LIBRARY OF COKGRKSS. ^UNITED STATES OF AMKRICA. 1 ^u'^ V POEMS BY BURR GRISWOLD HOSMER. RIVERSIDE PRESS: CAMBRIDGE. 1868. . ■?3 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by Burr G. Hosmer, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. CONTENTS. EARLY POEMS. The Magic of a Voice i A Farewell 7 Ambition-fever lo An Epigram 14 Seventeen Years Old 15 A Child's Thought of Death ... 18 By Request 20 The Court of Death 23 In an Album 28 Under a Cloud 31 Lake Leman 33 SECOND PERIOD. Unison 37 The Warrior and his Child .... 39 IV CONTENTS. To Mary, who is Blind .... 41 To A Mother 47 To THE Same 50 Good-bye to Germany 52 At Ve\ ay 53 Peace in America 55 Destiny 59 Schiller 61 The Fear of Truth ..... 63 Guidance 68 Yearning 69 A Travelling Patriot 71 The Poet of Sentiment .... 72 Melancholy 76 Consolation 78 Woman's Secret 80 To Bertha 85 An Invocation 87 An Ode of Human Life .... 89 CONTENTS. V THIRD PERIOD. Utterance loi The First Gray Hair .... 104 Schiller and Goethe 106 Elizabeth Browning and Italy . . . m To ANY Friend 113 First and Last 114 Roman Sonnets u^ The Life-secret 123 Blest 126 Pride 127 Rescue from Sleep 128 Mistaken 129 The Poet's Mission 137 Divorce in Marriage . . . . • 139 Resolved 141 Counsel and Cheer 144 A Remembrancer 147 Child-love 149 VI CONTENTS. To A Critic 152 Love 155 TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. Prometheus 159 The Divine 163 My Goddess 167 EARLY POEMS, THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. I. 'ITT'EARIED and sickened by incessant din, By furrowed faces and the hurrying tramp Of avarice, I sought repose afar From the dense-crowded city thoroughfares, — A brief and precious season of deliverance To rest awhile in some sweet village, that Freedom from care, like a cool wave, should wash From off the arid surface of my heart Lines deeply traced by sufferance and toil. 2 THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. II. There, as the sun was sinking to the verge And growing shadows lengthened o'er the road, The echoing music of the silver bell Drew me compliant to the house of prayer. But when the hymn the pious rustics sang Began to hush the tumult in my soul, Far up above the throng of duller tones Rose one keen strain of wildering melody. That soon exchanged the new-found peace within For anarchy and war. The organ's pomp, The practiced choir, I oft have heard, but they Were rude and earthy in comparison With the upsoaring of this simple voice. Relentless time will slowly petrify The impulses of youth. Nor time, nor age. Nor chill indifference ever can efface That image of ideal loveliness THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 3 Not seen with eye, but by the ear beheld. 'Twas not the voice, although so glorious, Not it alone which thus enchanted me. But as the pilgrim, underneath that sky Which in its mournful beauty gazes down Upon the tomb of grandeur and of worth, From prostrate shaft and fallen capital Erects a temple, and, enraptured, views The victor's laurel and triumphal car j So I from part a lovely whole devised,. By restless fancy unresisting led. III. It was behind me, 'neath a pillar's shade ; The bird was hidden from my peering eyes Forth from whose throat the song delicious poured. The service ended, ere my hasty steps Had reached the place, the warbler rare had flown j 4 THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. Yet crystal sound still lingered in my ears. 'Twas soft and fresh, and told of rosy youth ; 'Twas rich and full, betraying woman's charms — Between the bud and the expanded flower. 'Twas sweetly clear, and told of firm resolve Attempered with a gentle reticence. Emotion, warmth, and self-oblivion Marked rise and fall and every varying note — Sure prophets of a true and tender heart. Affection's home, love's chosen resting-place. Love still unborn, yet ere its birth complete, Made every accent a melodious prayer By guileless lips to listening angels raised. Youth, beauty, love, and purity divine, A perfect whole, from fault and frailty free ! IV. At length descends wild Fancy from her flight, And dark-browed Reason meets her with a frown. THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 5 An idle dream which mocks and baffles hope, Eluding chase, engendering despair, Wise Reason calls it ; but a spirit-friend Knit to my heart in holy sympathy, Bids me preserve, deep-framed in mystery. Among the portraits hung on Memory's walls, This sketch, so delicately fanciful : Yet not pursue, lest near approach reveal A siren song, a worse than empty sound. V. The wretch distressed by hardship and by want, On scanty straw his wasted limbs extends ; While fierce desires create deceptive dreams. And ghostly joys beguile the cheerless night. Like him, am I by fair illusion blest. And shun that light which would divulge the truth. 6 THE MAGIC OF A VOICE. 'Tis good to nourish an ideal love, Howe'er conceived the cherished object be ; So do I pray that fate may not dispel The fancied charm, the fond remembrance, Which close infolds the Magic of this Voice. A FAREWELL. npmS bitter life is waning fast, A short but heavy sigh; Each opening day may be my last, I pine, and droop, and die. I had my hopes, but hope has flown, Desires, but they have fled; Ambition with my growth has grown. But dies ere I am dead. My brow has burned with fiery thought, Or swelled with conscious power ; The thorns I would have bravely fought. And must have gained the flower. A FAREWELL. I oft have felt a real distress At tales of fancied woe. Admired iinseen loveliness. And fought an empty foe. Give me but life, and from this pen Should flow a living stream, To make the old man young agam. To act, and love, and dream. Soothed is my temple's restless throb. And calm my blood's wild flow; Desires become a fretful sob — Spring flowers chilled with snow. The rising sun brought in the day. And painted bright the sky, But darkness drove the light away ; 'Tis mom, yet eve is nigh> A FAREWELL. Reward that I shall never see, And hope, a long adieu ; You have been everything to me, And I am naught to you ! AMBITION-FEVER. T) RIGHT shines the sun, and blooming Na- ture smiles, But not for me. Content with humble lot The crowd exists and labors carelessly; But a fixt aim turned toward the upper air Which it attains not, breeds uncertainty And anguish much too fierce to be described. Through hideous transformation, genial warmth Becomes a parching heat ; soft, fanning winds Pierce like the blasts sent straight from icy pole, And tasks which duty sets are loathsome things. Even the man who speaks with friendly tone Is put aside, since at a glance I know That he and I can never sympathize. AMBITION-FE VER. 1 1 Had Nature formed me with a niggard hand, Without some boon which else she freely gives, Made mine eyes sightless or my limbs de- formed j Did sickness rack me with a thousand throes ; Did want afflict, or envious fortune strew My course with clogs while neighboring paths were clear, Men then would pity, charity o'erflow. Though spared from these, a solitary pain, Unfelt by others, agonizes me — Ambition without power, a strong will Which always searching, foot-sore, finds no way. The Providence who rules this pendant earth And moulds all creatures in their proper sphere, Fits each unto its fellow and to all, Has stumbled ; or, with wanton cruelty, Bestowed desire, ability withheld. 12 AMBITION-FEVER. By day and night this wish oppresses me, So rapt it overwhelms all other thoughts, — For greatness. Not a common name that lives, Then dimmer grows, then hides in musty tomes AVherefrom none care to brush the cobwebs off. But for enduring life, so high a throne Scarce one has sat upon, an eminence From which sweet soul-lit words should fly To fill dark hearts with holy radiance. Ambition ! man without thy torch were blind : A milder flame I should have fondly blest ; But such a wild and lurid blaze I curse With bitter curses. Leading madly on, Granting no respite ; by its awful spell Enchanting still, while faint from weariness I fall, and gaze with thirst unspeakable Upon the glistening rills its rays have shown AMBITION-FE VER. 1 3 Far, far beyond. Ah, for the vanished days When boyhood dreamt in innocence, without This terrible awakening from sleep, This dreary sense of utter worthlessness ! A seer within forebodes an early death. I'd shudder not if I could be convinced There were no future state; for oftentimes, In spite of hope's angelic flash, I think A painless, passionless oblivion Far better than this life of scalding tears. AN EPIGRAM. Speak no evil — of the dead. 1 j^ROM gentleness and kindness was this saying born, A noble sound to still reproachful cries, To ease the aching of a widowed heart forlorn, To drive away the swarm of carrion flies. Yet there 's a maxim truer, broader far than this; One that protects the living and the dead. The first three words more fully span the wide abyss ; The last three had been better left unsaid. SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. 'nr^HE stages of our life, old Shakespeare writes, are seven ; And yet, methinks, are only three, To us as universal heirloom given : Three grades of being therefore unto me, Who, if I live, by turns must be Each of these three. Youth is the first, then Manhood, fading Age the last; Thus man gains strength, thus spends it, thus decays. To-day methinks sweet Youth, life's happiest third, is past ; 1 6 SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. To-morrow leads me forth in Manhood's ways ; And then a pillar must I raise For future days. 'Tis but a fancy, for I still am young and wild. Yet speaks a voice : " To-day is a brief space 'Twixt joining states. But yesterday thou wert a child ; Neither to-day, or both ; soon, for time speeds apace, Thou shalt, a man with man's stern face. Run Manhood's race." And O, were dreams accomplished, wishes not in vain. When to these years I add an equal sum, — If so I may, some noble good, some glorious gain SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. 17 Should mark my name ; and then, when death shall come, Not even in the silent tomb Shall I be dumb. A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF DEATH. 'nr^ HEY tell me that our life must have an end. My parents and my teachers say, that all Must at the last restore their breath to God, — That God who gave it. And, if all, then I Must also die ; then I that speak, and laugh. And run, and feel the gentlest joys and pains With such a quick sensation, shall in death Speak, laugh, and run no more — shall feel no more — Shall be a stone, a clod of earth. How strange ! How terrible ! And yet why all ? Men know The past, and from the past they guess, not know A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF DEATH. 19 The future. All, ere many years, have died — Therefore all must. Perhaps the reasoning's false. I act and live : I should not deem it strange Could I, in spite of sage experience, Forever act and live ; longer at least Than other men. Not half so strange 'twould seem As this, that every night descends upon A host of human forms from whom the souls Are destined to depart before the morn: Leaving their friends, their homes, — forgetting love, And bidding hope farewell. O how I fear This dark, cold monster Death! So strangely cold. Inspiring such pervading fear, that I Will ever flee and artfully avoid ; And if at all, it shall be long before He seizes me, before I too must die. BY REQUEST. "^7*011 ask me to resume my pen, This pen awhile disused, Entreating with a voice and glance Which cannot be refused. If no high Muse at prayer of mine Will deign to smile from heaven, The humble gift that I possess To thee is freely given. For there is no more willing slave In earth or climes above, Than Poesy, when she performs The services of love. I write no eulogy, for that If false would be a curse : BY REQUEST. 21 If true 'twould be but flattery, To deck my smirking verse. A few plain lines are ample space My wishes to express, Wishing for thee fresh life-long health And life-long happiness. Then mayst thou live as some have lived, While many more have failed, That life on earth accounted dull, In heaven happiest hailed j Glide calmly down the rushing tide Apart from storm and wave. Never resigning saving peace For change which cannot save. Yet though removed from worldly war Where passions rage and boil. Not mossing o'er with sluggish ease. But bright with gladsome toil. 22 BY REQUEST. Thy gentle duties well performed, Mayst thou reward obtain In rich amends made to the heart For labor of the brain : That, cheered and cheering, thou mayst draw Unshrinking toward the close. Bounding with joy a human life Exempt from human woes. THE COURT OF DEATH. A Painting by Rembrandt Peale. 1\ /r USING I stand before the painted poem, And learn its various lesson. In a cave "Where rocky sides exclude the glaring sun, King Death sits throned, whose kingdom is the world. A sable robe shrouds his mysterious form : His arm is lifted in command ; his foot Rests on a corpse ; his face is sternly just. The corpse is stretched across a ledge of rock ; Its head and feet touch the Lethean pool. There lately was a young and stalwart life, But it has fled at the decree of Him Against whom weak and strong alike are weak. 24 THE COURT OF DEATH. Around the monarch are his ministers : Of these some work by violence ; the rest In busy quiet strew the mortal seed. ' First strides the giant form of cruel War, In helmet, shield, and dripping sword arrayed ; Behind him dies the warrior ; beneath Widow and orphan lie in helplessness. Beside War, Conflagration rushes on — His guide and servant. And the lurid light Flung from her torches strikes upon the ground, And on Mars' shield, and on the widow's hair. And on the sombre cavern walls beyond. Thus Fire and Sword advance, and in their train Rank Pestilence and shrivelled Famine come. Unlike these monsters is the glowing form Of winsome Pleasure with her rippling hair. Who kneels close to the royal throne, and dips THE COURT OF DEATH. 25 The maddening wine from out her brimming vase. Her incense rising veils the face of Death ; So that all men who love excess or ease Descry him not, though he is very near. With emptied cup the fated victim stands, His virtue yielding to the mighty charm. Sadly we mark the flight of temperance. And trace his drama to its tragic end. There bends Remorse in speechless agony ; With brain on fire, prostrate Delirium writhes ; Then rash Self-murder draws the dagger forth. And falls, awaited by that cunning fiend Who will not loose his clutch forevermore. Here congregate the shapes of foul disease. Death's most destructive agents. Hopelessly Consumption droops ; flushed Fever tossing lies ; 26 THE COURT OF DEATH. Gout vainly totters toward the distant light ; Dismally crouches grim Despondency; While Apoplexy, struck with sudden shock, And bloated Dropsy, close the horrid list. Thence turn we now our shuddering sight to view The calm old man who nears his endless rest: Upheld by Faith, he gladly welcomes Death. Faith gazes upward with her angel eyes. In sad submission. Through his love for her And by her love, the patriarch is saved. His earthly mantle falls to earth. He feels A perfect joy before that awful throne. Death keeps the keys of Heaven, but God alone Rejects or grants ; and He is ever just. That well the old man knows, and this he knows : • THE COURT OF DEATH. 27 Justice is mercy to the pure, for they Are cleansed from sin, and wait their sure re- ward. IN AN ALBUM. 1 j^EW souls pass solitary through our life : For God has wrought a chain of sym- pathy Which binds us gently in its golden links, And draws us each to each, that we may help And cheer each other in this twilight world. But nothing here is firm : those who loved once, Love now no more ; or if the lapse of time Has left their hearts unchanged, an austere Fate Has stretched broad plains or rolled dark seas between ; Or, sadder yet, the hand of Death has seized IN AN ALBUM. 29 A friendly soul, who, as a parting gift. Bequeathed his memory to us. Even they Who side by side stroll down life's narrowing vales, Tenderly treasure yon remembered scenes Which, when enjoyed, were not so fair as now The old man's fancy paints them. Thus the clouds Terraced on high above the sunken sun. Tinged by its light, are lovelier than was The sun itself in noonday majesty. For Time and Change are ceaseless workers, who From rough blocks of the present, ever build The shining temples of the mystic past. In twenty years — should you be spared so long — From some old trunk perchance, or dusty shelf. 30 IN AN ALBUM. You will bring forth this book and leisurely Review its pages. Many names will be Scarcely remembered. You may sigh to read The vows of never-dying friendship, that Will then have been discarded and transgressed. Some who write here will be in distant lands. Some will be dead. If two or three remain Whose altered faces are familiar still, Perhaps 'twill start a silent tear to think How busy change has been these twenty years. A time-stained letter, or a lock of hair, Or some such trivial thing, can oftentimes Bring back the flying hours. So shall this book Have power, though faintly, to recall the rich Warm glow of early days ; and those kind eyes Which beamed so brightly twenty years ago. UNDER A CLOUD. IV /r ANY brave men whose hands have done no crime, Imprisoned by some tyrant conqueror, Have pined long years in dismal dungeon-cells, And looked through narrow windows at the world. You are a prisoner, and so am I : A cruel captor holds us fast, who by The arts of his infernal witchcraft makes The wide earth seem a hateful prison-house. But, though the radiance from without be dimmed, There is a light within entirely ours. 32 UNDER A CLOUD. The heart can never cease to feel, till it Has wholly ceased to beat. Thus you and I, Thrown here together for a little while, Have met as strangers, and we part as friends. O, that when next we meet, — if meet we shall, — It may not be beneath a dungeon's roof. But under the free sky where we can speak Of those dark days that are forever gone ! Now let my heart whisper to yours, two words : The first is Hope ! the second is. Farewell ! LAKE LEMAN. T LOVE thee well when thou to heaven re- turnest The dancing glitter of the glad sunlight ; But, since this life is all so grave and earnest, I love thee better in the solemn night When moon and stars above are calmly shin- ing, And spirit-like the mountains stand around ; While the waves sleep, or gently wash their lining, Then voices speak, but voices with no sound. 3 34 LAKE LEMAN. They speak strong words of conscience and of duty, That hold me moveless in their mighty spell. They speak grand words of wisdom and of beauty ; But what the voices say, I cannot tell. SECOND PERIOD. UNISON. /^~^ WOE and joy, that mingled form our lot; And that men feel but do not understand : That sway our fortune with mysterious hand Through all the ages, and in every spot ! Now, in the kind embrace of friend or wife. The earth seems but a paradise of love, Until a blow falls on us from above And casts us down from ecstasy to life. Now, sorely wearied of this bitter strife. We drooping sink, and have no strength to rise. 38 UNISON, Till some fresh impulse checks our languid sighs, And lifts us up from hopelessness to life. While coming creeds departing creeds destroy, To cheer and sadden us two truths we know : There is no joy which is not mixed with woe ; There is no woe which is not blent with joy. For bliss lasts but an instant at the best, And anguish never without balm is found ; And so, in light and shade alike enwound, We struggle forward to the final rest. THE WARRIOR AND HIS CHILD. A Painthig by Theodor Hildebrand. /^^'ER blood-moist sod the warrior rides, Through air all dense and dim ; Life shows, of its unnumbered sides. The sternest unto him. But now, far from such scenes removed, He clasps his gentle child ; His brow, severe and battle-proved. Grows gayly, childly mild. What sect before the infant's face — A cherub-face on earth — Shall dare assert the human race Is evil from its birth ? 40 THE WARRIOR AND HIS CHILH. And what those baby-features show, Shows too the father's mien : That in all men the spirit's flow Is always to be seen. Many like him, by chance or art. Or fate, or toil, or sin, Have made a dungeon of their heart, And chained their soul within. But in that dungeon's deepest cell Burns love, a quenchless light. Which often bursts its hated spell To make the whole world bright. And throughout life, attack and scorn, Secure, it shall defy ; For Love, with Life together born, Can never separate die. M TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. EED which the soul of one can lay at the feet of another, — Wishes, and prayers, and hopes, faith and affection are thine. Yet I shrink to express these feelings in words, from misgiving That, though sensation is fresh, speech will be vapid and stale. Often already this chord has been struck, and most who now strike it Tamely reecho old tones, ringing from out of the past. 42 TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. Lips of saints and of eloquent men, and the actions of heroes Chant a chorus subHme down through the aisles of the years — Chant the strain universal of mutual love and attraction, Voicing beforehand the notes I would fain utter to-day. For, though the intellect change and advance, the heart of all ages Thrills with the self-same thrill ; throbs with identical throb. Then to worthier mouths be every accent re- linquished, Which reverberates through all situations of life; While, with brotherly hand, I, soothing, touch on the sorrow That has visited thee with an exceptional lot. TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 43 Soon may this murky veil, excluding the splen- dor, be lifted ; And the science of man rescue the victim of fate ! Waiting, cherish this hope, but hoping, be still self-reliant : So shalt thou never despair, even if hope should delude. Sure of the present and past, we gently confide in the future ; But only seldom attain all that we wish , and expect. Over the plains of earth are scattered beautiful objects : Yet, more beautiful still, angels are hovering near. By the bodily sense is seen the sensual image ; Naught but ethereal glance views the ethereal form. 44 TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. Who, of yon crowds that gape at the magic- lantern of Nature, Feels that the figures denote more than they seem to portray? These are the folks forsooth with healthy and vigorous eye-sight ; Children of Fortune are they, freely surveying the world ! Ah ! a holier gift is thine than these manikins dream of — Treasure of value untold, lying concealed in the breast. Open thine inward eye to catch the countless impressions, Which, since the gate is closed, eagerly swarm through the chinks. Of the ephemeral shapes may myriads flutter unnoticed ; But of the good and the true, nothing escape from thy ken. TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. 45 For the substance of being lies always around and before thee ; Fate shall have power to cloud only the glitter and gleam. Comforting thoughts cannot always suppress that passionate longing For the water and sky, flowers, and faces of men. Whatsoever survives of unattempered affliction, Brook with unmurmuring heart and an invin- cible will : Knowing endurance ne'er fails its reward ; that firmness assuages, And that cowardice bears deadliest hatred to joy. Thou mayst find in the bible of grief, rich lessons of virtue — Jf thou hast courage to read ; if thou hast patience to learn. 46 TO MARY, WHO IS BLIND. Deeds have a magic force to seize and inspire the doer ; But the sufferer meets, sole and unaided, the shock. There is no scene so majestic, in any sphere of existence. As an enormous ill, calmly and cheerfully borne. Lo ! this glory is offered to thee, and dare thou but grasp it. Out of its depths shall arise blessings for thee and for all ; Then shall others who now, overladen with misery, falter. Grow, by gazing at thee, likewise submissive and brave. TO A MOTHER. A MAN may wander lonely toward his grave, And keep his faith, and still remain a man ; But woman's nature pines in solitude. And withers up, and loses hue and form. Happy is she, who while the heart is fresh, Has had her womanhood secured to her. She dates existence from the birth of love. And wonders how she used to pass the time ; Remembers well how sad she used to be ; And sees at last what those vague yearnings meant. 48 TO A MOTHER, When, weary of its heavy self, the soul Stretched out its arms to clasp it knew not what. Love is a deep and strong awakening — A bright unveiling of the Possible ; But if that Possible be not attained, Then naught on earth remains for which to strive. The holy seal upon a woman's hopes Is to become the wife of him she loves ; For thus the many barriers that divide Are all, all swept away, and Death alone Can step between the lover and the loved. The harvest ripens in the warmth ; new life Begins to throb ; there sits upon her lap His child and hers, and waves its tiny hands. It is her former love grown visible, TO A MOTHER, 49 To be the fuel of that calmer flame Which ever burnetii in a mother's breast. The future shall be hallowed from the past. When sorrow comes, let it be bravely borne ; For what the world can offer, thou hast known ; And what the heart can feel, thou too hast felt. Men lay their claim to higher faculties. And women seem to have a humble lot. But this loud-vaunted intellect of man Is a poor drudge, that toils through countless years To pile a gorgeous palace heavenward. And deck it out with gems of rarest art, That Peace and Joy may come and dwell therein. TO THE SAME. OHORT months ago I sought to frame thy joy In simple words, Which knew no more of threatening annoy, Than do the birds, That, fondly poising in the air above, Embathe in song the dwelling-spots they love. But while I prayed thee then to brave the ill Which time might bring, Lo ! at that moment, unannounced and still. On rapid wing. The fatal Messenger was drawing nigh. Commanding hope and happiness to die. TO THE SAME. 5 1 The deepest joy becomes the deepest woe Through sudden loss : And yet, not they whose life-streams placid flow, Without a cross, Are to be envied; but far rather they Who see the lights and shadows of the way. The ancient sun diffuses a new light After a storm ; Never before appeared so fair and bright Each well-known form. And so shalt thou, when this black cloud has passed, Enjoy a holier happiness at last. GOOD-BYE TO GERMANY. 'TT^HE panting steam-horse hurries me away, Yet, as I go, I turn a grateful gaze. And feel the pulsing of an honest praise Upon the morning of this farewell day. Still on my cheek is thy familiar breeze : I fondly linger, ever loth to part. Scarcely less dear art thou unto my heart, Than is my native home beyond the seas. My stay is done : so, too, may absence end ; And I revisit thee, fair Land of Thought, Beloved by one whom thou hast richly taught, And who regards his teacher as his friend. AT VEVAY. T ET suffering men who lack the second- sight, Which views the universal harmony Through Nature's many frowns and veils and masks — Let such come hither, that the friendly forms Of alp and lake may cheer their sombre hearts, And make them feel that which they cannot see! For those to whom each cloud is but the child Of a perennial sunlight, and to whom Order and beauty lay aside disguise, This lesson is not needed, and the scene 54 AT VEVAY. Can tell them only what they knew before : But tells it sweetly, to a willing ear ; For Death, not Wisdom, severs earthly ties. And while we live, we are not wholly free. PEACE IN AMERICA. 'TpHERE clanks a solemn music through the world Of chains that fall from many dusky limbs. There raises up its scarred and mighty head The Great Republic, radiant with toil. Our patience has received a recompense, And it is easy to be patient now. The morning of that day is come, whose course Shall see in fact what we beheld in dreams ; When what is overripe shall rot away. And kings shall perish piecemeal from their thrones, And man forget to fear his brother, man. 56 PEACE IN AMERICA. The friends of progress in the older world With earnest gaze, for four impatient years Have watched the giant-conflict from afar ; And, waiting, have rejoiced to recognize In their own kindred on that other shore, A noble league of fearless laborers. But thou, America, who settest forth The incarnation of sublime ideas, In spite of all that thou hast undergone, Thou hast not gained the fuller freedom yet. True independence comes not from without. The name of freedom stamped upon the laws. And on the household speech of governors, Is lovely; but it cannot loose the bonds Of custom, superstition, prejudice, Which check the mind in its development, And cramp the deeper feelings of the heart. PEACE IN AMERICA. 57 To reach the bliss of inner liberty Is the sole use of kings and commonwealths. When the exterior of the edifice Is finished, and the finer workmanship Of hall and chamber then alone remains, All governments, like scaffoldings, shall pass Into the lumber-room of history. The wonder-freighted Future marches on Resistless. Now this people, and now that, Is in the van. And as our planet-home Is not upheld with pillars, but is borne By unseen forces onward ; so our fate Rests not on human shoulders, but revolves Obedient to a grand necessity. Wisest philosopher who ever taught, Divinest poet who ever gladdened life, 58 PEACE IN AMERICA. Sinks into feebleness, when he attempts To tell the secrets of futurity. Yet even we can pierce a little way Into the cloud, and view enough to make Our spirits sad with calm delight, at what Our children's children will not live to see, 'Tis but a trifle which we can foreknow; Still, as a solace for our ignorance, We may build up our castles in the air. And build them ever trustingly, because In the vast circuit of the centuries, The Possible and Actual are one. DESTINY. "T^ROM out of Nature's fullness rises man; And all her forces are resummed in him. He is the offspring of the elements ; And not a creature moves that is not bound By ties of close relationship to him. The sunlight is reflected in his heart ; The passing rain-cloud casts a shadow there; And all the pulses of the universe Find there at last their truest, fullest throb. Man's happiness lies in this harmony — In the surrender of himself to all, And in receiving charity from all. 6o DESTINY. He draws his joys from many a generous source, Whilst he obeys the omnipresent Law, And lives in love, in justice, and in use. He cannot be a hermit if he will ; And if, through guilt or ignorance he break A single one of those unnumbered strands Which hold him to the common centre, he Must make atonement to the very Law Whose iron rectitude he violates. So from mysterious regions unto me. The river glides upon whose brink I dwell. It is the river of my destiny : For in its gentle motion I rejoice ; And in its purity, myself am pure. But tremble at each troubling of the stream. And when it ceases flowing, I must die. SCHILLER. QEARCHING adown the history of man, I find a rising, self-perfecting soul, And restless thoughts and deeds that on- ward roll, And, underneath, a never-changing plan. Removed apart, beyond the deafening din, The poets encourage and inspire the rest; Giving to those who comprehend them best, Pity for weakness and contempt for sin. Even among these forms so high and pure, For me this form stands separate and alone ; 62 \S CHILLER. And speaks to me in sweeter, clearer tone With more of power to comfort and to cure. Others surpass in knowledge of the heart, In deep world-wisdom, and in subtle wit ; This man unveils, in all that he has writ, A stainless nature linked to blameless art. Through doubt and trust I travel ; here I find A poet gifted with the holy fire ; With all broad love, with every pure desire, And with an angel soul and giant mind. THE FEAR OF TRUTH. '' I ^HERE is, for almost every man that breathes, The soUtary aim of happiness ; And if he do not think to find it here, He seeks it in a Kfe beyond the death. His hopes and fears have made him circum- spect, But hinder him from being truly good ; Since goodness, self-regardless, does the right, And never stoops to calculate results. A mystic proverb has come down to him That what he chases never can be caught But waits for such as are not covetous. 64 THE FEAR OF TRUTH. Yet still he hunts, for though he blindly trusts In many fictions of his fantasy, He has no courage for the larger faith. Which, born of wisdom, compasses the world. Under those blows which cannot be escaped Whoso has learned to suffer, suffers least ; But he who fears to suffer, adds his fear To the full weight of other suffering. And yet we curse ourselves with cowardice, — Whether avoiding an unwelcome truth, Or giving ear to an agreeable lie. A mother, comforted in widowhood By boyish talk and merry, careless eyes, Watches with breathlessness the ripening man ; And, as his voice grows deeper, hears again The father's tones in fresher melody. THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 65 Meanwhile come friends to her with serious mien, Telling grave tales of worse than levity, And bidding her exert her gentle sway To mould his passions, ere it be too late. And she is startled at each new report ; But, at the sight of that fair, open face, Forgets her fears, and cannot even doubt ; And lets him rule her, as he always did — Until the fatal stroke falls suddenly; And she lies crushed beneath an infamy. That has been fostered by her over-love. A dreamer, not suspecting that he dreams. Surrounds himself with phantom images. Transmitted downward from his ancestors. But burnished and recolored by himself He peoples the celestial depths with forms Created from analogies of earth — 5 66 THE FEAR OF TRUTH. A God, controlling like a mortal king ; Angels in human bodies, glorified ; Places of chastisement and recompense, And other copies of our daily life. In this, his phantom-world, he finds support, Though feeble and oft failing to his needs. Clinging to this, in fear to follow thought On its dim journey through the distant wilds, He rises never to that calm remove From whence philosophy surveys the creeds. Let us repose in Nature's unity, Where Truth and Gladness stand in brother- hood ; Where, like the earth, our destinies advance : Like it, not lost, although no trail is left Upon the space through which it wanders on ! O sacred Truth, receive us unto Thee, That we may lose in Thee our puny wills, THE FEAR OF TRUTH. 67 And know no other hopes and fears than Thine ! Then, while we Hve, it is a hero's life ; And when we fall, it is a martyr's death. o GUIDANCE. UR will is free ; our strength is bound : And it is well, If we but can endure the sound Of the deep knell Of sentiments which pass into their grave, And which no loving vigilance could save. Unto the conscience and the brain Of every man. Are joined the labor and the pain, Forming the plan Which checks his straying, like a watchful friend. And guides him firmly to his journey's end. YEARNING. T T 7E all desire To do the right; We all aspire To reach the light Our senses fill In sacred hours With the sweet will Of higher powers. I hear the call, But do not stir; Though fain to fall A worshipper. 7© YEARNING, I hear the song But cannot speak; For life is strong, And I, — how weak ! A TRAVELLING PATRIOT. '\/'0U love your native country truly With even passion-heat ; While spurning other lands unduly Where'er you set your feet A patriot so very zealous Turns virtue into vice ; You surely are a little jealous, To be thus overnice. Whoever seeks the truth and beauty Which lie on every hand, Will never waver in his duty Toward his native land. THE POET OF SENTIMENT. 'T^HE artist holds a trust Of priceless worth ; To save it from the dust Of common earth. But clouds of hostile fate Obscure the goal, And many snares await The poet-soul. His heart of gentle beat Is lured astray By all things fair and sweet That fringe the way. THE POET OF SENTIMENT 73 His mind of lofty build Reveals the taint * Of being too self-willed To bear restraint. Whene'er the poet-soul Meets pain or wrong, He struggles to control Himself with song. His fellow-creatures steal Joy from his pang; Heedless that he must feel The grief he sang. We love his tuneful flow Of rhythmic speech ; Still, what we yearn to know. He cannot teach. 74 THE POET OF SENTIMENT. O poet, cease thy cries Of passive pain ; And, in thy might, arise And rend thy chain ! Instead of vain lament Exhausting youth, Let thy rich Hfe be spent In serving truth. Then shall thy verse forsake Its plaintive chime. And rapturous awake To strains sublime. O'er age, when youth is done, No dark regrets ; But radiance from a sun That never sets. THE POET OF SENTIMENT 75 There shall be less distress Than heretofore, When men make poetry less. And live it more. MELANCHOLY. /^~\ SEA, that liest there so smilingly, Thy beauty cannot cheer me, but be- guiles To drown my sorrows evermore in thee. A single plunge into thy friendly blue, A single struggle for farewell, and then A spirit all-familiar with despair Would rest at last, whelmed in a dreamless sleep. As thou, O Sea, in hours of peacefulness, Reflectest back the glories of the sky By day and night ; so, too, upon my soul Were imaged in the former time, the joy MELANCHOL Y. 77 And harmony that overshadowed it. But as thy mirror shivered by the wind Loses its virtue, and we vainly search Amid the waxing chaos of the waves For tossing stars or bits of broken cloud ; So now my soul has lost its tranquilness, And represents a black and shattered sea, With here and there a flake of light upon it. CONSOLATION. '' I ^HERE is a pang that makes us shriek with pain ; There is a weight that presses out our lives ; And, O, there is despair, exceeding both ! While I am sitting statue-like in grief, Up through the window floats the merry shout Of children, and the busy hum of men. Our aches are ours, and the world goes on As once it did before our birth, and as It soon shall do when we have passed away. Each one of us is but a speck upon This speck of earth, and round him flame the stars. Exhaustless in its possibilities, CONSOLA TION. 79 The universe takes little note of him, And of his needs, his wishes, and his groans ; But moves forever on its stately course. When the sad heart grows large enough to feel The grandeur of the mansion where it dwells, It shall be shamed of its complaints, and made Far happier in its insignificance Than ever it has been in shadowy pride. For all the rapture which the longing soul Has whispered to itself in dreamful hours. Lies treasured up in endless space and time. WOMAN'S SECRET. T T is easier to explain Where man's excellences lie — In his mightiness of brain ; In the energies that reign From the palace of his eye. Woman, looking up to him With a conscious self-distrust, Loves to think that his *Thou must,' Though it be the merest whim. Is a purpose wise and just. She does not quite understand Why the master turns aside, At the beckoning of her hand, WOMAN'S SECRET. 8 1 From the idols of his pride — From his forays far and wide ; Asks herself what power is hers, Which can vanquish vanquishers. Or, at seasons, growing vain. Counts as her most precious gain, Not the soft, mysterious charm Gushing from a hidden source. But some share of ruder force, Competent for working harm. Man, in arrogance of lore, Wearisomely fabricates Inventories of her traits ; But, if haply begged for more, Piteously hesitates. As in all things, so in this, Is an essence which evades ; 6 82 WOMAN'S SECRET. Which we grasp at but to miss, Which, receding, slowly fades. If we may not clearly find What we seek with sober mind. Specially must we resign Hopes of comprehending these Beings, whom we intertwine With our joys and miseries — Objects of our fondest wish. Half ourselves, and half-divine, Or, at times, half-devilish. Never can we analyze. Where we warmly sympathize. Let us call her to our aid. And beseech her to reveal Treasures, she abashed, afraid, Seems to carefully conceal. Then expectantly we wait At her spirit's inner gate. WOMAN'S SECRET. 83 Yet, while there we stand and knock, Through the lattices we see That the hand which holds the key, Is too weak to turn the lock. She, reluctant, must confess That, if man but little knows, She is speechless to disclose ; Or indeed knows even less Of the cause, which round her throws Such a loveliness. So o'erhead the starry belt Gives that thought of high repose, We more brokenly express. The more truly it is felt In its endlessness. Deep and tender woman-heart, None has ever fathomed thee ; 84 WOMAN'S SECRET. Veiled in secrecy thou art — An inseparable part Of immensity ! TO BERTHA. 'T^HOU art a creature meant for happiness and love ; Almost too delicately framed for human life With its sublime and difficult necessities. Of late a dark unrest is brooding over thee ; Vainly the future calls aloud with wondrous words, Which only seem to echo hopes now forfeited. Despair not yet ! There never was a loyal soul, With modest bravery for doing noble acts — Not one, that had not suffered such an ordeal. Grief is the crown of education : it alone Can give an angel touch to mortal waywardness. S6 TO BERTHA. Become more firm and patient ! Then affliction shall Be like a grim and solemn gate way, that con- ducts From out the sultry sunshine of the dusty road, Into a spacious garden's fragrant shadiness. AN INVOCATION. 'T^HE gleam of water has a weird control Over that undiscovered gnome, who lurks Within the secret caverns of my soul, And there accomplishes his hidden works. Ye heights, steep-shelving to the water's edge. Ye hoary-crested Alps, magnificent, Thou blue, blue lake, I crave a lasting pledge Which shall remind of faery hours here spent. I cast myself before thee, beauteous lake, And watch thy ripples plashing near my feet ; Almost can their unsullied coolness slake The inward thirst, — the buried, inward heat. SS AN INVOCATION. Here at thy marge, I offer up this prayer: May I grow stronger in the power to see, Through every change of fortune, everywhere, The glory which I now behold in thee. AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. I. T N the hush of a midsummer night, I sit at the window, and gaze Out into the gloom-shrouded green Of the trees standing spectral and dumb ; And up at the glittering stars. Strewn thick in the fathomless sky. And I hear the low rush Of a streamlet, that speeds To be whelmed in the lake. II. Sensation is wafted to me With the sheen of those marvelous stars ; With the gurgling dash of the brook ; 90 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. With the breath of the midsummer wind That flutters the dew-laden leaves. As bright as the stars ; As fresh as the brook ; As soft as the breeze, Are the spirit-pulsations that come, And, doffing their steel-plated mail — The armor of logical thought, Which encased and encumbered them long They cosily nestle to rest, Content, after roaming forlorn, At last to find welcoming love, And a home in the bosom of man. III. Mankind is the perfectest fruit Attained by his planet, the earth ; Where the gradual, measureless might Of aeons, has wrestled and wrought. AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 9^ He is joined of two halves : The one is of self, Which tinctures the whole, But is ever shut out From all aid but its own. The other is part Of the world where he dwells ; And rivets the twinge Of his woe and his bliss. To the fate-fettered fate, Its primitive fount. IV. I am one with my brothers, the trees ; I am one with my sister, the brook : One with them, but greater than they; One with them, yet king of them all. This streamlet that skips With musical gush 92 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. Toward its grave in the lake, Is the type of my soul, Which is soon to be merged In the infinite soul — In the soul of the world. V. The rivers roll on to the sea, And the summer and winter go round. Mankind is composed Of atom-like grains, That diverge, reunite, And, perishing, turn Renewed and refreshed. To do their brief work ; Then to perish again. The ages glide by, and are wreathed In the glimmering haze of the past ; The rivers still roll to the sea. And the seasons go sound as of yore. AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 93 VI. The Universe, mother of all, Would gather us closely to her. We read a dark light in her eyes ; And, trembling, try to escape. Thence arises the war Between better and worse In every breast: A feud that begins With the earliest lisp, Nor ever deserts The tottering step, Foreheralding death. VII. One often may utter a word That shall flash to a hesitant friend Divine inspirations of hope. Commingled with grateful surprise. 94 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. But the battles are still to be fought In the secret — each man with himself. From this strife are evolved All science and art; All religion and thought — The triumphal ascent To a nobler than we, Whose germ we contain ; Who shall rule in our stead. VIII. If yonder, 'mid luminous realms That glisten far out in the night, And thrill us with rapturous thoughts Which naught but the boundless can give If there, living creatures abide, They may not approach us to help. Nor may they receive us to them. They are girt by like ties with ourselves. AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 95 And march upon similar paths. It cannot be otherwise ; since The particles only are changed ; The circling frame is complete. And distance and space are annulled By Nature's omnipotent sway. IX. O man, the sole being I know, Where discords in harmony blend ; Mayst thou burn with a holy unrest To mount through a limitless scale ; Preferring blind mazes of doubt To complacency, Eden of brutes ! And seek as the ancients have sought, At the eve of philosophy's birth \ When the brawl of the dissolute gods Their elders obeyed and adored, Crashed harsh on the ears of the youth. 96 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. From brave ancestors, we Inherit a sword. We busily con Its workmanship rare ; Professors expound The laws of its use ; Yet none, save the hero. Can wield it aright. X. At this moment how abject appears The care for a pigmy repose ! How easy it seems, to endure Earth's transient and vapory ills; Contributing gladly one's mite To the vista of beckoning years ! There is truce in my breast Between truculent foes. I move at the mandate Of conscience, — the grand AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. 97 Centripetal force That draws to the point, Around which our life, In its glory, revolves. My self-hood sinks dwindling down — Drags with him his progeny, fear : I trip on a silvery thread Athwart the abysses of hell. XI. The darkness wears on to the dawn : I know that the morrow will come. And the midsummer sultriness drop Direct from the midsummer sun. The sleeper will yawn in his bed ; The laborer trudge to his toil. For me too the lustre shall fade. And I be distressed and perplexed By the carking vexations of noon. 7 98 AN ODE OF HUMAN LIFE. I challenge the test : Our problem is life. The visions we see, And the thoughts that we think, If they cannot assist To give vigor to action Or music to speech — To bequeath to the future Some blameless delight — They are phantasms fit To be buried unwept. THIRD PERIOD. UTTERANCE. T T OW fine is feeling, And how rough is speech ! How, through the gossamer Of reverie, The rude word bursts, And shatters it amain ! Ah, when shall language rise Above its stammering? How long shall every foremost mind Despise the word ; While, from the need Of intercourse. Still wooing it ? 102 UTTERANCE, The God within, Striving to speak With human mouth, Recoils from discord He has made. Perfect musician, he ; But base his instrument. Yet patience schools The voice at last, To sweetly hint Its birth divine. O peace-restoring Art That givest to the formless, form, And to the voiceless, voice — Mouldest deformity Into a sterner loveliness ; Even as Nature rounds UTTERANCE. 103 Her wayward shapes To symmetry! The arts receive The natural man ; And educate him, step by step, Unto the master-art — - The art of Life. Afar behind expression, hides The thing to be expressed. Deep underneath all that we do, And all we seem, Lies what we feel ; And what we feel, we are. THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. T CAUGHT her standing close before The mirror there ; And saw her wince, as she espied Her first gray hair. Her life has heretofore been dimmed By scarce a spot; As bright as life can ever be, Where love is not. No wonder, fortune mazing her With wizard wand. She half forgot that she was held In Nature's hand — THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 105 That as each labor-hour earns rest From weariness, So careless gayety stores up Its dreariness. Ah ! radiant face, still lit with youth, What means this cloud ? Or couldst thou utter, if thou wouldst, Thy thoughts aloud? SCHILLER AND GOETHE. '^ I ^WIN master-spirits of the modern time ! As they in Ufe Labored together for the truth, And now in monument Together stand on Weimar's street ; So they, in men's remembrances, Repose together. Alike and different; As, side by side, two trees Each in itself complete ; Yet with that brotherhood which cannot fail In whate'er springs from the same soil. Through the same air, Toward the same sky. SCHILLER AND GOETHE, 107 One later born and earlier dead j Departing ere the years When youthful faith and ardor yield, In retrospective calmness, A rewarding peace. Him do we love for what he was, And mourn for what he could not be. There is no dualism in his song : The poet and man are blended into one. His is the genius of great truthfulness — Too real for mere respect, Too warm for veneration. While we read him, he is with us In his own pure self. And lifts us to the level where he dwells. I gaze into his face And call him friend. lo8 SCHILLER AND GOETHE, By him this other stands, Sterner somewhat, and worldlier than he ; But with a larger wisdom. Whoso to-day neglects to learn From this man's teaching, Likewise omits to grasp The era in whose midst he breathes. The artist militant ! Who led mankind from gray philosophies And weary gropings in the chilly mist. Back to the busy, sober noontide light And opened human eyes. And bade them gaze with trust Upon the world, their home. One of those rare and royal minds Who, down across the gulfs of time, Link out a chain of progress through SCHILLER AND GOETHE, 109 Our planet's troublous history. And hence does he, as long as he remains The first of modern men, Stand out to view, the wisest of all men That were and are. But thou dear friend again, Whose footfall ceased Upon the threshold of our century ; Yet whom we daily recognize In aught of best and bravest That this earth contains : Even as a poet, Mayst thou sustain comparison with all. What though another show, perchance, A richer culture or a deeper lore t Still foldest thou all poetry in thy heart ; Since noblest poetry is nothing else no ♦ SCHILLER AND GOETHE. Than passionate devotion to the right, Seeking expression. And so they each, the teacher and the friend. Hold in my innermost a separate place — A separate place upon a common throne. ELLZABETH BROWNING AND ITALY. T TROD the galleries, where men long dead Have left their souls on canvas or in marble ; And, passing down, came by a house that bears A tablet with warm words of gratitude. Which time has not as yet allowed to cool. 'Twas here she dwelt. Twas not unmeet that she Should dwell near Raphael's pictures. He, a man With woman's tenderness, was more a man ; And she a woman, with a man's free sight, A truer woman. As it must ever be That noblest souls transcend the bounds of sex. 1 1 2 ELIZABE TH BRO PFJV/A G AND ITAL V. A fitting link between the old and new — This artist-woman's earnest, fruitful life. A hint that Florence is not all entombed With Angelo ; but that in present soil There lives, perhaps, the seed of future growth. For, though of English birth, her home was here ; Here too she wrote, and here she ceased to write. And, by the love she bore to Italy, Has Italy a lasting claim on her. Be this, O Florence, unto thee a sign ! A happy omen of thy future, since A poet's love cannot entirely err. TO ANY FRIEND. A "X ^HILE journeying each upon a separate track, Each aiming upward toward a chosen star, Your better self in me greets from afar ; My better self in you sends answer back. Although divided, are we not alone, But bounden ever to a common state ; Since part of you in me, shares in my fate, And part of me in you, shares in your own. FIRST AND LAST. I. /'^NE mountain-monarch pierced beyond all summits that surrounded him, To where, above in virgin space, mute air and sunshine bounded him. The lesser mounts, clustering around in vener- ation underneath, Were touched with awe and wonder at the rumblings of the thunder-breath They took for tokens of his wrath ; or, in their snowy bright array. Were moved with meekest gratitude at the down-flooding light of day FIRST AND LAST. 115 Which had its source and home, they thought, in his unmatched sublimity: Thus were they in their simpleness creators of infinity. Triumphant in the unapproached enjoyment of his regal pride, He towered forth with blinding splendor, rever- enced and deified. 11. Then, from the noiseless centuries that glided o'er his skyey throne. The demi-god learned by degrees how sad it is to be alone. The burthen of his majesty weighed heavier on him year by year ; A solitary future loomed before, immeasurably drear. So rose the demon Envy up, devouring every other mood. 1 1 6 FIRST AND LAST, Envy toward all the happy members of yon white-robed brotherhood Of peaks beneath, who comfort found in the supreme preeminence Of one that yearned to be with them, but stood aloof in impotence. Poured deep below in antic flow, bright brook- lets tinkled merrily ; Fresh flowers grew of blithesome hue, green valleys nestled cheerily. As though in mockery of him who reigned aloft so wearily. III. When suddenly a vivid gleam, as from a per- fect sun, is shed, And unannounced a silent voice pervades the spaces overhead : FIRST AND LAST. 1 17 ** Hearken ! for this the secret is of heaven's own tranquillity — Not to look down in haughtiness, but upward in humility." The mountain-spirit raised his glance, which, through innumerable days, Wholly concerned with lower things, he always had forgot to raise. Flashed keen on his astounded sight celestial glories near and far, And hovering groups of seraph-friends that floated on from star to star. Perceived himself in converse drawn by beings of a loftier birth. Who graciously admitted to their fold this king- liest of earth. The sovereign, changing frigid pomp for a divine tranquillity. Il8 FIRST AND LAST. Looks earthward now in tenderness, and heav- enward in humility ; And knows that not the power to rule below, but the right to serve above. Is the chief use and excellence of greatness, and grandeur's crown of love. ROMAN SONNETS. I. "13 ELIGION finds consummate voice in art ; And, as religion grows refined and clear, So likewise do the higher arts appear. Moulding by turns the plastic human heart. The Grecian sensuous beauty sought a vent In sculpture : with its death, sculpture died. Later in Italy painting supplied The void, until the ardent faith which lent Unto its handmaid,- art, the power to live. Itself expired. We moderns should not need Aught that Italian Vaticans may give ; Or, if we pine for them, it is because We linger dallying with some siren creed. And let the world roll past us while we pause. I20 ROMAN SONNETS. II. The Apollo and Laocoon remain Unmarred ; nor doth their lustre fade ; But we, ascending far beyond their aid Touch rarer regions of delight and pain. From deeper fountains our emotions rush, Forsaken are the channels free and straight ; Our life is grown too complex and too great To be portrayed by chisel or by brush. Lovers of art mark by their aim of love Their own advance. We have not the broad view Our heirs shall gain, though we are borne above Those former centuries. Pictures and statues then Were soul-sufficient ; now a poem holds true ; The future will send forth a cry for men. ROMAN SONNETS. 12 1 III. Our age, beheld sublimely, is sublime. Beneath the clatter of its trampling feet Lives an idealism too com^Dlete To have existed at an earlier time. Upon this firm foundation shall arise The finer culture of the age to come. Progress is eloquent, but Rome is dumb ; Obsolete wisdom cannot make us wise. In turning hence, let me not seem to spurn An ancient treasure's passionate behest ; I who have much, — so endless much, — to learn. Yet elsewhere seek with confidence sincere The place and labor that can teach me best. Where'er they be, 'tis sure they are not here. 122 ROMAN SONNETS. IV. Both Romes are sunk in ruin. What have T To do with ruin ? While I draw my breath I wish not to anticipate my death By letting any portion of me die. Listless I gaze on the dismantled helm Which veered the world ; listlessly notice, too, How a monastic fervor overgrew The splendors of yon half-barbaric realm. A tourists' toy-shop now, and faint stronghold Of the proud church that once made Europe's law ; Still crowned, but paralyzed, with blood run cold. Farewell O Rome ! I go where duller skies Breed hardier, trustier men, and where the raw Sharp air nips off the wanton growth of lies. THE LIFE-SECRET. XT EITHER by study At home, Nor by argument In the club, Discover we The lucent core Of everything. Tirelessly, vainly, Mankind has striven To delve to it With thought, Or plunge upon it With faith. 124 THE LIFE-SECRET. Our age is wiser : We shoulder burdens, Whose contents we ask not ; And, after the labor. Receive at each sunset. Grateful, the guerdon. This much at last We are come to know; That, not in books. Nor in cigar-smoke, Nor yet in human brain, Speaks the world-secret. That life is in living ; For all men different, Even as their blood Flows separated ; THE LIFE-SECRET. 125 Not one secret, But innumerable. Defied of the essence, Our intellects compass Only the semblances ; While the soul tingles With the arch-mystery, And carries it entire. Highest life is best living, -r- Less search, less evasion j A simpler acceptance Of merited bounty ; Joy strong for reverses, An^ sorrow awaiting Supreme consolation. BLEST. /^"^ AYLY our childhood's years, Flow on through laughter, fears, And sunlit tears. And fortunate are they Who thus, through life's long day, Are borne away. But blest alone are those That, having grieved, repose From million woes. PRIDE. O INCE only few can be Endowed with symmetry ; Since fault is unreprest, 'Twere better all the rest Should err upon the side Of an impatient pride. For pride begets intense, Robust self-confidence ; While trust is kept in pawn By modesty o'erdrawn. Conceit is oft unwise ; Mistrust doth paralyze. RESCUE FROM SLEEP. A S when an artist, poring on his work For hours and hours, loses at length the lines, Seeing them melt to mist before his eyes. And then, for vividness, perforce goes out To draw upon the well-springs of his life ; So, wanting change, our faculties grow dull, Till that great Power a part of whom we are. Watchful removes us to another scene. And thus will He not suffer happiness To lull its helpless darlings into sleep. But rescues them betimes, that discipline May animate them for a fresh delight. MISTAKEN. T NTERLAKEN ringed with mountain glories Interlaken in the tide of summer j And a graceful, gracious western maiden At my side. Her existence had been long united, Not by tie of passion nor of duty, But by softly t^vining, love-tinged friendship. To my own. Chatted we of homes beyond the ocean ; Turned to Europe ; wondered when our Her- bert- He my noble friend, and Emma's lover. Would arrive. 9 130 MISTAKEN, Then approached a servant with a letter. Emma broke it : " Herbert writes from England, And to-morrow evening at the latest, Will be here." Nothing more she told me ; read the letter, Folded it and laid it in her basket. Not a ray exultant flushed the calmness Of her mien. Much and mournfully I marveled, knowing Her mercurial, overrippling nature, Having seen her wealth of adoration For my friend. Long I marveled. Suddenly a shudder Of suspicion coldly rushed across me : Could it be Count Sigismund had blinded Her bright eyes ? MISTAKEN. 131 Had indeed that handsome, fluent worldling, With his servile courtesies and graces — Counterfeits of chivalrous refinement, Gained her love ? With the morrow came my Herbert, toilworn, Fugitive from transatlantic turmoil, Eager to inhale new inspiration Here with her. After table d''hote was dance and music ; And the Count played Beethoven superbly. His admiring hearers, thronging round him, Thanked and praised. Herbert proudly happy, watched his darling Floating sweetly, lightly through the waltzes ; Heard the murmured tributes, " charming," " lovely," As she passed. 132 MISTAKEN. I observed what Herbert did not notice, — The swift interchange of glance and whisper, 'Twixt the Count and Emma — marked the sign of Ruin near. She to be his wife, and we to lose her ? \ Yes, I see it all ! The truth wants color. And she seeks a rich, illusive, Foreign dye. The aristocrat will grant no respite : He will push his vantage. How he lightens Ardent, wily looks at the new-comer. Her betrothed ! Now she stands alone there by the window. I must try to warn her ; time is waning : Yet were one rash word against her idol Sure defeat. MISTAKEN. 133 " Emma, dear, where is your love for Herbert ? It is fled, do not deny; and with it Go the fortunes of you both. Redeem them Once for all ! " She, with ready, airy woman-logic Sighing, answered: "It is useless, Edward, To remind me I ought still to love him When I cannot." On the instant slipped the Count between us, Bowed urbanely, — thought me pale, a little, — Feared the heat and dancing might have given Me a headache. It was heartache that distressed me. Hasting From the house I sought the green expanses, Took a silent bath of dewy moonlight For relief. 134 MISTAKEN. Soon returning, not to be long absent, Saw a couple coming down the pathway. Little space for doubt and hope. It was the Count and Emma. Swerving side wise to escape attention, Heard I, as they crossed me, fiery love-speech,— French with German accent, — and she listened Rapt attentive. Brilliant eyes suffused with heart's emotion; While, unheeded, through the gorge before her, Beamed the queenlike, silvery-gleaming Jung- frau's Mute reproaches. Nothing could oppose the Austrian courtier. Home he took his gentle western flower ; There in poisoned air to bloom inanely, Or to wither. MISTAKEN. 135 Winter came and went, and spring crept after. Herbert lived and studied with me, grieving, Yet resolved that manhood's might should tri- umph Over loss. 'Twas but three days since that Herbert entered Ghostlike, with a ghastly stare of horror — Thrust into my hand an opened missive From the Countess. " Dearest, dearest Herbert ! Like a torrent Held awhile in check by some obstruction, Till it bursts impetuous its embankment Fury-free, " Does my love for thee, which mad delusion Strove to conquer, foam in cruel surges, Dashing me within its eddies onward Toward despair. 136 MISTAKEN. " Sigismund is not to blame : he pets me, Gives me gems, exhibits me in pubUc. If I were a doll, I should consider Him an angel. " Oh ! the future I have lost. Ennobled By thy presence and thy strong example ; Sharing all things with thee, both in action And repose. " Hast thou sorrowed, dearest, greatly sorrowed ? Ah ! I know thou lovedst me intensely. First forgive me ; then forget me, dearest, — Me, unworthy. " Furthermore, forgive me for enhancing, With this selfish plaint, thy burthen. Fiercely, Terribly my desolation rages To be told." THE POET'S MISSION. T T 7H0 shall dare To call himself a poet ? To crown one's self The monarch of the world, were less ; To name one's self a god Were little more. He is the messenger elect From Truth to Faith, And brings broken intelligence Of limitless fulfillment To all who patiently aspire. So will each poem Contain a few 138 THE POET'S MISSION. Thought-sullied, speech-polluted drops From that vast sea of glory on whose shore His spirit walks, And in whose sun-flashed waves The Deity at intervals permits His soul to bathe. J DIVORCE IN MARRIAGE. OHN fell in love with Clara, And won her to be his bride ; And gayly dwelt with her, careless Of the whole huge world beside. Time came, when the spirit of motion Surprised him at his repose ; And sent him forth on the errand Where the truest manhood goes. And there he must search and wonder. There darkly, gropingly roam ; While Clara his wife made puddings, And tended their babies at home. I40 DIVORCE IN MARRIAGE. As he tried to tell his struggles To her who shared his heart, Her beautiful eyes grew vacant, And she thought of something apart. When the war in his bosom rung fainter, When the peace of wisdom came, She seemed to him strangely altered, — And yet she was all the same. It was he, who had, journeying, left her Where both together once stood : His vision had ripened, and reft her Of the charm of her womanhood. The light had died from her tresses, Her lips met lips of stone : He felt amid caresses That he was again alone. RESOLVED. IV /r ADE and broken, Many a time, alas, already Was the vow, which I once more am making Here, to-night ! Made and broken ! Every time of making, I felt sure of keeping. Thus did overw^eening confidence, By weakness fathered, Flatter me. Well may we, when ever}^ human fibre Thrills responsive to humanity in nature. Well may we, in hours of exaltation, 142 RESOLVED, Rise superior to petty hindrance ; Sending forth our wish and our endeavor, Far through trusted regions, yet untrodden. 'Tis the God internal who exalts us Up away from nature's blemishes. To a harmony without horizon. Sinks the day, and fades the day-born rapture. Then the night's blind slumber severs. With its blank and placid cloud-wall, Evening from morrow. May all powers grant me strength to-morrow, When in grisly dawn my senses open On this grim, inevitable duty ! Sadly sober are these morning wakings. Basely have I often been unfaithful j And the years were terrible in justice, And my life has wasted from around me. RESOLVED. 143 Now the final test is offered : The future maddens me with smiles of parting. Succor me, thou Man-God here indwelling ! Animate this dumb, rebellious matter, That it fuse with thine own essence, giving In the whirling agony of conflict, Matchless might ! COUNSEL AND CHEER. 'nr^URN, noblest youth, from the wrangHng disputants. Their wit is not thine, thou canst not compete with them ; Cruel and rude are their weapons. I saw thy cheek flush, and heard thee attempt to give answer : But thou lackest the sword of their speech, And their calmness of logical vision. Thou lovest thy cause too much to dissect it ; So is thy belief interwoven with error, And the others take note of all this to con- found thee. COUNSEL AND CHEER. 145 Contend not with these ; thou art better than they. Thou art destined for exquisite ripeness, And to refute thine opponents. Nature in silence shall nurture thee ; And thou through darkness and light shalt ex- pand, Toward peace and thy cherished ideal. As for these others, who vex thee And discomfit thee, making thee doubt thine own worthiness, — Doubt even thy right to a place on the earth, They can call nothing their own : their fancied possessions Are stored in the outer man, and do not quicken the heart-throb. But thy thought liveth within thee ; 146 COUNSEL AND CHEER. Mounts to the cheek ; leaps from the eye ; Quivers upon the lip. It is a part of thee, and every error that enters Is humanized into thyself, who art truth. A REMEMBRANCER. A WORN and well-known volume lay Before me, as I happened to stray Through the garret the other day: A book I once had reveled in, Then a long time had not beheld ; Once sweet to me as hope or sin, But which I would not now re-read — Unless compelled. My favorite passages deep-marked ; The margins thickly strewn with notes. Naive, fresh years ! Now I am far embarked On waves too rough for the nautilus-boats, Wherein the free Boy-souls push off to sea. 148 A REMEMBRANCER. The enthusiasms of our youth, How fooKsh, yet how pure and fair! Tiptoe grasper after Truth, Vainly thou fumblest in the air For truer things than these were ! CHILD-LOVE. T ITTLE Alice sees me coming ; Rushes down the steps to meet me, Face bright-Ht with laughing welcome ; Stands on tip-toe for a kiss ; Slips her tiny hand in mine. Leads me, draws me through the door-way " Pa and ma are out," she whispers, " But they must be back directly ; And you'll wait a minute, worCt you ? " Drags me to her father's arm-chair ; Puts me in it 3 leaps up lightly. Perches on my knee, and nestles 150 CHILD-LOVE. Right against my cheek, close-hanging Round my neck. She lay quietly so ; Except when, now and then, she raised herself Just far enough to peer into my face With a beseeching " I don't tire you, do I ? " In her child-eyes. I reassured her always with a smile Which came from deep within me : At length she trusted me and asked no longer. We hardly stirred while daylight faded, And my thoughts made sweet far journeys, Visiting the great world-problems, As I sat there Holding her upon my lap, With her soft cheek pressed against me, And her arms tight round my neck. CHILD-LOVE. 151 Hark, the clicking of a latch-key ! Yes, she hears it, flutters, turns, half touches My forehead with her lips ; Jumps to her feet and out Into the hall. Thence resounds her voice of music ! " Papa, papa, somebody 's waiting. Can you guess who it can be ? And O, papa, I've had him two whole hours All to mysel/y TO A CRITIC. /^ CRITIC, wondrous being, thou ! Who, from thy seat in yon celestial realm, Surveyest, unconcerned, the passions that o'er- whelm Us low-born mortals ; and that bear Us onward, sidewise, backward — anywhere : Until our eyes, somehow, Begin to lose the landmarks of the Here and There, — The Then and Now. Ah ! glorious employment, thus to judge The simple doings on this silly earth; TO A CRITIC. 153 And cry bravo ! at real worth ; And pish ! and fudge ! At threadbare sentiment or childish mirth, At any extravagance or dearth. Although to us the grandest fate, Shorn of its warfare and its love, Seems desolate ; Yet must he be inexplicably great, Who dwells too high above. For love or hate. Thou brandishest thy sceptre-pen, We humbly plod The devious avenues of sense ; For we, at best, are but poor poet-men ; And must revere the Critic-god With all due reverence. 154 TO A CRITIC. Great Pluvial Jove, who pourest from thy cloud, Unstinted chastening on us for our good. Accept our thanks that thou, so stern and proud, Yet unto such as we are, hast allowed To furnish thee with thine ambrosial food. LOVE. T OVE'S praises, poets through the ages call ; Yet this is half unsaid, when song is done : The simplest heart has always room for one, It needs a soul sublime to compass all. A man loves woman in that he is man, But man loves truth, when, being ill-content With common manhood, he is heavenward bent. On gaining what of angelhood he can. Ye tendril-souls, to whom the scholar's hope Seems like a weary quest Among dry bones ; Your love is also blest, Since it atones By its intensity for want of scope ! TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. PROMETHEUS. /^■^OVER thy heavens, Jove, With cloud-mist ; And, Uke the boy Beheading thistles, Practice on oaks and mountain-tops. Yet must thou leave me My earth, standing ; And my hut thou hast not built. And my hearth. For whose glow Thou enviest me. I know nothing more pitiful Under the sun than ye Gods ! i6o PROMETHEUS. Ye nourish scantily From sacrifices And breath of prayer Your majesty; And would starve, were not Children and beggars Hopeful fools. When I was a child — Knew not my way — I turned my deluded eye To the sun, as if were there An ear to listen to my plaint, A heart like mine. To pity the afflicted. Who helped me Against the Titans' insolence? Who rescued me from death, From slavery ? PRO ME THE US. 1 6 1 Hast not thyself achieved it all, Holy-glowing heart ? And glowedst, young and good, Deceived, thy thanks for safety To the sleeping one up yonder ? I honor thee ? For what ? Hast thou allayed the pains Ever of the oppressed? Hast thou soothed the tears Ever of the agonized ? Has not a man been made of me By Time almighty And Fate eternal. My lords and thine ? Didst thou fancy perchance I should hate life, Flee into deserts, 11 1 62 PROMETHEUS. Because not all Dream-blossoms ripened ? Here I sit, fashion men After my image, A race like unto me, To suffer, to weep. To enjoy and to rejoice. And to ignore thee, As I do. THE DIVINE. TV T OBLE be man, Helpful and good! For that alone Distinguishes him From all beings Whom we know. Hail to the unknown, Loftier beings, Whom we presage ! His example teach us To believe in these ! For unfeeling Is Nature : 1 64 THE DIVINE. There shines the sun Over evil and good ; And for the criminal, As for the best, Gleam the moon and the stars. Wind and streams. Thunder and hail Rush on their way, And hastening past. Seize upon One after the other. So also fortune Gropes through the crowd, Grasps now the boy's Innocent curls. Now too the bald Pate of the guilty. THE DIVINE. 165 By eternal, iron Mighty laws Must we all Accomplish the circles Of our existence. Only man alone Can do the impossible ; He distinguishes, Chooses, and judges ; He to the moment Granteth duration. He alone may Reward the good, Chastise the wicked, Healing and saving ; All that errs or is wayward. Usefully joining. 1 66 THE DIVINE. And we venerate The immortals, As were they men, And did in great things, What the best in small ones Does or endeavors. Let the noble man Be helpful and good! Tirelessly work The useful, the right; Be our ensample Of those foreshadowed beings. MY GODDESS. '^ I ^O which Immortal The highest prize ? I contend with no one, But I award it To the eternally versatile, Always new. Strange daughter of Jove, His pet child Fantasy. For to her has he Conceded All caprices, Which he else reserves 1 68 MV GODDESS. For himself alone, And has his delight In the hoyden. She may, rose-garlanded. With the lily-stem, Tread vales of flowers. Rule over summer birds. And with lips of bees Suck from blossoms Lightly nourishing dew. Or she may With flying hair And gloomy look. Sough in the wind Round walls of rock. And thousand-hued, Like morning and evening, MY GODDESS. 169 Ever changing, Like rays of the moon, Shine upon mortals. Let us all Praise the Father ! The ancient, the lofty, Who is pleased to unite A so beauteous Unfading wife To mortal man. For to us alone Has he bound her With heaven's bond. And commanded her, In joy and sorrow, As a true wife Not to forsake. lyo MV GODDESS. All the other Poor generations Of the prolific Animate earth Rove and pasture In the dark pleasure And dim pains Of momentary Restricted life, Bowed by the yoke Of exigence. But to us, O joy ! Has he vouchsafed His most gifted, Petted daughter ; Lovingly meet her As a beloved one ! Give her the honor Of women at home ! MV GODDESS. 171 And let not the old Stepmother Wisdom Presume to offend This gentlest of souls ! Yet know I her elder, Sedater sister, My quiet friend : O may she never. But with the light of life. Turn from me, — The noble incitress, Consolatrice Hope !