
 
 They go to scole to lern logyk and lawe, and eke contemplacion. 
 
 Piers Plouhman. 
 
 There stands upon a hille, al verdantlie 
 
 Yclad with trees, and grasse, and waving graine, 
 
 An edifice, ne very haught and highe, 
 
 Ne lowe ; of bricks ybuilt, joli and plains ; 
 
 Beseemeth such an house there to remaine. 
 
 A spire decks the roofe, which to the eyne 
 
 Of wandering wighte, who there his course hath ta'en, 
 
 Beneathe Dan Sol doth often glitterynge shine : 
 
 And al beyonde the walles are groves and meadowes fine. 
 
 There often have I whilom conned my taske, 
 Intent on booke with no huge pleasaunce fraughte, 
 Withouten hope of drinke from luscious flaske, 
 To speed upon his waye one labouringe thoughte : 
 A booke as drye, perdie, was never boughte ! 
 Ofte have I nodded, filled with drowsie sleepe, 
 Which Morpheus from his sombre land hath broughte, 
 And oft would starte, and vigyl fain would keepe, 
 Yet that same sleepie god still o'er my braine dyd 
 creepe. 
 
 2 
 
10 COLLEGE LYFE. 
 
 Then, ere I could againe my booke resume, 
 O fatale finisher of al my joye ! 
 The glib-tongd bel would tingle through the roome, 
 O cursed bel, my peace thus to destroye ! 
 No elfin sprite me then mote so annoye, 
 Ne goblyn ghoste with hellish puissance, 
 Ne byrchen swytch, ydrad by idle boye, 
 Ne to the hen-peckt wighte hys wyfe's keen glance, 
 More troublous seemes than this, my miserie to en- 
 hance. 
 
 For who that bel hath hearde, must strait him move, 
 To roome where syts in state professour grave, 
 With booke in hande, that booke he well dothe love, 
 Greeke, Latin, Algeb, (Lord me from them save !) 
 Eache lucklesse youthe must wel his lesson have, 
 Or he eftsoons to lecture vyle is ledde. 
 To answer for his sad idlesse, or brave 
 The puissance of wordes he needes must dred, 
 Words scattered eke like hayl on hys devoted hedde. 
 
 Yet in those walls there hearde hath been ful ofte 
 
 By nyghte or dale the sounde of jollitie ; 
 
 But if in studie-houres, ah ! then righte softe 
 
 Some tutor ryseth up ere wighte can see. 
 
 And stoppeth noyse of mirthe or minstrelsie, 
 
 And sendeth eache to hys own habitance ; 
 
 Thus endeth often manye a youthful spree. 
 
 Helps not that they complayn of this usaunce, 
 
 For lawes must be enforced ; ne left to ydle chaunce. 
 
COLLEGE LYFE. 11 
 
 Ne noyse alone of merriment was hearde. 
 
 There met the eare ofttimes straunge mingled soundes, 
 
 Not like the liquid notes of woodlande byrde ; 
 
 More like a packe, methinks, of hungrye houndes, 
 
 Yelping a chorus ere they slippe their boundes ; 
 
 Fyddels ycrackt and huskie flutes were there, 
 
 Such discorde as the very aire astoundes ! 
 
 That man must praye for deafnesse who would beare 
 
 The chaos straunge and loude that filleth al the aire. 
 
 But who can saye with what unfeigned glee 
 
 Eache hearte beate loude when dinner-houre dyd come, 
 
 Then like the rysinge billowes of the sea 
 
 Those younkers burste from everye tedious roome. 
 
 Not sweeter to the peasaunt is hys home, 
 
 Hys wyfe and chyldren after travel longe, 
 
 Ne to the Rabbi is hys sacred tome, 
 
 Ne to the babblynge foole hys own deare tonge. 
 
 Than is this dinner-bel to these same lerners yonge. 
 
 Anon they eatcand callen out for more. 
 Which to their nosethyrls, smels with savoure sweete, 
 Whyle servaunts brynge them through the kytchen-door 
 Potatoes hotte, and sauce, and sodden meate, 
 Which, as they licken ofte their chappes, they eate, 
 Then loudlie call againe for thys or that : 
 I wot not why they dye not of surfeite. 
 So much they gobbel up, both leane and fatte ; 
 So faste their jawes do goe, small tyme is there for 
 chatte. 
 
12 COLLEGE LYFE. 
 
 O, then to lounge beneathe the spreadyng trees, 
 Where al daie long the blythe byrds singen sweete, 
 There lysten to the syghing of the breeze, 
 There byd the echoes manie a note repeate, 
 Whyles al arounde the skie waxe warme with heate, 
 And lyttel flies dyd hum a drowsie song. 
 And some, mosquitoes highte, dyd byte our feete, 
 Suckyng the bloode, with tube instead of tong, 
 Whenas we brushed them off, so much the more they 
 stung. 
 
 Sometymes we wandered by a sylvan streame. 
 That made soft murmurings on a summer's daie, 
 Along its bankes how often dyd we dreame. 
 And see its darke greene waters glyde awaye, 
 Kyssing the flowers which to their brinke dyd straie. 
 There, too, huge scarped rockes dyd hie appeare. 
 And from the sunne dyd shelter it alwaie ; 
 Here as we sometymes strayed, wel mote we heare 
 Sweet sounde of distant bel, or mil-vyheel plashyng neare. 
 
 Alack, to change this scene it grieves me sore ; 
 
 To tel of fences clombe and plundered trees, 
 
 How one devoured fruits enow for four. 
 
 And each dyd such purloyn as dyd him please. 
 
 Al this was done, perdie, with impish ease ; 
 
 Smal grypes dyd conscience give, those tymes I trow. 
 
 But ah ! how harde when much replete with these, 
 
 To bend againe o'er bookes with clouded browe. 
 
 No tyme was that for us to lern the Why and Howe. 
 
COLLEGE LYFE. 13 
 
 O College Lyfe ! though manye a payne, I ween, 
 
 Each lazie youthe must needs have oft yfelte, 
 
 Still hast thou pleasaunce rare which few have seen 
 
 Of them who ne'er at lernynge's shryne have knelt. 
 
 Thou art the sweetest lyfe was ever dealte 
 
 To man, from happie starres in heaven that ben ; 
 
 Starres, ever bryghte ! sweet starres that thus do melt 
 
 With your softe rayes the destynies of men. 
 
 How lyttel of your wondrous influence do we ken ! 
 
 1834. 
 
14 
 
 Sfl)e Mnsxc of JIatun. 
 
 PAUT I. 
 
 A VISION o'er my soul hath swept, 
 A dream of light ; 'twas music part, 
 And part it was my happy heart 
 
 Made music as I slept. 
 
 I cannot paint that glorious dream. 
 Words are such cold and lifeless things ; 
 Of all the life and light it brings, 
 
 I can but give a gleam, 
 
 I wandered with a calm surprise 
 Half on the earth, and half in air, 
 And sometimes I went gliding where 
 
 The ocean meets the skies. 
 
 O, it was sweet to roam away ! 
 No cumbrous limbs to clog the motion, 
 As through the fields, the air, the ocean, 
 
 I could not choose but stray. 
 
THE MUSIC OF NATURE. 15 
 
 Asleep in body, but awake 
 In soul to all things bright and dear, 
 My fancies wandered far and near, • 
 
 Nor would my slumbers break. 
 
 There seemed a ceaseless harmony. 
 Which sounding every where I went 
 Came ringing through the firmament, 
 
 Or from the pathless sea ; 
 
 Or sometimes from the lonely woods, 
 Or from the high o'er-watching stars, 
 For silence now had burst her bars 
 
 Through Nature's solitudes. 
 
 And then I knew that music is 
 The native tongue of none but Gladness, 
 That Silence weds herself to Sadness, 
 
 Who hath no harmonies. 
 
 And still I roamed with lightsome heart, 
 And from the tones so intermingled. 
 Swift-gathering Fancy ever singled 
 
 One voice from every part. 
 
 And first I heard the mighty ocean 
 Go thundering to his empire bounds ; 
 A voice of many blended sounds 
 
 In sad and wild commotion. 
 
16 THE MUSIC OF NATURE. 
 
 V 
 
 The mad waves roared in spray-fire flame, 
 The white storm-bird flew screaming by ; 
 But sweetly from the listening sky 
 
 The softened echoes came. 
 
 All mingled in one giant tone, 
 Till stunned by the loud ocean band, 
 I turned away — 'twas sad to stand 
 
 On that dark shore alone. 
 
 But to the stars my face I turned, 
 And strange as it may seem, methought 
 My ears a slow faint anthem caught 
 
 From the calm orbs that burned 
 
 Amid the dark blue firmament : 
 There hung the seven-stringed lyre* on high. 
 But a reckless comet came rushing by, 
 
 And swept it as he went ; 
 
 And there came a troubled music out. 
 And yet it jarred not on the ear, 
 For the circling choir rang sweet and clear 
 
 As their first morning shout. 
 
 o 
 
 I wandered still and heard it come ; 
 It fell with the meek starlight down, 
 And not a thunder voice or frown 
 
 Passed o'er the glittering dome : 
 ' And yield the lyre of heaven, another string." — Campbell. 
 
THE MUSIC OF NATURE. 17 
 
 Till by the border of a wood, 
 While silver moonlight edged the trees 
 Where a thousand birds rocked by the breeze 
 
 Were sleeping, soon I stood. 
 
 A soft and swelling music crept 
 As from some mighty wind -harp strings. 
 Too soft to wake the myriad things 
 
 That mid the branches slept. 
 
 The winds were sifting through the pines ; 
 'Twas sweet yet sad to hear them moan : 
 Ah ! then I felt I was all alone 
 
 By Nature's holiest shrines. 
 
 And deep amid the o'er-arching trees 
 A low-toned waterfall was gushing; 
 Unseen, beneath, a stream went rushing 
 
 And mingling with the breeze. 
 
 A musing spirit o'er me passed, 
 And Memory took me to the day 
 When in the woodlands, far away, 
 
 I thus stood listening last. 
 
18 THE MUSIC OF NATUKE. 
 
 PART n. 
 
 Sudden a light flashed on my dream, 
 The pensive tones of night were gone, 
 And I was by a dewy lawn 
 
 Lit by the sun's first beam. 
 
 A wandering voice went twittermg by. 
 It seemed a meadow-bird of spring ; 
 It came, on gay and glancing wing 
 
 Fast leaping through the sky. 
 
 It bore me back to childhood's hours, 
 And I was in the fields again. 
 And by the stream and in the glen 
 
 Hunting the wild wood flowers. 
 
 It did not seem so very strange. 
 And yet I felt myself a child. 
 As gay, as thoughtless and as wild. 
 
 As when I knew no change. 
 
 And then came tinkling on my ear, 
 As if to strengthen all this spell. 
 The grazing herd's low meadow-bell : 
 
 O, it was sweet to hear ! - 
 
THE MUSIC OF NATURE. 19 
 
 And I was young — my heart was light ; 
 The stream of years was backward rolled ; 
 How could I feel that I'd grown old, 
 
 When Memory was so bright ? 
 
 I wandered, drinking in the sound : 
 There is no music like to this 
 That floats within a dream of bliss. 
 
 When night is all around. 
 
 Through all my night there was a morn, 
 A little fairy morning beaming, 
 Like sunlight through a forest streaming 
 
 On one who walks forlorn. 
 
 And all along, where'er I wandered. 
 The sweet mysterious music played ; 
 'Twas part around me, partly made 
 
 Within me, as I pondered. 
 
 And part of it a mingled feeling 
 Made up of joy and harmony, 
 A presence that brought light to me, 
 
 A hidden self revealing. 
 
 *&• 
 
 The sea, the stars, the winds, the trees, 
 The stream, the waterfall, the dell, 
 The bird, the flowers, the meadow-bell, — 
 
 I felt that all of these 
 
20 THE MUSIC OF NATUEE. 
 
 Were but the symbols of a soul 
 Alive with hope or memory ; 
 The mind's immortal harmony 
 
 That through its chambers stole. 
 
 And to the spirit's listening ear, 
 Whilst slept the limbs and senses all, 
 Made every thing seem musical ; 
 
 How could I cease to hear ? 
 
 And thus it may be, when this frame 
 Is laid asleep in death at last ; 
 The soul no longer overcast. 
 
 To Him from whom it came, 
 
 Shall brighten upward and be free, 
 And roam amid the chiming spheres, 
 And feel within, while thus it hears, 
 
 Eternal Harmony. 
 
 We brought it with us here below, — 
 Within, without, we feel it ever ; 
 Why should it not, as now, for ever 
 
 Through an Hereafter go ! 
 
 For music, I must think, was given 
 To be of higher life a token. 
 The language by the angels spoken, 
 
 The native tongue of heaven ! 
 
 Richmond, Va. June, 1836. 
 
21 
 
 ®l)e Sottl-JiotDer. 
 
 I DREAMED of a Flower that bloomed in the ocean, 
 
 Far down — all alone, 
 So deep, there was not a sound or motion. 
 Nor a sea-beast's ear to catch the groan 
 Of the upper sea in its strife. 
 The green waves were noiseless and harmless as sleep, 
 And a dim light struggled to pierce the deep, 
 But all was cold and shadowless, 
 And all was void and motionless, 
 For here there was no life. 
 Saving of this one flower. 
 O 'twas a starlike thing, 
 A. vision of calm, undying power; 
 Bell-like and deep, like an urn of pearl. 
 
 With anthers all golden and glittering. 
 And slowly its petals of white did unfurl ; 
 
 A marble flower, yet living and growing ; 
 Sweet and pure as a seraph's dream. 
 O dim are the diamond and ruby's gleam, 
 And the myriad gems that are glowing. 
 When I think on the light of this lonely flower, 
 Far down in its silent and dim sea-bower. 
 
22 THE SOUL-FLOWER. 
 
 Ik The storms of the upper waves raged on, 
 
 But here was no tempest or noise to dread ; 
 Huge wrecks and bodies of men came down, 
 
 But they hung drifting far over head. 
 They sank not down to the sacred bower 
 Where bloomed the peaceful ocean-flower. 
 The sea-snake and whale in their giant race, 
 Were lost when they sought for this lonely place, 
 And all the bright-coloured things that gleam 
 And dart through the deep, were like meteors that stream 
 Through a summer sky; while the sea-stars shone. 
 Some in clusters, and some alone. 
 
 Whose far off twinklings feebly sent 
 A light through the vast dim element. 
 
 And I know whenever this dream comes back, 
 That there is a flower like this, on earth ; 
 It hath not here its place of birth. 
 
 And seldom may we track 
 
 The path that leads to the inner shrine 
 Where its glories spread and shine. 
 
 Yet ye need not roam from star to star : 
 
 Ye need not seek this flower afar ; 
 
 It blooms deep down in the human heart ; 
 
 It hath no peer in the pride of art. 
 
 It blooms in the breast of the wise and pure, 
 But withers a sinful heart within. 
 
 For its amaranth beauty cannot endure 
 The blighting atmosphere of sin. 
 
THE SOUL-FLOWER. 23 
 
 O holy and beautiful Spirit-Flower ! 
 Thou art no dream of an idle hour ! 
 Immortal as the Primal Beam — 
 Too true, too lovely for a dream. 
 
 Wouldst thou know what this beauty is ? 
 Wouldst thou give all to have but this ? 
 Wouldst thou know how and for what to live 1 
 Wouldst thou garner what worlds cannot give ? 
 Then guard thine own heart : in its fathomless deeps 
 The swelling bud of that flower sleeps. 
 
 Watch, lest it sleep till it wither away ! 
 Watch, till it opens and blooms to the day ! 
 
 September, 1836. 
 
24 
 
 ®k to tl)e ilVmi. 
 
 O MELANCHOLY winter Wind, that makest moan 
 So sad, so sad and low 
 
 Through the still midnight, while the sleeping snow 
 Lies like a death-trance, underneath the moon ! 
 O Wind, that meanest that dull steady tune, 
 Like some deep organ-pipe, left all alone. 
 
 By sweetest seraphs left, 
 
 Of sacred melody bereft, 
 And given to the wild fiends of the air, 
 To blow what mad discordant tones they list, — 
 
 Wind, wild as some phantom of the mist. 
 That sweeps with hollow groan the hill-side bare ! 
 
 1 hear, I hear thy sullen steady moan, 
 
 As here I sit alone. 
 
 Strange thoughts, strange feelings come and sit by me, 
 And look into their mirror, fantasy ; 
 Mysteries like thyself, strange Wind, thou bringest : 
 Unto the soul, as to a harp, thou singest 
 Hymns of unearthly harmony. 
 
ODE TO THE WIND. 25 
 
 Type of the Spirit to whose deeps 
 
 Thou with thy deep dost call ! 
 
 Of that great mystery that never sleeps, 
 
 Within the breast of all, 
 
 O Wind, whether thou blowest sad and wild, 
 
 Or gently breathest with glad tones and mild. 
 
 When in the moonlit leaves the sleeping bird 
 
 By thy bland touch is stirred ; 
 Whether thou ravest mid the forests bare, 
 Or bringest odours rare 
 
 From the sweet fields that load the warm spring air : 
 Thou art a shadow of the soul of man : 
 Now calm, now full of joy, now frantic glee. 
 
 And wild as wild can be ; 
 Now breathing fragrance to sweet heaven, how glad ! 
 Anon with whirlwind fury mad. 
 And often full of murmurs dull and sad, 
 And hearing but its own strange harmony, 
 As now, O melancholy wind, I hear no sound but thee. 
 
 St. Louis, Jan. 1837. 
 
26 
 
 Jfiagara. 
 
 1 STOOD within a vision's spell ; 
 
 I saw, I heard. The liquid thunder 
 Went pouring to its foaming hell, 
 
 And it fell, 
 
 Ever, ever fell 
 Into the invisible abyss that opened under. 
 
 I stood upon a speck of ground ; 
 Before me fell a stormy ocean. 
 I was like a captive bound ; 
 
 And around 
 
 A universe of sound 
 Troubled the heavens with ever-quivering motion. 
 
 Down, down for ever, — down, down for ever, 
 
 Something falling, falling, falling, 
 Up, up for ever — up, up for ever. 
 
 Resting never, 
 
 Boiling up for ever, 
 Steam-clouds shot up with thunder-bursts appalling 
 
NIAGARA. 27 
 
 A tone that since the birth of man, 
 Was never for a moment broken, 
 A word that since the world began. 
 
 And waters ran 
 
 Hath spoken still to man, — 
 Of God and of Eternity hath spoken. 
 
 Foam-clouds there for ever rise 
 
 With a restless roar o'erboiling — 
 Rainbows stooping from the skies 
 
 Charm the eyes, 
 
 Beautiful they rise. 
 Cheering the cataracts to their mighty toiling. 
 
 And in that vision as it passed. 
 
 Was gathered terror, beauty, power : 
 And still when all has fled, too fast, 
 
 And I at last 
 
 Dream of the dreamy past. 
 My heart is full when lingering on that hour. 
 
 Oct. 1838. 
 
28 
 
 Tell us, tell us whence thou comest, 
 Little thing of the rainbow wing ; 
 
 Tell us if thou always hummest : 
 If thou canst not sing. 
 
 Tell us when thou fell'st in love 
 With the honey-suckle flower, 
 
 That thou comest every eve 
 To her fragrant bower. 
 
 Or art thou her guardian sprite, 
 
 Ever hearkening to her sigh, 
 And robed so bright with coloured light, 
 
 Droppest from the sky ? 
 
 Take me to thy hidden nest 
 In the far ofi* realm of Faery, 
 
 Where thou sinkest to thy rest 
 When thy wings are weary. 
 
 When a boy I often dreamed. 
 
 Wondering what thou wast and whence. 
 For thy quivering winglets seemed 
 
 Scarce like things of sense. 
 
TO A HUMMING BIRD. 29 
 
 Darting here and darting there, 
 
 Now half-buried in a flower, 
 Now away, and none knew where, 
 
 By some mysterious power. 
 
 When the rosy twilight came 
 
 Softly down the slumbering sky. 
 Thy emerald wing and throat of flame 
 
 Flashed before my eye. 
 
 Round the lattice and the porch, 
 
 Ere the dew began to fall, 
 Kissing all the bashful buds 
 
 Clambering up the wall. 
 
 But like a suspected lover. 
 
 Darting off" into the sky. 
 Ere we could with truth discover 
 
 Half thy brilliancy. , 
 
 I'll not blame thee, little thing,. 
 
 That thou wast then a mystery. 
 When life and thought were in their spring, 
 
 And fancy wandered free. 
 
 For I was like thee, gentle bird. 
 
 As wild and gay, as strange and shy, 
 
 And all my hours were with the flowers, 
 Beneath a summer sky. 
 
30 TO A HUMMING BIRD. 
 
 But now that I've become a man, 
 Pd have thee come and tell to me, 
 
 If the boyish dreams are true 
 I have had of thee. 
 
 Tell me why and whence thou comest, 
 On thy little rainbow wing ; 
 
 Why unto the flowers thou hummest. 
 And dost never sing. 
 
 But I hear a sober spirit 
 
 Talking as unto a child ; 
 I must leave my bird and listen 
 
 To its accents mild. 
 
 Question not all things thou seest ; 
 
 Things there are thou canst not know. 
 Learn from thy own dreams of childhood 
 
 Not too far to go. 
 
 Thou canst seldom track the spirit, 
 Whence or how or why it is ; 
 
 In its unseen deeps for ever 
 Are there mysteries. 
 
 Be content to see — and seeing. 
 On the threshold pause and bow 
 
 To the great all-loving Being 
 With an humble brow ! 
 
31 
 
 ffin Rearing Srmmpljant iHuaU. 
 
 That joyous strain 
 
 Wake, wake again ! 
 O'er the dead stillness of my soul it lingers. 
 
 Ring out, ring out 
 
 The music-shout ! 
 I hear the sounding of thy flying fingers, 
 
 And to my soul the harmony 
 
 Comes like a freshening sea. 
 
 Again, again ! 
 
 Farewell, dull pain. 
 Thou heartache, rise not while those harpstrings quiver ! 
 
 Sad feelings, hence ! • 
 
 I feel a sense 
 Of a new life come like a rushing river. 
 
 Freshening the fountains parched and dry. 
 
 That in my spirit lie. 
 
 That glorious strain ! 
 O, from my brain 
 
32 ON HEARING TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 
 
 I see the shadows flitting like scared ghosts ! 
 
 A light, a light 
 
 Shines in to-night, 
 O'er the good angels trooping to their posts, — 
 
 And the black cloud is rent in twain 
 
 Before the ascending strain. 
 
 It dies away, — 
 
 It would not stay, — 
 So sweet, so fleeting ; yet to me it spake 
 
 Strange peace of mind 
 
 I could not find. 
 Before that lofty strain the silence brake. 
 
 So let it ever come to me 
 
 With an undying harmony. 
 1838. 
 
33 
 
 ©()€ Hainbott). 
 
 Child of the sunlight, 
 Flower of the skies, 
 
 Blooming in petals 
 Of heavenly dyes ; 
 
 Springing and growing 
 In thy garden of mist. 
 
 Where the sun hath so often 
 The thunder-cloud kissed. 
 
 Beautiful flower ! 
 
 So broad and so round, 
 North and South touching, 
 
 Half underground ; 
 
 Dark in the middle, 
 
 But on thy border 
 Seven bright colours 
 
 Ranked in their order ! 
 
34 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 The clouds are all weeping, 
 But ere the sun sets, 
 
 He flings them this flower 
 To chase their regrets ; 
 
 And soon shall their tear-drops 
 Be dry for the day. 
 
 For they'll take up the flower^ 
 And bear it away. 
 
 Still thou art blooming, 
 Flower of the skies ; 
 
 Brighter are growing 
 Thy heavenly dyes. 
 
 In the dark halls of thunder. 
 Outspreading, alone. 
 
 Thou reignest o'er cloud-land, 
 The heavens are thy own. 
 
 Queen of the meteors. 
 Child of the shower, 
 
 I hail thee — I'll name thee 
 Heaven's sun-flower ! 
 
 Alas, thou art fading, 
 Thou'rt withering away ! 
 
 Dark disc and bright petal. 
 They droop with the day. 
 
THE RAINBOW. 35 
 
 The sun, in whose glory 
 
 Thou wast born in the sky, 
 Hath gone in the west, 
 
 And left thee to die. 
 
 But hung in the rain-drops 
 
 I'll see thee again, 
 When the sunset smiles out 
 
 On the clouds and the rain ! 
 
36 
 
 Sligljt anir tl)e Soul. 
 
 I WENT to bed with Shakspeare's flowing numbers 
 
 Within me chiming, 
 As I sank slowly to my pleasant slumbers, 
 
 My thoughts with his were rhyming. 
 
 Out of the window I saw the moonlight shadows 
 
 Go creeping slow ; 
 The sheeted roofs of snow, — the broad white meadows 
 
 Lay silently below. 
 
 A few keen stars were kindly winking through 
 
 The frost-dimmed panes, 
 And dreaming Chanticleer woke up and crew 
 
 Far o'er the desolate plains. 
 
 But soon into the void abyss of sleep 
 
 My mind did swoon ; 
 I saw no more the broad house-shadows creep 
 
 Beneath the silent moon. 
 
 I woke ; the morning sun was mounting slowly 
 
 O'er the live earth : — 
 Say, fancy, why the shade of melancholy 
 
 Which then in me took birth ? 
 
NIGHT AND THE SOUL. 37 
 
 Why does the night give to the spirit wings, 
 
 Which day denies ? 
 Ah, why this tyranny of outward things 
 
 When brightest shine the skies ? 
 
 My soul is like the flower that blooms by night, 
 
 And droops by day ; 
 Yet may its fruit expand, though in the light 
 
 Night-blossoms drop away. 
 
 The visions thus in dreamy stillness cherished, 
 
 Like dreams may fly ; 
 But day's great acts, o'er thoughts that nightly perished, 
 
 May ripen, not to die. 
 
 Jan. 2d, 1839. 
 
 9 
 
38 
 
 Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. — Seneca. 
 
 He that would earn the Poet's sacred name, 
 Must write for future as for present ages ; 
 Must learn to scorn the wreath of vulgar fame, 
 And bear to see cold critics o'er the pages 
 His burning brain hath wrought, wreak wantonly 
 Their dull and crabbed spite, or trifling mockery. 
 
 He must not fret his heart that men will turn 
 
 From the deep wealth his soul hath freely given ; 
 He must not marvel that their spirits burn 
 
 With fire so dim and cold. The God of Heaven 
 Who hung the golden stars in loftiest sky, 
 Hath o'er all spirits set the Poet's heart on high. 
 
 Star-like and high, his task and glorious sphere 
 
 Is to shine on in love and light unborrowed, 
 Yet looking down, to hold all nature dear, 
 
 And where a heart hath deeply joyed or sorrowed, 
 To gather to itself all images 
 
 Of mind, and heart and passion, and to breathe life 
 through these ; 
 
THE POET. 39 
 
 And in this life burning through all his words, 
 
 And glancing back so strangely on man's soul 
 The image of himself, the bard records 
 
 The power which lifts all nature, till the whole 
 Swims in the spirit of beauty, and the breath 
 Of earthly things is murmuring life untouched by death. 
 
 Thus hovering, bee-winged, over every flower. 
 And gathering all the nectar from its bosom, 
 And e'en midst broken hearts, in grief's dark hour, 
 Stealing a sweetness from the poison blossom, 
 He garners up the honey of his thought. 
 And yields unto the world whate'er his soul hath wrought. 
 
 His is the task to clothe the dull and common 
 
 In the rich garb of ever-living youth ; 
 And o'er the soul of child, or man, or woman, 
 And o'er the countenance of daily truth. 
 And o'er Creation's face to spread the light 
 Of beauty, as it shines in God's eternal sight. 
 
 He may not stoop to pander to the herd 
 Of fickle tastes and morbid appetites ; 
 He hath upon his lips a holy word. 
 
 And he must heed not if it cheers or blights. 
 So it be Truth, and the deep earnest fire 
 Of no dull earthward thought, nor any base desire. 
 
 His path is through all nature like the sun ; 
 From world to world, like a recording spirit ; 
 
40 THE POET. 
 
 And with all shapes and hues his heart is one ; 
 And if a bird but sing, his ear must hear it, 
 And the coarse, scentless flower is as a brother, 
 And the green turf the gentle bosom of a mother. . 
 
 And these he loves ; — and with all these the heart 
 Of frail humanity, which like a tremulous harp 
 Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart, 
 Sobs or rejoices ; and when tempests sharp 
 Sweep the tense strings, a " sweet sad music" hears, 
 Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping tears. 
 
 Who scorns the Poet's art, deserves the scorn 
 
 Which he would heap on others' heads ; that man 
 Knows not the sacred gift and calling born 
 Within the Poet's soul when life began : — 
 Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame, 
 But that his heart would wither else within its flame. ■ 
 
 Time's wreaths await him : far in future ages, 
 
 Twined in their amaranth beauty they are shining, 
 And blessings rained upon his fragrant pages, 
 
 And tears from kindred hearts, quenching repining 
 With a warm sympathy, and smiles of joy 
 Embalm a sacred life which Time cannot destroy. 
 
 Oct. 1838. 
 
41 
 
 All things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that 
 can read them ; 
 
 Nothing exists upon earth, but for unspeakable ends, 
 
 Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the 
 spirit ; 
 
 Nature is but a scroll ; God's handwriting thereon. 
 
 Ages ago when man was pure, ere the flood overwhelmed 
 him, 
 
 While in the image of God every soul yet lived, 
 
 Every thing stood as a letter or word of a language fa- 
 miliar, 
 
 Telling of truths which now only the angels can read. 
 
 Lost to man was the key of those sacred hieroglyphics, 
 
 Stolen away by sin, till by heaven restored. 
 
 Now with infinite pains we here and there spell out a 
 letter, 
 
 Here and there will the sense feebly shine through the 
 dark. 
 
 When we perceive the light that breaks through the 
 visible symbol. 
 
 What exultation is ours ! We the discovery have made ! 
 
 Yet is the meaning the same as when Adam lived sin- 
 less in Eden, 
 
 Only long hidden it slept, and now again is revealed. 
 
 Man unconsciously uses figures of speech every mo- 
 ment, 
 
 4 
 
42 CORRESPONDENCES. 
 
 Little dreaming the cause why to such terms he is prone, 
 
 Little dreaming that every thing here has its own corre- 
 spondence 
 
 Folded within its form, as in the body the soul. 
 
 Gleams of the mystery fall on us still, though much is 
 forgotten. 
 
 And through our commonest speech, illumine the path 
 of our thoughts. 
 
 Thus doth the lordly sun shine forth a type of the God- 
 head ; 
 
 Wisdom and love the beams that stream on a darkened 
 world. 
 
 Thus do the sparkling waters flow, giving joy to the de- 
 sert, 
 
 And the fountain of life opens itself to the thirst. 
 
 Thus doth the word of God distil like the rain and the 
 dew-drops ; 
 
 Thus doth the warm wind breathe like to the Spirit of 
 God; 
 
 And the green grass and the flowers are signs of the 
 regeneration. 
 
 O thou Spirit of Truth, visit our minds once more. 
 Give us to read in letters of light the language celestial 
 Written all over the earth, written all over the sky — 
 Thus may we bring our hearts once more to know our 
 
 Creator, 
 Seeing in all things around, types of the Infinite Mind, 
 March, 1839. 
 
43 
 
 See how the black cloud comes sweeping along on its 
 terrible pinions ; 
 
 Nearer and wider it grows, darkening the blue of the 
 sky! 
 
 See up the road how the wind with the dust comes 
 sweeping and whirling, 
 
 Tossing the tops of the trees, tearing the leaves from 
 their boughs ! 
 
 Now it comes slamming the shutters and clattering off 
 with the shingles. 
 
 Howling all round the house, screaming to enter the 
 door. 
 
 Now do the men all hasten their steps each one to his 
 dwelling ; 
 
 Servants are bustling about, barring the windows and 
 doors. 
 
 Women look anxiously out, while their delicate bosoms 
 are beating, 
 
 Watching the gaps of the clouds, waiting their hus- 
 bands' return, 
 
 While with dull stare o'er the plain go moving the in- 
 dolent cattle. 
 
 Seeking the dangerous tree standing alone in the field. 
 
44 THE THUNDERGUST. 
 
 Darker and darker it grows ; the clouds like rent cur- 
 
 tains are hanging, — 
 Sharp is the lightning flash, keen as a scimetar blade. 
 Rattling, bellowing, booming along rolls the terrible 
 
 thunder ; 
 Children look timidly up to see where its dwelling may 
 
 be; 
 / once looked up as they do, to see where the thunder 
 
 was going, 
 But there was nothing above, save the continuous clouds. 
 Again there's a flash, — a start, — a pause, — and the ar- 
 mies of heaven 
 Seem to be rolling afield, trampling the clouds as a floor! 
 Now comes the rush of the rain ,* like mist in the wind 
 
 it is sweeping ; 
 Large come the pattering drops, washing the panes of 
 
 the glass ; 
 Now come the rattling hailstones, pelting the shelterless 
 
 roses. 
 Speckling the summer grass, showering crystals abroad, 
 A present from winter to summer, a message to tell her 
 
 he's coming. 
 But the storm ceases at length ; windows fly open again. 
 Rolls away in the distance the muttering moan of the 
 
 thunder. 
 Through the rifls of the clouds peeps the blue of the sky, 
 Warm and broad o'er the earth the slant sun gaily is 
 
 smiling. 
 While the bright bow in the east gives us the promise 
 
 of peace. 
 
45 
 
 Weeks and months have rolled along 
 Like the surges of the sea, 
 
 Thoughts and feelings sweet and deep 
 Have been guests with me ; 
 
 But my heart hath only sung 
 Hidden melody. 
 
 By the spreading wing of thought 
 
 Poet-dreams lay shaded ; 
 As the flower-buds in the dawn, 
 
 Ere the stars have faded, 
 Till refreshed they rise again, 
 
 Pure and undegraded. 
 
 Covered by the veil of Truth, 
 Beauty in my soul but slept : 
 
 She hath woke at times and seen 
 The guard her sister kept ; 
 
 Still she murmured in her dreams, 
 Still she smiled or wept. 
 
46 BEAUTY AND TRUTH. 
 
 Many a lay I left unsung, 
 
 Or but sung where none may hear, 
 In the bowers far within, 
 
 To the spirit's ear ; 
 Thoughts and words but tell thee half 
 
 Of the secrets there ; 
 
 Of the memories of the past, 
 
 Of the world that round thee lies. 
 
 Of that flowery wilderness 
 Where thy dreams arise 
 
 Night and day, and wing their way 
 To their native skies ; 
 
 These, and all the thousand hues 
 Which thy inner life assumes, 
 
 From the flashes of its joys 
 To its deepest glooms. 
 
 Are a world of mystery 
 No vulgar light illumes. 
 
 Wonder not then that my lyre 
 
 Hung by me with slackened strings ; 
 
 O, it was too weak to bear 
 
 Thought's fresh sweeping wings ; 
 
 Yet within there long have been 
 Cherished, hidden things. 
 
 Beauty is a blossom ra,re ; 
 We may smell it on the tree, 
 
BEAUTY AND TRUTH. 47 
 
 But if we should pluck it thence, 
 
 We no fruit should see ; 
 Beauty is the blossom sweet, 
 
 Truth the fruit, to me. 
 
 Thou, sweet Poesy, hast given 
 
 Many a thought of rarest worth. 
 Though thy spring-like flush should fade 
 
 Dropping to the earth. 
 Truth like autumn-fruit shall come 
 
 With a second birth. 
 Oct. 1839. 
 
48 
 
 ®0 i\)t ^ttrora Uorealis. 
 
 Arctic fount of holiest light, 
 Springing through the winter night, 
 Spreading far behind yon hill. 
 When the earth lies dark and still, 
 Rippling o'er the stars, as streams 
 O'er pebbled beds in sunny gleams ; 
 O for names, thou vision fair. 
 To express thy splendours rare ! 
 
 Blush upon the cheek of night, 
 Posthumous, unearthly light. 
 Dream of the deep sunken sun. 
 Beautiful, sleep-walking one, 
 Sister of the moonlight pale. 
 Star-obscuring meteor veil. 
 Spread by heaven's watching vestals ; 
 Sender of the gleamy crystals 
 Darting on their arrowy course 
 From their glittering polar source. 
 Upward where the air doth freeze 
 Round the sister Pleiades ; — 
 Beautiful and rare Aurora, 
 .In the heavens thou art their Flora, 
 
TO THE AURORA BOREALIS. 49 
 
 Night-blooming Cereus of the sky, 
 Rose of amaranthine dye, 
 Hyacinth of purple light, 
 Or their Lily clad in white ! 
 
 Who can name thy wondrous essence, 
 Thou electric phosphorescence ? 
 Lonely apparition fire ! 
 Seeker of the starry choir ! 
 Restless roamer of the sky. 
 Who hath won thy mystery ? 
 Mortal science hath not ran 
 With thee through the Empyrean, 
 Where the constellations cluster 
 Flower-like on thy branching lustre. 
 
 After all the glare and toil, 
 And the daylight's fretful coil. 
 Thou dost come so mild and still, 
 Hearts with love and peace to fill ; 
 As when after revelry 
 With a talking company, 
 Where the blaze of many lights 
 Fell on fools and parasites, 
 One by one the guests have gone. 
 And we find ourselves alone ; 
 Only one sweet maiden near. 
 With a sweet voice low and clear, 
 Whispering music in our ear, — 
 So thou talkest to the earth 
 After daylight's weary mirth. • 
 
50 TO THE AURORA BOREALIS. 
 
 Is not human fantasy, 
 Wild Aurora, likest thee. 
 Blossoming in nightly dreams, 
 Like thy shifting meteor-gleams ? 
 
 But a better type thou art 
 Of the strivings of the heart, 
 Reaching upward from the earth 
 To the Soul that gave it birth. 
 When the noiseless beck of night 
 Summons out the inner light 
 That hath hid its purer ray 
 Through the lapses of the day — 
 Then like thee, thou Northern Morn, 
 Instincts which we deemed unborn, 
 Gushing from their hidden source 
 Mount upon their heavenward course 
 And the spirit seeks to be 
 Filled with God's eternity. 
 Jan. 1840. 
 
51 
 
 Thought is deeper than all speech, 
 Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
 
 Souls to souls can never teach 
 What unto themselves was taught. 
 
 We are spirits clad in veils ; 
 
 Man by man was never seen ; 
 All our deep communing fails 
 
 To remove the shadowy screen. 
 
 Heart to heart was never known ; 
 
 Mind with mind did never meet ; 
 We are columns left alone, 
 
 Of a temple once complete. 
 
 Like the stars that gem the sky, 
 Far apart, though seeming near, 
 
 In our light we scattered lie ; 
 All is thus but starlight here. 
 
 What is social company 
 
 But a babbling summer stream? 
 What our wise philosophy 
 
 But the glancing of a dream ? 
 
52 ENOSIS. 
 
 Only when the sun of love 
 
 Melts the scattered stars of thought ; 
 
 Only when we live above 
 
 What the dim-eyed world hath taught ; 
 
 Only when our souls are fed 
 
 By the Fount which gave them birth, 
 
 And by inspiration led, 
 
 Which they never drew from earth, 
 
 We like parted drops of rain 
 Swelling till they meet and run, 
 
 Shall be all absorbed again, 
 Melting, flowing into one. 
 
 Feb. 1840. 
 
53 
 
 Yes, it is the queenly moon 
 
 Walking through her starred saloon, 
 
 Silvering all she looks upon : 
 
 I am her Endymion ; 
 
 For by night she comes to me, — 
 
 O, I love her wondrously. 
 
 She into my window looks, 
 As I sit with lamp and books. 
 And the night-breeze stirs the leaves. 
 And the dew drips down the eaves ; 
 O'er my shoulder peepeth she, 
 O, she loves me royally ! 
 
 Then she tells me many a tale. 
 With her smile, so sheeny pale, 
 Till my soul is overcast 
 With such dream-light of the past. 
 That I saddened needs must be. 
 And I love her mournfully. 
 
54 ENDYMION. 
 
 Oft I gaze up in her eyes, 
 
 Raying light through winter skies ; 
 
 Far away she saileth on ; 
 
 I am no Endymion ; 
 
 O, she is too bright for me, 
 
 And I love her hopelessly ! 
 
 Now she comes to me again, 
 And we mingle joy and pain, 
 Now she walks no more afar, 
 Regal, with train-bearing star, 
 But she bends and kisses me — 
 O, we love now mutually ! 
 
 July, 1840. 
 
55 
 
 illg ai)0ttgl)t3. 
 
 Many are the thoughts that come to me 
 
 In my lonely musing, 
 And they drift so bright and swift, 
 
 There's no time for choosing 
 Which to follow, for to leave 
 
 Any, seems a losing. 
 
 When they come, they come in flocks, 
 
 As, on glancing feather, 
 Startled birds rise one by one 
 
 In autumnal weather, 
 Waking one another up 
 
 From the sheltering heather. 
 
 Some so merry that I laugh. 
 
 Some again are serious ; 
 Some so dull, their least approach 
 
 Is enough to weary us ; 
 Others flit like sheeted ghosts, 
 
 Awful and mysterious. 
 
56 MY THOUGHTS. 
 
 There are thoughts that o'er me steal 
 Like the day when dawning ; 
 
 Great thoughts winged with melody, 
 Common utterance scorning, 
 
 Moving to an inward tune, 
 And an inward morning. 
 
 Some have dark and drooping wings, 
 Children all of sorrow ; 
 
 Some are as gay as if to-day 
 
 Could see no cloudy morrow, 
 
 And yet like light and shade they each 
 Must from the other borrow. 
 
 One by one they spread their wings 
 On their destined mission ; 
 
 One by one I see them fade 
 With no hopeless vision. 
 
 For they've led me on a step 
 To their home Elysian. 
 Aug. 1840. 
 
57 
 
 Sl)£ Eibirk 
 
 Ye bards, ye prophets, ye sages. 
 
 Read to me if ye can, 
 That which hath been the riddle of ages. 
 
 Read me the riddle of Man. 
 
 Then came the bard with his lyre, 
 And the sage with his pen and scroll, 
 
 And the prophet with his eye of fire, 
 To unriddle a human soul. 
 
 But the soul stood up in its might ; 
 
 Its stature they could not scan ; 
 And it rayed out a dazzling mystic light, 
 
 And shamed their wisest plan. 
 
 Yet sweetly the bard did sing, 
 
 And learnedly talked the sage, 
 And the seer flashed by with his lightning wing, 
 
 Soaring beyond his age. 
 5 
 
58 THE RIDDLE. 
 
 Of life-fire snatched from Jove ; 
 
 Of a forfeited age of gold ; 
 Of providence and deathless love 
 
 The chaunting minstrel told. 
 
 The sage of wisdom spoke, 
 
 Of doctrines, books and schools, 
 And how when they broke from learning's yoke, 
 
 All men were turned to fools. 
 
 And the prophet told of heaven. 
 
 And the golden age to come — 
 " Ye must follow the sun through the gates of even, 
 
 And he will lead you home." 
 
 Many a dream they saw. 
 
 And many a creed did build. 
 Each in its turn was truth and law. 
 
 While they who sought were filled. 
 
 But the soul stood up still freed 
 
 From the prison of each plan ; 
 He was a riddle they could not read. 
 
 This simple-seeming Man. 
 
 He stood in his mystery still, 
 
 Of ever-changing light; 
 Many, yet one, he baffled their skill, 
 
 And put their dreams to flight. 
 
THE RIDDLE. 59 
 
 His feet on the earth were planted, 
 
 His head o'er the stars rose dim, 
 And ever unto himself he chaunted 
 
 A half-articulate hymn. 
 
 In words confused and broken 
 
 He chaunted his mystic dream ; 
 And but half of the half his lips had spoken, 
 
 Floated on time's dull stream. 
 
 They who heard of the song which he 
 
 Sang on from time to time, 
 Gave it the name Philosophy, 
 
 And echoed the olden rhyme. 
 
 But their systems all are vain. 
 
 And the o'erflowing soul 
 Sweeps lyre and song to the dark inane. 
 
 And blots the old sage's scroll. 
 
 And Man the great riddle is still 
 
 Unread to the dreamer's eye — 
 We are ever afloat, as we ply our skill 
 
 On the sea of mystery. 
 
60 
 
 (Holottr anir £igt)t. 
 
 The word unto the nations came, 
 
 And shone o'er many a darkened spot. 
 
 The pure white lustre of the flame 
 The darkness comprehended not ; 
 
 Till broken into coloured light 
 
 Within the prism of the mind, 
 It traced upon the murky night 
 
 A rainbow-arch with hues defined. 
 
 And where the narrowed sunbeams turned 
 To colours all distinct, yet blended ; 
 
 Thoughts glanced and struggling instincts yearned, 
 The darkness dimly comprehended. 
 
 When shall the pure ethereal fire 
 
 Glow with a white interior heat ? 
 When shall the truth of God inspire 
 
 The shaping soul with light complete ? 
 
 Never, until a second youth 
 
 Renews the world — then may we see 
 
 The Primal Light — the unbroken Truth, 
 And gather life eternally ! 
 Sept. 1840. 
 
61 
 
 Amid the watches of the windy night, 
 
 A poet sat and listened to the flow 
 
 Of his own changeful thoughts — until there passed 
 
 A vision by him, murmuring as it moved, 
 
 A wild and mystic lay, to which his thoughts 
 
 And pen kept time — and thus the measure ran : 
 
 All is but as it seems ; 
 
 The round green earth 
 With river and glen ; 
 
 The din and the mirth 
 Of the busy, busy men ; 
 
 The world's great fever 
 
 Throbbing for ever ; 
 
 The creed of the sage. 
 
 The hope of the age. 
 
 All things we cherish, 
 
 All that live and all that perish. 
 These are but inner dreams. 
 
62 INWORLD. 
 
 The great world goeth on 
 
 To thy dreaming ; 
 To thee alone 
 Hearts are making their moan 
 
 Eyes are streaming. 
 Thine is the white moon turning night to day, 
 Thine is the dark wood sleeping in her ray ; 
 Thee the winter chills, 
 Thee the springtime thrills. 
 All things nod to thee, 
 All things come to see 
 
 If thou art dreaming on ; 
 If thy dream should break. 
 And thou shouldst awake. 
 
 All things would be gone. 
 
 Nothing is, if thou art not. 
 From thee as from a root 
 The blossoming stars upshoot. 
 The flower-cups drink the rain : 
 Joy and grief and weary pain 
 Spring aloft from thee. 
 And toss their branches free ; 
 Thou art under, over all ; 
 Thou dost hold and cover all; 
 Thou art Atlas — thou art Jove. 
 
 The mightiest truth 
 
 Hath all its youth 
 From thy enveloping thought — 
 Thy thought itself lay in thy earliest love. 
 
L INWORLD. 63 
 
 Nature keeps time to thee 
 
 With voice unbroken ; 
 Still doth she rhyme to thee 
 
 When thou hast spoken. 
 When the sun shines to thee, 
 
 'Tis thy own joy 
 Opening mines to thee 
 
 Nought can destroy. 
 When the blast moans to thee 
 
 Still doth the wind 
 Echo the tones to thee 
 
 Of thy own mind ; 
 Laughter but saddens thee 
 
 When thou art sad ; 
 Least things will gladden thee 
 
 When thou art glad. 
 Life is not life to thee 
 
 But as thou livest ; 
 Labour is strife to thee 
 
 When thou least strivest. 
 
 More did the Spirit sing, and made the night 
 Most musical with inward melodies, 
 But vanished soon and left the listening bard 
 Wrapt in unearthly silence, till the morn 
 Reared up the screen that shuts the spirit world 
 From loftiest poet and from wisest sage. 
 
64 
 
 ©tittrorlb. 
 
 The sun was shining on the busy earth ; 
 
 All men and things were moving on their way, 
 
 The same old way which we call life ; the Soul 
 
 Shrank from the giant grasp of Time and Space : 
 
 Yet, for it was her dreamy hour, half yielded 
 
 To the omnipotent delusion, and looked out 
 
 On the broad glare of things, and felt herself 
 
 Dwindling before the Universe. Then came 
 
 Unto the Bard 
 
 Another Spirit with another voice, 
 
 And sang : 
 
 Said he, that all but seems ? 
 
 Said he, the world is void and lonely-^ 
 A strange, vast crowd of dreams 
 
 Coming to thee only ? 
 And that thy feeble soul 
 Hath such a strong control 
 O'er sovereign space, and sovereign time, 
 And all their train sublime? 
 
 Said he, thou art the Eye 
 
 Reflecting all that is — 
 The Ear that hears, while it creates 
 
 All sounds and harmonies — 
 
OUTWORLD. 65 
 
 The central sense that bides amid 
 
 All shows, and turns them to realities ? 
 
 Listen, mortal, while the sound 
 
 Of this life intense is flowing ! 
 Dost thou find all things around 
 
 Go as thou art going ? 
 Dost thou dream that thou art free, 
 Making, destroying all that thou dost see. 
 In the unfettered might of thy soul's liberty ? 
 
 Lo, an atom troubles thee. 
 One bodily fibre crushes thee. 
 One little nerve shall madden thee. 
 One drop of blood be death to thee. 
 
 Art thou but a withering leaf. 
 For a summer season brief 
 
 Clinging to the tree. 
 Till the winds of circumstance 
 Whirling in their hourly dance 
 Prove too strong for thee ? 
 Art thou but a speck, a mote, 
 
 In this system universal 1 
 Art thou but a passing note 
 
 Woven in the great Rehearsal ? 
 Canst thou roll back the tide of thought, 
 
 And unmake the creed of the age. 
 And unteach the wisdom taught 
 
 By the prophet and the sage ? 
 
66 OUTWORLD. 
 
 Art thou but a cloudy shadow 
 Chasing o'er a meadow ? 
 
 The great world goes on, 
 
 Spite of thy dreanming. 
 Not to thee alone 
 Hearts are making their moan, 
 
 And teardrops streaming. 
 And the mighty voice of Nature 
 Is thy parent, not thy creature. 
 Is no pupil, but thy teacher. 
 And the world would still move on 
 Were thy soul for ever flown. 
 
 For while thou dreamest on, enfolded 
 
 In Nature's wide embrace, 
 All thy life is daily moulded 
 
 By her informing grace. 
 And Time and Space must reign 
 
 And rule o'er thee for ever. 
 And tne Outworld lift its chain 
 From off thy spirit never — 
 But in the dream of thy half-waking fever 
 Thou shalt be mocked with gleam and show 
 Of truths thou pinest for, and yet canst never know. 
 
 And then the Spirit fled, and left the Bard 
 
 Still wondering — for he felt that voices twain 
 
 Had come from different spheres with different truths, 
 
 That seemed at war, and yet agreed in one. 
 
67 
 
 She (S)ttan, 
 
 " In a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 That brought us hither, 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the children sport upon the shore. 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Tell me, brother, what are we ? — 
 Spirits bathing in the sea 
 
 Of Deity ! 
 Half afloat and half on land. 
 Wishing much to leave the strand, — 
 Standing, gazing with devotion. 
 Yet afraid to trust the Ocean — 
 
 Such are we. 
 
 Wanting love and holiness 
 To enjoy the wave's caress ; 
 Wanting faith and heavenly hope, 
 Buoyantly to bear us up ; 
 Yet impatient in our dwelling. 
 When we hear the ocean swelling. 
 
68 THE OCEAN. 
 
 And in every wave that rolls 
 We behold the happy souls 
 Peacefully, triumphantly 
 Swimming on the smiling sea, 
 Then we linger round the shore, 
 Lovers of the earth no more. 
 
 Once, — 'twas in our infancy, 
 We were drifted by this sea 
 To the coast of human birth. 
 To this body and this earth : 
 Gentle were the hands that bore 
 Our young spirits to the shore ; 
 Gentle lips that bade us look 
 Outward from our cradle nook 
 To the spirit-bearing ocean 
 With such wonder and devotion, 
 As each stilly Sabbath day, 
 We were led a little way, 
 Where we saw the waters swell 
 Far away from inland dell. 
 And received with grave delight 
 Symbols of the Infinite : — 
 Then our home was near the sea ; 
 " Heaven was round our infancy :" 
 Night and day we heard the waves 
 Murmuring by us to their caves ; — 
 Floated in unconscious life, 
 With no later doubts at strife, 
 Trustful of the upholding Power 
 Who sustained us hour by hour. 
 
THE OCEAN. 69 
 
 Now we've wandered from the shore, 
 Dwellers by the sea no more ; 
 Yet at times there comes a tone 
 Telling of the visions flown, 
 Sounding from the distant sea. 
 Where we left our purity ; 
 Distant glimpses of the surge 
 Lure us down to ocean's verge ; 
 There we stand with vague distress, 
 Yearning for the measureless ; 
 By half- wakened instincts driven, 
 Half loving earth, half loving heaven, 
 Fearing to put off and swim. 
 Yet impelled to turn to Him 
 In whose life we live and move. 
 And whose very name is Love. 
 
 Grant me courage, Holy One, 
 To become indeed thy son. 
 And in thee, thou Parent-Sea, 
 Live and love eternally. 
 
70 
 
 ai)e JJlinb Qtzx. 
 
 From morn till night the old man sitteth still ; 
 
 Deep quenched in darkness lie all earthly sights ,' 
 He hath not known since childhood swayed his will, 
 
 The outward shows of open-eyed delights ; 
 
 But in an inner world of thought he liveth, 
 
 A deep, pure realm of praise and lowly prayer, 
 
 Where faith from sight no pension e'er receiveth, 
 But groweth only from the All-true and Fair. 
 
 That universal Soul who is the being, 
 
 The reason and the heart of men on earth, 
 
 Shineth so broad o'er him, that though not seeing. 
 He walketh where the morning hath its birth. 
 
 He travelleth where the upper springs flow on ; 
 
 He heareth harmonies from angel choirs ; 
 He seeth Uriel standing in the sun, 
 
 He dwelleth up among the heavenly fires ; 
 
THE BLIND SEER. 71 
 
 And yet he loveth, as we all do love 
 
 To hear the restless hum of common life ; 
 
 Though rooted in the spirit-soil above, 
 
 His leaves and flowers do bud amid the strife 
 
 Of all this weary world, and shine more fair 
 Than sympathies which have no inward root, 
 
 Which open fast, but shrink in bleaker air. 
 And dropping, leave behind no winter fruit. 
 
 But here are winter fruits and blossoms too — 
 Those silver hairs o'er bended shoulders curled ; 
 
 That smile — that thoughtful brow — ope to the view 
 Some symbol of the old man's inner world. 
 
 O who would love this outer sphere of sense, 
 
 Though steeped in joy and ruled by Beauty's queen. 
 
 If it were purchased at the dear expense 
 
 Of losing all which souls like his have seen? 
 
 Nay, if we judged aright, this glorious All, 
 
 Which fills, like thought, our never-doubting eyes, 
 
 Might with its firm-built grandeur, sink and fall 
 Before cue ray of Soul-realities. 
 
72 
 
 Star after star looked glimmering down, 
 
 As in the night he sat alone, 
 And in the firmament of mind 
 
 Thought after thought upon him shone. 
 
 An inner sky did sometimes seem 
 
 To show him truths of deepest worth, 
 
 Which custom's dayh'ght long had dimmed, 
 Or sense had clouded in their birth. 
 
 And well he knew the world was dark. 
 And few would hear what he could tell, 
 
 And fewer still would sit with him. 
 And watch that sky he loved so well. 
 
 One solitary soul he" seemed ; 
 
 And yet he knew that all might see 
 The orbs that showed to him alone 
 
 The fulness of their majesty. 
 
 He knew that all the silent scorn 
 
 Which now in meekness he must bear, 
 
 Would change to worship when his ear 
 No longer was a listener there ; 
 
THE STAR-GAZER. 73 
 
 And, when the cold and rugged clod 
 
 Had pressed the brain that toiled for them, 
 
 That on his statue men would hang 
 The unavailing diadem. 
 
 AH this he felt, and yet his faith 
 
 In uncomplaining silence kept 
 With starry Truth its vigil brave. 
 
 While all his brothers round him slept. 
 
 They slept, — and would not wake — until 
 The distant lights that fixed his gaze 
 
 Came moving on, and spread abroad 
 The glory of a noontide blaze. 
 
 And then they started from their dreams. 
 
 And slowly oped their leaden eyes. 
 And saw the light whose splendours now 
 
 Were darting through the morning skies. 
 
 Then turned and sought for him whose name 
 They in their sleep had mocked and cursed ; — 
 
 But he had left them long before 
 The vision on their souls had burst. 
 
 And underneath the sod he lay. 
 
 Now all bedewed with fruitless tears, 
 
 And they could only deck the tomb 
 That told of his neglected years. 
 6 
 
74 
 
 ai)e 3lrtisl 
 
 He breathed the air of realms enchanted, 
 
 He bathed in seas of dreamy light, 
 And seeds within his soul were planted 
 That bore us flowers for use too bright 
 Unless it were to stay some wandering spirit's flight. 
 
 With us he lived a common life. 
 
 And wore a plain familiar name, 
 And meekly dared the vulgar strife 
 
 That to inferior spirits came — 
 Yet bore a pulse within, the world could never tame. 
 
 And skies more soft than Italy's 
 
 Their wealth of light around him spread, 
 
 And tones were his, and only his — 
 So sweetly floating o'er his head — 
 None knew at what rich feast the favoured guest was fed. 
 
 They could not guess or reason why 
 
 He chose the ways of poverty ; 
 They read no wisdom in his eye, 
 
 But scorned the holy mystery 
 That brooded o'er his thoughts and gave him power to see. 
 
THE ARTIST. 75 
 
 But all unveiled the world of Sense 
 
 An inner meaning had for him, 
 And Beauty loved in innocence, 
 Not sought in passion or in whim. 
 Within a soul so pure could ne'er grow dull and dim. 
 
 And in this vision did he toil, 
 
 And in this Beauty lived and died. — 
 
 And think not that he left his soil 
 By no rich tillage sanctified ; 
 In olden times he might have been his country's pride. 
 
 And yet may be — though he hath gone — 
 
 For spirits of so fine a mould 
 Lose not the glory they have won ; 
 
 Their memory turns not pale and cold — 
 While Love lives on, the lovely never can grow old. 
 
76 
 
 ®()e |)ropl]Et Hntjcileir. 
 
 Kindly he did receive us where he dwelt, 
 And in his smile and eye I inly felt 
 The self-same power, the influence mild and grand, 
 Which o'er our kindled souls had held command. 
 When to the page his mind had wrought we turned. 
 But now anew our hearts within us burned. 
 As side by side, we hearkened to his talk, 
 Or rambled with him in his morning walk. 
 Unveiled he stood ; and beautiful he moved 
 Amid home-sympathies ; — a heart that loved 
 Nature as dearly as a gentle mother. 
 And man as a great spirit and a brother. 
 In the clear deepening river of his thought, 
 Welling in tones and words by nature taught ; 
 In the mild lustre of the long-lashed eye. 
 And round the delicate lips, how artlessly 
 Broke forth the intuitions of his mind. 
 I listened and I looked, but could not find 
 Courage or words to tell my sympathy 
 With all this deep-toned wisdom borne to me. 
 Still less could I declare how, ere I knew 
 The spell his visible presence o'er me threw, 
 The page his inspiration wrought, had warmed 
 Daily to life the faith within me formed 
 
THE PROPHET UNVEILED. 77 
 
 Of Nature's great relationship to man ; 
 
 So far his speed of sight my own outran. 
 
 And if I spoke, it seemed to me my thought 
 
 Was but a pale and broken reflex caught 
 
 From his own orb ; so silently I sat 
 
 Drinking in truth and beauty. Yet there was that 
 
 In his serene and sympathizing smile, 
 
 Which as I listened, told me all the while 
 
 That nearer intercourse might give me right 
 
 To come within the region of his light ; 
 
 Not to be dazzled, moth-like, by his flame. 
 
 But go as independent as I came. 
 
 And once again within the lighted hall. 
 Where Mind and Beauty gathered to his call, 
 We heard him speak ; upon his eye and tongue. 
 Dropping their golden thoughts we mutely hung. 
 Aurora shootings mixed with summer lightning ; 
 Meteors of truth through beauty's sky still bright'ning; 
 Phoenix-lived things born amid stars and flashes. 
 And rising rocket-winged from their own ashes ; 
 Pearls prodigally rained, too large and fast ; 
 Rich music-tones too sweet and rare to last — 
 Such seemed his natural utterance as it passed. 
 And yet the steadier light that shone alway, 
 Looked through these meteors in their rapid play, 
 And warmed around us like the sunlight mild. 
 And Truth in Beauty's robes stood by and smiled. 
 
 Dec. 1839. 
 
78 
 
 Silence anb Speerf). 
 
 A LITTLE pleasant bubbling up 
 
 From the unfathomable ocean ; 
 A little glimmering from the unmeasured sun; 
 A little noise, a little motion — 
 Such is human speech ; 
 I to thee would teach 
 A truth diviner, deeper 
 
 Than this empty strife ; 
 For thou art the keeper 
 Of the wells of life. 
 
 Godlike Silence ! I would woo thee — 
 
 Leave behind this thoughtless clamour ; 
 Journey upward, upward to thee, 
 
 Put on thy celestial armour. 
 Let us speak no more, 
 
 Let us be Divinities; 
 Let poor mortals prate and roar ; 
 
 Know we not how small it is 
 To be ever uttering. 
 
 Babbling and muttering ? 
 Thou canst never tell the whole 
 
 Of thine unmanageable Soul. 
 
SILENCE AND SPEECH. 79 
 
 Deeper than thy deepest speech, 
 
 Wiser than thy wisest thought, 
 Something lies thou canst not reach, 
 
 Never to the surface brought. 
 
 Masses without form or make, 
 Sleeping gnomes that never wake ; 
 Genii bound by magic spells ; 
 Fairies and all miracles ; 
 Shapes unclassed and wonderful. 
 Huge and dire and beautiful ; 
 Dreams and hopes and prophecies 
 Struggling to ope their eyes ; 
 All that is most vast and dim. 
 All that is most good and bad, 
 Demon, sprite and cherubim, 
 Spectral troops and angels glad ; 
 Things that stir not, yet are living, 
 Up to the light for ever striving. 
 Thoughts whose faces are averted. 
 Guesses dwelling in the dark ; 
 Instincts not to be diverted 
 From their ever-present mark — 
 Such thy inner Life, O Man, 
 Which no outward eye may scan. 
 Wonderful, most wonderful. 
 Terrible and beautiful ! 
 Speak not, argue not — but live ! 
 Reins to thy true nature give, 
 And in each unconscious act 
 Forth will shine the hidden fact. 
 
80 SILENCE AND SPEECH. 
 
 Yet this smooth surface thou must break; 
 Thou must give as well as take. 
 
 Why this Silence long and deep ? 
 Dost thou wake or dost thou sleep ? 
 Up and speak — persuade and teach ! 
 What so beautiful as Speech ? 
 
 Sing us the old Song, 
 
 Be our warbling bird ; 
 Thou hast sealed thy lips too long 
 And the world must all go wrong, 
 
 If it hath no spoken word. 
 
 Out with it — thou hast it ! 
 
 We would feel it, taste it. 
 
 Be our Delphic Oracle, 
 
 Let the Memnon statue sing, 
 
 Let the music rise and swell ; 
 We will enter the ring 
 Where the silent ones dwell. 
 And we will compel 
 The Powers that we seek 
 
 Through us to sing, through us to speak. 
 And hark ! Apollo's lyre ! 
 Young Mercury with words of fire ! 
 
 And Jove — the serene air, hath thundered. 
 
 As when by old Prometheus, 
 
 The lightning stolen for our use 
 
 From out his sky was plundered ! 
 
 Man to his Soul draws near, 
 
 And Silence now hath all to fear ; 
 
SILENCE AND SPEECH. 81 
 
 Her realm is invaded, 
 
 Her temples degraded — 
 For Eloquence like a strong and turbid river 
 Is flowing through her cities. On for ever 
 The mighty waves are dashing, and the sound 
 Disturbs the Deities profound. 
 
 God through man is speaking, 
 
 And hearts and souls are waking. 
 Each to each his visions tells, 
 And all rings out like a chime of bells ; 
 The Word, the Word, thou hast it now ! 
 
 Silence befits the gods above, 
 But Speech is the star on manhood's brow, 
 The sign of truth — the sign of love. 
 
 Jan. 1842. 
 
 « 
 
82 
 
 liellr JTotes. 
 
 Where is he that loves the woods, 
 
 At home in all green solitudes ; 
 
 He whom fashion, fame, or pelf 
 
 Have not prisoned in himself, 
 
 He who leaveth friend and book, 
 
 And findeth both beside a brook ; 
 
 Heareth wisdom musical 
 
 In a low-toned waterfall, 
 
 Or the pine grove's breezy rush, 
 
 Or the trilling of a thrush, 
 
 Or, when nights are dark and still. 
 
 In a plaintive whip-poor-will ; 
 
 Or when morning suns are bright, 
 
 Seeth truths of quiet light 
 
 In the landscape green and warm 
 
 Of the sloping upland farm ! 
 
 Let him come and be my friend 
 
 Till these summer months shall end. 
 
 In this leafy sylvan scene. 
 
 Where Nature loves no hue but green, 
 
 Nor will let a sound be heard 
 
 But of humble-bee or bird, 
 
FIELD NOTES. 83 
 
 Or a tall and spreading tree 
 
 Rustling still and lonesomely, 
 
 Or afar the cattle's bell, 
 
 Tinkling in some hidden dell, 
 
 We will leave house, man, and street, 
 
 For companionship more sweet : 
 
 Children of the summer air. 
 
 We will be as once we were, — 
 
 Two unconscious idle boys, 
 
 And renew Arcadian joys ; 
 
 Stumbling in our hill-side walks 
 
 O'er mushrooms and mullein stalks ; 
 
 Brushing with our feet away 
 
 Spider-webs of silken gray. 
 
 Gemmed with dew athwart the meadows. 
 
 That sleep in the long morning shadows ; 
 
 Roaming by some grassy stream. 
 
 Where, as in some earlier dream. 
 
 Well-known flowers all tall and rank 
 
 Blossom on the marshy bank ; 
 
 Vines that creep, and spikes that nod, 
 
 Golden-helmet, golden-rod. 
 
 Orchis, milk- weed, elder-bloom, 
 
 Brake, sweet-fern and meadow-broom, 
 
 Star-shaped mosses on the rocks, 
 
 Golden butter-cups in flocks. 
 
 Tossing as the breeze sweeps by 
 
 To the blue deeps of the sky ; 
 
 All those scentless seedy flowers 
 
 That chronicle the summer hours ; 
 
84 FIELD NOTES. 
 
 These shall be our company. 
 
 The soliloquizing bee 
 
 Hath no need of such as we : 
 
 We will let him wander free : 
 
 He must labour hotly yet, 
 
 Ere the summer sun shall set. 
 
 Grumbling little merchant man, 
 
 Deft Utilitarian, 
 
 Dunning all the idle flowers. 
 
 Short to him must be the hours. 
 
 As he steereth swiftly over 
 
 Fields of warm sweet-scented clover. 
 
 Leave him to his own delight, 
 
 Little insect Benthamite : 
 
 Idler like ourselves alone 
 
 Shall we woo to be our crone. 
 
 But for him whose cloudy looks 
 Are bent on law or ledger-books, 
 Prisoned among the heated bricks. 
 The slave of traffic, toil and tricks ; 
 For him who worshippeth alone 
 Beneath the drowsy preacher's drone, 
 Where creed and text like fetters cling 
 Upon the spirit's struggling wing; 
 For him whom Fashion's laws have tamed. 
 Till the sweet heavens are nigh ashamed 
 To lead him from his poisoned food 
 Into their healthy solitude ; 
 Such as these we leave behind. 
 Blind companions of the blind. 
 
FIELD NOTES. 85 
 
 'Little know they of the bahn, 
 And the beauty, wise and calm, 
 Treasured up at Nature's breast. 
 For the sick heart that needeth rest. 
 He who in childlike love hath quaffed 
 Of her sweet mother-milk one draught, 
 Hath drank immortal drops as bright 
 As those which (tales of eld recite) 
 Untasted fell one starry night 
 From the fair bosom of heaven's queen, 
 Sprinkling the sky with milky sheen: 
 From the world's tasteless springs he turns ; 
 His soul with thirst diviner burns, 
 And nursed upon the lap of Truth, 
 Wins once again the gift of youth. 
 
 Him we will seek, and none but him. 
 
 Whose inward sense hath not grown dim ; 
 
 Whose soul is steeped in Nature's tinct, 
 
 And to the Universal linked ; 
 
 Who loves the beauteous Infinite 
 
 With deep and ever new delight, 
 
 And carrieth where'er he goes, 
 
 The inborn sweetness of the rose. 
 
 The perfume as of Paradise ; 
 
 The talisman above all price ; 
 
 The optic glass that wins from far 
 
 The meaning of the utmost star ; 
 
 The key that opes the golden doors 
 
 Where earth and heaven have piled their stores ; 
 
86 
 
 FIELD NOTES. 
 
 The magic ring — the enchanter's wand. 
 The title-deed to^Wonder-land ; 
 The wisdom that o'erlooketh sense, 
 The clairvoyance of Innocence. 
 
 These rich possessions if he own, 
 He shall be ours, and he alone. 
 
 July, 1842. 
 
87 
 
 aije Sottqmt. 
 
 She has brought me flowers to deck my room, 
 Of sweetest scent and brilliancy ; 
 
 She knew not that she was the while 
 The fairest flower of all to me. 
 
 Since her soft eyes have looked on them, 
 What tenderer beauties in them dwell ! 
 Since her fair hands have placed them there, 
 
 O how much sweeter do they smell ! 
 
 • 
 
 Beside my inkstajid and my bogks 
 They bloom in perfume and in light : 
 
 A voice amid my lonesomeness, 
 A shining star amid my night. 
 
 The storm beats down upon the roof, 
 But in this room glide summer hours, 
 
 Since she, the fairest flower of all, 
 Has g&rlanded my heart with flowers. 
 
88 
 
 £od£ 
 
 There is no blessedness in life 
 
 Apart from blessed Love ; 
 This sanctifies the dreary strife 
 
 Which all who live must prove ; , 
 
 It lifts the burden from the soul, 
 
 And puts the staff into the hand ; 
 The gloomy clouds behind us roll, 
 
 And all before is dawn and fairy -land. 
 
 And this we felt when side by side 
 
 Beneath those garden trees 
 We sat, when Spring was in her pride 
 
 Of blossoms, birds and bees. 
 A richer life we needed not, 
 
 A time less bright we did not fear, 
 Than hallowed then that blessed spot. 
 
 And made the past and future disappear. 
 
 The murmuring bees about us swarming. 
 
 The violets at our feet, 
 Within our hearts were gently forming 
 
 All dreams and visions sweet ; 
 The warm and scented air was snowing 
 
 With scattered blossoms from the trees. 
 And through the sky we heard the flowing 
 
 Of Nature's dear and new-born harmonies. 
 
LOVE. 89 
 
 We cannot now as once we did, 
 
 Gaze in each other's eyes, 
 For lonely absence doth forbid 
 
 All save our longing sighs ; 
 But memories of such hours as these 
 
 Come like some gently floating strain 
 At midnight on a summer breeze, 
 
 And make us near forget these hours of pain. 
 
 O Love is light when all is dark ! 
 
 It goeth on before, 
 A strong and still preserved ark. 
 
 Though tempests round us roar. 
 O Love the sphered world contains ; 
 
 All life within itself it hath ; 
 All else goes by, but Love remains. 
 
 And waves a heaven-lit torch before our path.* 
 
90 
 
 Had Fno memory of thee, 
 
 My dreams would be like the weary sea, 
 
 Where wave on wave goes journeying by, 
 
 With no companion but the sky. 
 
 And all is lone and shadowless, 
 
 A waste and briny wilderness. 
 
 But mid these billows of the mind, 
 
 One fairy isle I often find. 
 
 Where thou the bright Calypso art. 
 
 The queen who rulest o'er my heart. 
 
 The fair Titania by whose spells 
 
 All flowers around me ring their bells. 
 
 when o'er the wide sea of dreams 
 
 1 see thy form like sunny beams, 
 And hear the sweet tones of thy voice, 
 The crested waves around rejoice, 
 
 A morning breaks amid my night, 
 And thou, the centre of the light, 
 Guidest me on until I stand, 
 Still dreaming, on thy spirit-land ; 
 
TO E . 91 
 
 Then seem to wake, and yet half deem 
 
 'Tis but a dream within a dream ; 
 
 And yet a joy so tangible, 
 
 A music yet so audible, 
 
 Reality not too refined, 
 
 A vision just enough defined, 
 
 That I could ever linger there. 
 
 And breathe that dream-perfumed air. 
 
 And pass my years unshared, unseen. 
 
 Save by my fairy-island queen. 
 
92 
 
 Separation. 
 
 Birds fly away over land and sea, 
 
 Seeking their sunny home ,* 
 The winds are wandering strong and free, 
 
 Wherever they choose to roam. 
 
 Light leaps down from the upper air 
 
 Unto his loving flowers ; 
 Darkness comes to his shadowy lair 
 
 In the deep tangled bowers. 
 
 The rain comes when the fields athirst 
 Look panting up to heaven ; 
 
 The dew-drops in the soft air nursed 
 Come to their buds at even. 
 
 Spring comes to the patient earth 
 And melts away her snows ; 
 
 And summer with her songs of mirth 
 Comes singing to the rose. 
 
 But ah ! thou dost not come to me, 
 Like the wind, the dew and the sun, 
 
 Nor can I wing my way to thee, 
 My own, my blessed one! 
 
 July, 1842. 
 
93 
 
 2luttimn 5iax3. 
 
 A FEW hours since, when Night had just begun 
 
 To light her everlasting lamps above, 
 
 In the far Northeast the fair Pleiades 
 
 Hung like a cluster of ripe golden fruit 
 
 Against the dim horizon wall ; but now 
 
 They have climbed upward far upon their course, 
 
 And the whole heavens are changed from what they were. 
 
 What a rare jubilee of blessed lights ! 
 
 Above me spread the vineyards of the sky. 
 
 Untrodden save by feet of cherubim ; 
 
 Wide fields of glittering immensity 
 
 Blooming in beauty unapproachable; 
 
 Clear, solemn beacon-fires by angels fed, 
 
 To fright away bad spirits, and to guard 
 
 The Universe from blight ; — and stretching through 
 
 Long galaxies of star-dust — the highways 
 
 Of souls — a tangled wilderness of suns 
 
 Crowded into perspective of a length 
 
 That tires out the up-labouring wing of thought. 
 
 There great Orion striding in his might. 
 
 Fast girt with sparkling belt and scimetar, 
 
 Facing the Bull's red eye, Aldebaran ;— 
 
 Bootes with his dogs ; — the Greater Bear 
 
 Circling untired around the frozen North ; — 
 
 Lone Cassiopceia sitting in her chair ; — 
 
94 AUTUMN STARS. 
 
 Dewy Capella trembling all apart, 
 And changing red and blue her liquid light ; — 
 Majestic Sirius, kingliest of all 
 That rule the skies ; — all these and millions more 
 O what a pomp and blazonry is out 
 Over my head in the deep dome of God ! 
 The uncounted eyes whose spiritual light 
 Should hush the restless world into a prayer 
 As pure and noiseless as the thoughts of God. — 
 Ye blessed Stars ! how oft when feverish moods 
 Born out of earthly fears and hopes were mine, 
 Hath your meek shining soothed me into peace ! 
 So friendly-distant — coming every night, 
 Yet still so inaccessible. 
 Fit type ye are, ye blessed Stars, to me, 
 Of Love and Reason ruling Will and Sense ; 
 Of that true Light which lighteneth every soul. 
 And still abides with man, and guides his steps ; 
 A friendly, oft a too familiar ray. 
 Yet born of God, and springing from a fount 
 As far beyond your light as ye from earth. 
 Nov. 1842. 
 
95 
 
 21 |3raper. 
 
 O Spirit pure ! though trite and faded forms 
 Point like a cold clock-finger to thy Truth, 
 
 And but a glimmer of thy radiance warms 
 
 The symbols that should gleam with Nature's youth : 
 
 Though men of selfish codes may hide or darken 
 That light of thine own Purity and Love, 
 
 So that we scarce may still the world and hearken 
 To thy sweet voice that droppeth from above : 
 
 Though man be false and institutions vain, 
 Not false or vain let thy high Presence be ; 
 
 Through icy custom and through man's disdain. 
 Shine on my heart and set my spirit free ! 
 
 Be still my nameless Hope, my secret Joy, 
 That comes and comes again in hours of rest, 
 
 My rock of strength, that passeth all annoy. 
 My dove of heaven, that broodeth in my breast. 
 
 Be all thou canst — be all I inly need ! 
 
 The world may weigh me down but not enslave ; 
 The burden shall roll off, and I be freed. 
 
 If I but trust the strength thy mercy gave. 
 
 March, 1843. 
 
96 
 
 Sonnets. 
 I. 
 
 INTRODUCTOHY. 
 
 " Scorn not the Sonnet :"* thus hath sung the Bard 
 
 Of holy Faith and calm Philosophy : 
 
 And well the sage hath taught us to regard 
 
 The lesson in his own dear Poesy. 
 
 O might I but an humble follower be, 
 
 And tune my own " small lute" to sing my dreams 
 
 Of Beauty and of Truth, I'd bear to see 
 
 The critic frown upon these passing gleams, 
 
 Since such has been the fate of those bright ones 
 
 Who loudest, sweetest, swept the Poet's lyre : 
 
 And fain Pd stop and listen while those sons 
 
 Of music pass. from their cars of fire 
 
 Might the seer's mantle drop on one so low, 
 
 It were a prophet's gift — but never may be so. 
 
 * See Wordsworth's Sonnet commencing with these words. 
 
SONNETS. 97 
 
 II. 
 
 nSTTRODUGTCHY. 
 (Continued.) 
 
 I'll love the Sonnet then for its own sake, 
 
 And calmly hold my quiet course along. 
 
 Like clouds and sky seen on some lonely lake, 
 
 Far from the crowded world, my humble song, 
 
 Although reflecting truth and loveliness. 
 
 May be unknown, save to a cherished few ; 
 
 Yet shall I never love my pen the less, 
 
 Nor cease to wreathe my little lyre anew 
 
 With the wild wood-vine and the simple green 
 
 Of Nature. Yes, the soul must sometimes speak. 
 
 And though its numbers flow almost unseen, 
 
 It hath within itself, nor harsh, nor weak, 
 
 A harmony that will at times have vent. 
 
 Though all untuned the while, the poor, dull instrument. 
 
 1836. 
 
98 SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO MY SISTEHS. 
 
 Sweet sisters, ye are far away, and night 
 Has closed around us, dark and chill and damp, 
 And sullen with dull clouds. Here by my lamp 
 Alone I sit, and in its tapering light 
 Feel a calm sympathy with common things 
 Which in the sun-bright day I never found. 
 A few small well-known books are scattered round, 
 Silent companions of my wanderings ; 
 Silent and yet how eloquent ! Alone 
 I may not call myself while these are near ; 
 Still less, when thinking of my sisters dear, 
 My fancy hears the sweet familiar tone 
 Of merry voices, while amid your glee 
 Ye check the laugh sometimes and talk of me. 
 1836. 
 
SONNETS. 99 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO MY FRIENDS. 
 
 To all my absent friends, who scattered wide, 
 
 Where'er, a pilgrim, I have chanced to stray, 
 
 May sometimes in the silent eventide 
 
 Cherish a thought of him who, far away. 
 
 Thus weaves to-night his heart's rude sonnet-lay, 
 
 I send with memory thrilling with the past, 
 
 My thoughts and wishes. It may be that they 
 
 Deem me forgetful of the times when last 
 
 I held communion with them. Let them not 
 
 Think that the golden chain shall e'er grow dim ; 
 
 It may be that some new and distant spot 
 
 Shall with the spells of home encircle him ; 
 
 Still I may think that should they ever see 
 
 This offering, they will know how dear they are to me. 
 
 UOfC. 
 
100 SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 TO MY FRIENDS. 
 (Continued.) 
 
 I've wandered in the world ; I've left tried friends 
 
 With tearful eyes and swelling heart, behind ; 
 
 I've linked my soul to others ; Heaven sends 
 
 This power in infinite kindness, thus to bind 
 
 Anew the cord that has been once untwined : 
 
 Thus are we made for love and sympathy, 
 
 I've seen the Past grow faint and dusk, and pined 
 
 For days that nevermore shall come to me. 
 
 Yet have I never loved those friends the less 
 
 Whom I have gathered in my later days ; 
 
 For in my hours of gloom and loneliness, 
 
 All shine like clustering stars, with purest rays, 
 
 Though some whom I have followed up the skies, 
 
 May dearer be than those bright ones I saw not rise. 
 
 1836. 
 
SONNETS. 101 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO ETHELINDE. 
 
 Fair one, half known in memory, half ideal. 
 
 Who in my morning dream wert by my side 
 
 Walking and close-communing — like a bride 
 
 Leaning upon my arm : — ah, why not real, 
 
 Beautiful vision, that white dream-like form, 
 
 Those soft, dark eyes, those clustered tresses curling 
 
 So tendril-like adown thy cheek ! Lo, whirling 
 
 In my chaotic fancy comes a storm, 
 
 Unseen and silent, but enough to scare 
 
 Thy bright form from my side, while ran my joy 
 
 Fullest and deepest. What dost thou destroy. 
 
 Relentless Day ! Waking I murmur " Where, 
 
 Where is bright Ethelinde ? Is it all o'er ?" 
 
 Then close my eyes and try to dream of her once more. 
 
 1836. 
 
102 SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 TO THE MAGNOLIA aUANDIFLORA. 
 
 Majestic flower ! How purely beautiful 
 
 Thou art, as rising from thy bower of green, 
 
 Those dark and glossy leaves so thick and full, 
 
 Thou standest like a high-born forest-queen 
 
 Among thy maidens clustering round so fair ; — 
 
 I love to watch thy sculptured form unfolding. 
 
 And look into thy depths, to image there 
 
 A fairy cavern ; and while thus beholding, 
 
 And while the breeze floats o'er thee, matchless flower, 
 
 I breathe the perfume, delicate and strong. 
 
 That comes like incense from thy petal-bower, 
 
 My fancy roams those southern woods along. 
 
 Beneath that glorious tree, where deep among 
 
 The unsunned leaves thy large white flower-cups hung ! 
 
 1836. 
 
SONNETS. 103 
 
 VIII. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 Men talk of Beauty — of the earth and sky, 
 
 And the blue stillness of sweet inland waters, 
 
 And search all language with a lover's eye. 
 
 For flowers of praise to deck earth's glorious daughters. 
 
 And it- is well within the soul to cherish 
 
 Such love for all things beautiful around. 
 
 But there is Beauty that can never perish ; 
 
 A hidden path no " vulture's eye"* hath found. 
 
 Vainly ye seek it who in Sense alone 
 
 Wander amid the sweets the world hath given ; 
 
 As vainly ye who make the Mind the throne, 
 
 While the Heart bends a slave, insulted, driven. 
 
 Thou who wouldst know what Beauty this can be. 
 
 Look on the sunhght of the Soul's deep purity. 
 
 * "There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vul- 
 ture's eye hath not seen." — Job xxviii. 7. 
 
 1836. 
 
104 SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 FIRST TRUTHS. 
 
 They come to me at night, but not in dreams, 
 
 Those revelations of realities ; 
 
 Just at the turning moment ere mine eyes 
 
 Are closed to sleep, they come — clear sudden gleams, 
 
 Brimfull of truth like drops from heaven's deep 
 
 streams 
 They glide into my soul. Entranced in prayer, 
 I gaze upon the vision shining there. 
 And bless the Father for these transient beams. 
 The trite and faded forms of Truth then fall. 
 I look into myself, and all alone 
 Lie bared before the Eternal All-in-all ; 
 Or wandering forth in spirit, on me thrown 
 A magic robe of light, I roam away 
 To the true vision-land, unseen by day. 
 
 1837. 
 
SONNETS. 105 
 
 X. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 O Memory, sweet sorceress of time, 
 
 Strange saddener of hours brightest in our Past, 
 
 Yet sweet in dreamy sadness — thou hast cast 
 
 Thy magic chain around me. Now the chime 
 
 Of faint departing voices wins my soul 
 
 Back to the unseen altar where the heart 
 
 Once poured its fullest worship ; lightnings dart 
 
 Electric, — yet no startling thunders roll. 
 
 But only murmur distantly and sad. 
 
 'Tis there thou dwell'st, unnamed but unforgot, 
 
 O vision once so dear ! a different lot 
 
 Is thine, is mine, and we have truly had 
 
 All that this life could portion us together. 
 
 Parted at length by storms of wintry weather. 
 
 1838. 
 
106 SONNETS. 
 
 XL 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Like the dark mirror of some mountain lake 
 To woods and clouds, to stars and twilight flowers, 
 Art thou, Sleep, to these our waking hours ! 
 From all that passes in us when awake, 
 Some strange reflection thou dost ever take ; 
 From all events and acts thy deeps have caught 
 The dim inverted images of thought 
 And feeling. But as winds will sometimes break 
 The stillness of the water, every gleam 
 Of beauty or of order is deranged, 
 And all the fairy picture wildly changed — 
 So the calm image of some happiest dream 
 Turns dark and dim, and with proportion lost. 
 Waves, endless, shapeless, wild, even when loved the 
 most. 
 
SONNETS. 107 
 
 XII. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 (Continued.) 
 
 But come to me, O Sleep ! I love thy spell, 
 
 Although thy waving mirror hath no power 
 
 To stay the visions of the midnight hour, 
 
 Or, like the certain shapes of day, compel 
 
 The forms that haunt the shade of memory's cell 
 
 To stand before me. Come and bring thy dreams ! 
 
 I love to see the dim and wavering gleams, 
 
 As journeying downward to thy mystic dell, 
 
 I stand beside thy deep and shadowy lake ; 
 
 Still let me come and wander at thy will. 
 
 Through summer woods, by stream and sunny hill, 
 
 So of the lonely darkness I may make 
 
 A bright and peopled kingdom of my own, 
 
 Though the dream flies, or darkens, leaving me alone ! 
 
 1837. 
 
108 SONNETS. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Dear flower of heaven and love ! Thou glorious thing 
 
 That lookest out these garden nooks among ; 
 
 Rose, that art ever fair and ever young ! 
 
 Was it some angel on invisible wing 
 
 Hovered around thy fragrant sleep, to fling 
 
 His glowing mantle of warm sunset hues 
 
 O'er thy unfolding petals, wet with dews 
 
 Such as the flower-fays to Titania bring ? 
 
 flower of thousand memories and dreams, 
 That take the heart with faintness, while we gaze 
 On the rich depths of thy inwoven maze ; 
 From the green banks of Eden's blessed streams 
 
 1 dreamed thee brought, of brighter days to tell, 
 Long passed, but promised yet with us to dwell. 
 
 1838. 
 
SONNETS. 109 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE HONEYSUCKLE. 
 
 Sweet household flower, whose clambering vines festoon 
 
 The little porch before this cottage door, 
 
 How dear to me when daylight's toils are o'er, 
 
 By the broad shining of the summer moon. 
 
 To feel thy fragrance on the breath of June 
 
 Afloat ; — or when the rosy twilight falls. 
 
 Ere the first night-bird to his fellow calls. 
 
 Ere the first star is out, and the low tune 
 
 Of Nature pauses, and the humming-birds 
 
 Come wooing thee with swift and silent kisses, 
 
 Ere wandering through the garden's wildernesses — 
 
 Emblem of that calm love that needs no words, 
 
 Let me like thee, sweet, silent clinging vine. 
 
 Clasp my own home awhile, ere stranger home be mine. 
 
 1838. 
 
110 SONNETS. 
 
 XV. 
 
 MORNING-: 
 
 The earth was wandering in a troubled sleep, 
 And as it wandered, dreaming tearful dreams ; 
 Then came the sun adown his orient steep, 
 Making sweet morning with his golden beams ; 
 A parent, bending o'er his child he seems, 
 Kissing its eyes, lips, cheeks, with warm embrace ; 
 So kisseth he the mountains, woods and streams, 
 And all the dew-like tears from off its face. 
 O joy ! That father's smile is like no other — 
 The child is folded in a parent's arms. 
 And looks up to the sky, its blue-eyed mother, 
 And laughs, with light upon its waking charms. 
 Ah, happy earth ; what tender care hast thou ! 
 There is no midnight cloud, or dream upon thee now. 
 1838. 
 
SONNETS. Ill 
 
 XVI. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The star- wrought mantle of the dewy Night 
 Is folded now all round and round thee, Earth : 
 Safely to rest ! this moon thy chamber-light, 
 These winds thy waving curtains, and the birth 
 Of white-winged mountain mists thy dreams shall be — 
 Silently rising as thy slumbers fall. 
 The Night is now too clear for thee to see 
 The storm-clouds gather at the tempest's call, 
 And fright thee with their dream-scowl as thou sleepest. 
 Rest thee, O mother Earth ! The heavens above 
 Shine on thy sleep, will cheer thee if thou weepest, 
 And sing thee their old morning song of love;' 
 They watch o'er thee, as thou when daylight comes. 
 Dost watch from all thy hills, over thy children's homes. 
 1838. 
 
112 
 
 jSonmta on JUttsical Mnstxnmmts, 
 I. 
 
 THE VIOLIN. 
 
 The versatile, discursive Violin, 
 
 Light, tender, brilliant, passionate or calm, 
 
 Sliding with careless nonchalance within 
 
 His range of ready utterance, wins the palm 
 
 Of victory o'er his fellows for his grace ; 
 
 Fine fluent speaker, polished gentleman — 
 
 Well may he be the leader in the race 
 
 Of blending instruments — fighting in the van 
 
 With conscious ease and fine chivalric speed ; 
 
 A very Bayard in the field of sound, 
 
 Rallying his struggling followers in their need, 
 
 And spurring them to keep their hard-earned ground. 
 
 So the fifth Henry fought at Azincour, 
 
 And led his followers to the breach once more. 
 
SONNETS. 113 
 
 II. 
 
 THE VIOLONCELLO. 
 
 Larger and more matured, deeper in thought 
 
 Slower in speech and of a graver tone, 
 
 His ardour softened as if years had wrought 
 
 Wise moods upon him, living all alone, 
 
 A calm and philosophic eremite ; 
 
 Yet at some feeling of remembered things, 
 
 Or passion smothered, but not purged quite. 
 
 Hark ! what a depth of sorrow in those strings 
 
 See, what a storm growls in his angry breast ! 
 
 Yet list again — his voice no longer moans, 
 
 The storm hath spent its rage and is at rest ; 
 
 Strong, self-possessed the Violoncello's tones. 
 
 But yet too oft like Hamlet seem to me 
 
 A high soul struggling with its destiny. 
 
114 SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE OBOE. 
 
 Now come with me beside the sedgy brook, 
 
 Far in the fields, away from crowded street ; 
 
 Into the flowing water let us look, 
 
 While o'er our heads the whispering elm-trees meet. 
 
 There will we listen to a simple tale 
 
 Of fireside pleasures and of shepherds' loves. 
 
 A reedy voice sweet as the nightingale, 
 
 As tender as the cooing of the doves, 
 
 Shall sing of Corydon and Amaryllis ; 
 
 The grasshopper shall chirp, the bee shall hum, 
 
 The stream shall murmur to the waterlilies, 
 
 And all the sounds of summer-noon shall come, 
 
 And mingling in the Oboe's pastoral tone. 
 
 Make thee forget that man did ever sigh and moan. 
 
SONNETS. 115 
 
 IV. 
 
 ^ TRUMPETS AND TUOMBONES. 
 
 A BAND of martial riders next I hear, 
 Whose sharp brass voices cut and rend the air. 
 The shepherd's tale is mute, and now the ear 
 Is filled with a wilder clang than it can bear ; 
 Those arrowy trumpet notes so short and bright, 
 The long-drawn wailing of that loud Trombone, 
 Tell of the bloody and tumultuous fight, 
 The march of victory and the dying groan ; 
 O'er the green fields the serried squadrons pour. 
 Killing and burning like the bolts of heaven ; 
 The sweetest flowers with cannon-smoke and gore 
 Are all profaned, and Innocence is driven 
 Forth from her cottages and woody streams, 
 While over all, red Battle fiercely gleams. 
 
; '^ So o £ -^ 
 
 , s 
 
 116 SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE HOUNS. 
 
 But who are these, far in the leafy wood, 
 
 Murmuring such mellow, hesitating notes, 
 
 It seems the very breath of solitude. 
 
 Loading with dewy balm each breeze that floats 1 
 
 They are a peasant group, I know them well, 
 
 The diffident, conscious Horns, whose muffled speech 
 
 But half expresses what their souls would tell. 
 
 Aiming at strains their skill can never reach ; 
 
 An untaught rustic band ; and yet how sweet 
 
 And soothing comes their music o'er the soul. 
 
 Dear Poets of the forest, who would meet 
 
 Your melodies save where wild waters roll? 
 
 Reminding us of Him who by his plough 
 
 Walked with a laurel-wreath upon his brow ! 
 
 1843. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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