"Et rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,

L'espace d'un matin."

"Pale primroses, which die unmarried."

The Mariner stands upon the deck

  And strains his eyes afar

To watch a glimmering, fateful speck

  Under the midnight star.

And memory holds that picture well--

  The Hero standing there;

The lonely heart's triumphant swell,

  The answer to his prayer.

But Victory is not all of life--

  Another picture yet,

With shades of bitterness and strife

  We never can forget.

The dungeon's walls are damp and cold,

  And foul the dungeon's breath;

Chained to a pillar the Hero bold,

  And only waiting death.

And the shadow gathering, dull and mute,

  Anguish that will not die--

What is it but the poison-fruit

  Of human treachery!

"The Fox set him down and looked about--

  And many were feared to follow--

'May be I'm wrong,' says he, 'but I doubt

  That you'll be as gay to-morrow.

For loud as you sing, and high as you ride,

  And little you feel my sorrow,

I'll be free on the mountain side

  While you'll lie low to-morrow.'"

"Aye, sooth, we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road;

But, woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God."

Again! the skies are chilling now;

  The snow is on the ground;

Winter, with sullen, old-time brow,

  Looks haughtily around.

But faces gay, and hearts as light

  As sunbeams, tell at last

We dare to hope for something bright

  Before the year is past!

Upon these days the sunlight gleams

  More peaceful and more fair;

Can it be fancy? but there seems

  A fragrance in the air;

That subtle brightness quivers through

  Skies grey with winter's cold;

That fragrance--'tis the same we knew

  On many a morn of old!

Conflicts may o'er our souls have passed,

  So deadly and so deep,

That, while we live, the shadows cast

  Will haunt us as we sleep;

A light may from our hearts have gone

  That nothing can restore;

But, all the same, life passes on

  With joy to thousands more!

Now, well-remembered pictures crowd

  Where'er we turn our eyes:

Upon bleak fields the snowy shroud,

  Direct from Heaven, lies;

And there is peace on all around,

  As in the ancient days;

And, ever rising from the ground,

  The wealth of prayer and praise!

Oh, might we but, in sweet content,

  Accept the mighty will!

Thanks, Lord, for all Thy mercies sent

  To erring mortals still;

So constant, all our lives we knew,

  Their brightness round us cast;

So many, undeserved and true,

  We dare not count at last!

Oh, fair and pure upon the lake

  Thy glossy leaves are spread;

No fluttering winds thy sleep can wake

  Among the ripples dead.

No clouds can that still beauty move

  That cross the azure sky;

Thou sleepest in the light of love

  Shed o'er thee from on high.

No other flowers beside thee rest,

  Thou, Lily, art alone;

Thou wearest on thy virgin breast

  No glory save thine own.

Thou watchest but the heavenly light

  That gleams so far away;

I see thee still, as sinks the night,

  Fold up thy leaves and pray!

And now float on--thy life is fair,

  But thou art fairer still;

Perhaps in gazing on thee there

  Our hearts may cease to thrill.

Perhaps, descending from the sky,

  Some glory still and deep

May light us, when we come to die,

  As now it lights thy sleep!

We are three--in love and pride

Our hearts walk daily side by side.

We are three--in hope and truth,

Linked by the golden dreams of youth.

We are three--yet of us one

Lies far beneath the Orient sun,

Where the pale palm-trees bend in pride

To kiss the earth where warriors died.

We are three--yet, 'neath the wave,

My love lies in a lonely grave;

The waters flow upon his breast:

He sleeps in everlasting rest.

Those two are dead--I yet remain

Within this world of toil and pain;

Yet, wheresoe'er my footsteps flee

I bear this token--we are three.

We are three--our love is more,

Our hearts are stronger than of yore.

Though their loved forms I cannot see,

We are together--we are three.

I wait--my life is dim and still;

My worn-out heart no more can thrill;

I wait for Death, my soul to free--

Yet even here we still are three.

O strange, sweet power! what dreams can reign

Like these so far from mortal pain?

What hope, what glory can I see,

Fair as the sign--that we are three?

Ever wake and never sleep--

O straining eyes, that cannot weep!

Ever sleep and never wake--

O quiet heart that cannot break!

Ancona smiles before me now,

  Under the sunset deep;

Upon the mountain's darkening brow

  Its glory seems to sleep.

Afar the wavelets rise and sink,

  Floating in crimson fire;

Afar, upon the ocean's brink,

  I watch their light expire.

The night is soft, and on the air

  Rises the evening song,

Sustained by many a fisher there,

  The gleaming waves along.

The breeze floats gentle as a sigh,

  Upheaved from maiden's breast;

To blend, in mystic harmony,

  With Earth's and Heaven's rest.

The sun has changed the sloping shore

  To plains of Orient gold,

As though he sought, while yet no more,

  The sleeping earth to fold.

And, where the mountain rises proud,

  In shadowy stillness stern,

Some light from a late-lingering cloud

  Seems yet in love to burn.

Ancona holds my fate on earth--

  Some dim, unfathomed spell

Woke with the moment of my birth,

  As shade or sunbeam fell;

It binds me with a chain unseen

  To that far land of power;

Yet Fancy only wakes the scene

  At sunset's magic hour.

Ancona! Fair, and loved, and bright,

  Perhaps, beneath the sky

That hides for me unearthly light--

  I yet am doomed to die!

Perhaps--but no, I will not speak

  These visions of the past--

Yet on thy shores I still must seek

  To know my doom at last!

Listen! Sweet voices call the Earth

  To life and love again,

And stifle, in their wakening mirth,

  The dreary Winter's pain.

'Tis the old tale, forever new,

  Of Spring descending fair,

Stooping on fragrant winds to strew

  The flowers that bind her hair--

And blushing, with a sweet surprise,

  When Summer at her side

Starts up to look into her eyes,

  And claim her for his bride.

There is no coldness in her smile,

  No mourning on her brow:

Even her tears all hearts beguile

  To look upon her now.

Surely she is some angel sent

  From the far clouds above.

And to us mournful mortals lent

  To teach us light and love!

Surely no hearts resist her spell--

  The spell of hope and peace;

Surely with her must gladness dwell

  And passion's discord cease.

Would thou could'st be, O maiden sweet,

  The guardian of our life,

Treading beneath thy happy feet

  All earthly care and strife!

Teaching that all is for the best,

  That what we think our woes

But lead us sooner to the rest

  From whence our being rose;

That love reigns yet, serene and free--

  No phantom of the past,

But a true power, whose light should be

  Forever round us cast.

A welcome! Let no churlish thought

  Disturb the generous pride

That bids us welcome as we ought

  Napoleon to our side!

A stranger, come across the sea

  To view this land of ours,

To watch her, careless, proud and free

  In youth's all-conquering powers.

His the Old World, and ours the New,

  The present and the past,

Linked by sweet memories strong and true,

  While Time and Earth shall last.

The Bourbon lilies float no more

  Upon the land and wave;

The kings that fought and ruled of yore

  Lie mouldering in the grave:

France mourns them not--their work is done,

  Their lineage passed away;

And where once sank their reddening sun,

  Now dawns a brighter day!

Why linger by the Past, to see

  Hopes fade in vain regret?

No! France must live and learn--to be

  A nobler country yet!

With all that Love could wish, to guide

  Her wandering footsteps now;

With Victory steadfast at her side,

  Hope bright upon her brow--

A ruler, calm of heart and hand,

  Prepared through life alone

To sway the sceptre of the land,

  And sit upon her throne--

All this hath France; no ancient days

  E'er found her fate so fair:

And eyes at last may on her gaze

  Unshadowed by despair!

Let but thy future, France, fulfil

  This opening promise bright;

Let Peace those surging passions still

  That waken with thy might;

Let that calm pride of worth be thine

  That shames the pride of power,

And ever brightest seems to shine

  In Misery's darkest hour!

For us, we welcome here thy son

  With greetings frank and free,

And claim him in our thoughts as one

  That closer binds to thee!

Sit thou, my daughter, on my knee:

  Art dreaming of the past?

Have childhood's memories, fond and free,

  Their magic o'er thee cast?

Or dost thou trace in thought again

  The happy dreams of yore,

How o'er our glorious land should reign

  A rightful king once more?

My child, my child! a lot of tears

  And strife is ours to bear,

Wasting our hearts, our hopes, our years,

  In longing and despair;

Yet own we still, through bitterest hour,

  A refuge and a pride;

For Honor hath a spell whose power

  Is more than earth beside.

And if a nameless foreign tomb

  Be ours at long and last,

Is our race, descending to its doom,

  Unworthy of the past?

The sun, that blazed in splendor fair,

  Flooding the landscape round--

To sink, in hopeless darkness, where

  No human voice is found--

Yet e'en through Death's most bitter sting,

  Perhaps remembered more

Than when its triumph served to bring

  Light to some happy shore--

How we, through Satan's snares beguiled,

  Life's saving truths defy!

"'Tis not all of life to live, my child,

  Nor all of death to die."

Within a curtained, lamp-lit room,

Fed with the breath of rich perfume,

Girt round with radiance, light and bloom,

The modest flower upraised its head,

And a soft, mystic fragrance shed,

Like Memory when our youth is fled.

I bent to look upon it there,

So soft, so feminine, so fair,

A flower for angel hands to bear!

Yet exiled from its native land,

By unfamiliar breezes fanned,

A pilgrim on a foreign strand!

Pale English flower! thou bring'st to me

Loved visions, wheresoe'er I be,

Of thy far land beyond the sea!

A land of loveliness and dreams,

Where earth with living splendor teems,

Where e'en life's echo sweeter seems!

Land of brave deeds and honor high,

Land of triumphal days gone by,

Where men press onward fearlessly!

Because of freedom won of yore--

Where the slave walks, a slave no more,

And blessings rest upon the shore!

The spirit of a lofty race,

Th' imperial will that keeps its place,

The scorn for all things foul and base--

These have their portion, yet we know

There is more in all than surface show--

The under-current sets below.

Because God's Word is cherished here,

Its brightness to men's vision clear,

While other lands in darkness fear!

Recall that prince of heathen fame

Who o'er the distant ocean came,

Drawn by Victoria's lofty name.

He said, "O Queen, I ask of thee

What may the wondrous secret be,

Gives thy race power, by land and sea?"

Victoria's gracious hand upraised

The Book: the while he stood amazed,

And all around in silence gazed.

"Behold the Secret and the Sign,

To fire the nation's spirit fine,

With something of its strength divine.

"On this foundation must we rest--

Seeking His Spirit to be our guest,

God's mercy in us made manifest."

Violet! these thoughts that oversweep

My spirit and heart, they are too deep--

O let them in thy fragrance sleep!

And smile thy hour, 'neath foreign eyes,

Clad in as true and modest guise

As under England's quiet skies.

The "Campo Santo!"--Cypress dim

  Along the churchyard wall;

And here and there a gravestone grim

  Leaning before it fall.

And moss and ivy trail around

  Their long, neglected sprays--

Where one sad woman, from the ground,

  "Eternal quiet" prays.

"Eternal quiet!" Not that, clear

  Might beam upon her way

Lights that make radiant, even here,

  This prison-house of clay:

Not hers at Hope's fair shrine to bow,

  Nor Love's sweet empire own;

She may have prized them once, but now

  Eternal peace alone!

"Eternal quiet!" Oh, for thee

  The æons that came and passed,

Before the spirit's agony

  Yearned for such doom at last!

The mind may compass other scenes,

  New realms, new victories make;

But that "eternal quiet" means

  A sleep that will not break!

Poor heart! we trust that, ere the end

  (The grave that yawned for thee),

The spirit-eyes beheld that Friend

  Whose death meant Rest--to be;

Rest after strife--night's feverish dreams

  Exchanged for morn's glad ray;

Splendor that from God's mercy streams

  For the corpse-lights of decay!

No cloud upon that stainless blue

  To dim the radiance bright,

That opes before our eager view

  A vista of delight.

No breeze to stir th' enchanted air

  Or wake the leaflets' play;

A brief Elysium, frail and fair,

  This ripening Summer day!

Along the streets there comes a breath

  Redolent of the Past;

Visions of thronging life and death

  Their witchery round me cast.

Just so on Summer days of old.

  It looked--this town of ours;

Just so the ancient echoes rolled

  Around its streets and towers.

O'er brightest fancies shades must fall--

  The shadow of the Cross.

O inward vision! can we call

  That sacred gravure loss?

The city has spread, the city has gleamed,

  In splendor far and wide;

The light that once around it streamed,

  My heart! has sunk and died.

Bright in the morning fair,

Bright through the summer air,

Gilded with sunshine rare,

    Quebec was seen.

Floated and curled in light

The crested wavelets bright,

Around her guardian might--

    The Fortress-Queen!

I knew her--far away:

Before we reached the bay

Mine eyes could mark the sway

    Of rampart-towers;

Before her walls I knew,

Some instinct told me true

How near I was to view

    Those ancient powers!

Near--nearer yet we came;

Rose dark her heights of fame

Against that field of flame,

    The morning sky;

Frowned down embrasures deep,

Gleamed cannon on the steep,

Flew stern above her Keep

    One flag on high!

Nor for the eye alone

These radiant pictures shone:

The lore of cycles flown

    Seemed garnered here;

The Present and the Past

Together smiled at last--

Spells round these walls were cast

    That yet are near!

Dark years have rushed between

Me and that radiant scene--

Old memories quick and keen

    Are quenched in night;

Yet, with Hope's wakening thrill,

Before my vision still

That city on the hill

    Arises bright!

Let but a stranger's praise

And long remembrance raise

Some sign upon the ways--

    At least--'tis true;

And stand thou firm in power,

Braced for the darkest hour--

May none around thee lower!

    Quebec--adieu!

The ranks are gathered--not to fight,

  To struggle, or to dare;

Ah, no--for on this meeting night

  Far other thoughts are there.

Hushed is th' upbraiding word--the flow

  Of passion calmed to peace:

One mightier shoots his bolt, and lo!

  Earth's petty tumults cease.

And faction's reign itself is past

  For one brief, solemn hour:

As brothers here they bend at last

  Before a sterner power!

Few are the words, but fitly said,

  That speak the sense of all--

That pay due honor to the dead,

  His deeds and worth recall.

Opponents rise to touch the theme,

  And speak with saddening praise

Of gifts and powers they well might deem

  Deserving longer days.^[3]

Finished those words--that duty done--

  And, till the morrow's light,

They leave the mighty pile alone,

  To silence and to night!

Kind Heaven! we would not bend to thee

  In bitterness and gloom;

Thy mercy only might decree

  The mercy of the tomb!

Grant us these years, that fade so fleet,

  To guide, in strength and power;

Grant us, prepared and calm, to meet

  The last and final hour;

Grant us, when all our path is trod,

  As loved to reach the grave

As he who rests beneath the sod

  Where Cambrian blue-bells wave!

Last Spring, when early on us fell

  A blissful, sunlit day--

When Winter's ear might trace the knell

  Foretelling his decay--

I--all my heart borne down with woe--

  Swift to thy dwelling sped,

If haply from thy lips might flow

  Some comfort for my dread.

I found thee in thy chamber fair,

  Girt round with leaves and flowers;

I might have thought my footsteps there

  Strayed in a fairy's bowers.

I heard thy gentle lips renew

  The hopes of earlier years;

How swift those happy moments flew

  That woke me from my fears!

And yet THY life was dark--no more

  Its vanished suns could shine;

How my heart shamed itself before

  The sweet content of thine!

I went--and with thy parting smile

  Some fancy whispered free,

"Ah, how our friendship shall beguile

  The shades of Springs to be!"

Once more the Spring looks down in light

  On forest, mount and plain;

Borne on victorious sunbeams bright

  Her love is ours again.

And yet, as to thy chamber sweet

  My thoughts, were wont to stray--

Now, if that memory loved they meet,

  They shrink--and turn away.

And where my steps would turn to thee,

  And linger at thy door,

They--while I own mortality--

  Shall linger--nevermore!

I pictured for thee Spring-times true

  Of earthly light and love;

Even while I hoped, thy spirit knew

  Eternal Spring above!

A brooding quiet on the sky,

  A mist upon the land;

And April rises, dropping shy

  The blossoms from her hand.

Sweet the white mystery of her brow,

  And soft those violet eyes

That now droop pensively, and now

  Flash radiant as the skies!

I knew thee, April, well and long;

  In happy seasons past

I watched thy radiance, heard thy song,

  And hail thee still at last!

Yet, art thou still the same? I view

  A spirit, varying, fair;

But in her face the smiles I knew

  Have caught a shade of care!

And where bright Nature bent to me,

  A mother strange and sweet,

Now oft as fancy wills I flee--

  But never to her feet!

Surely the willows droop no more

  With their sweet grace of old;

Surely the passionate eves of yore

  Turned earth to brighter gold.

And yet--still flowers our glances meet;

  Suns shine as once they shone.

Where can the change be, Spring-time sweet,

  Save in myself alone?

A charm I cannot trace or know--

  A passion strange and sweet--

Enchains me, till myself I throw

  In spirit at thy feet!

Thy hair is darkness, and thine eyes

  Flash deep with southern fire;

Close in my heart their mystery lies,

  A mystery and desire!

Thy lips--red clusters, opening sweet,

  The hidden pearls disclose;

Two flowers in fairest compass meet--

  The lily and the rose.

The figure of a sylph's or fay's

  Is thine--and only Grace

Within the shadow of thy ways

  Makes her abiding-place.

My life is richer that I came

  Thus where thy presence cast

A witchery that I dare not name,

  But only feel at last!

And now--in little space I see

  That spell shall all be o'er--

The vision I have seen shall be

  Laid with the lights of yore.

And I--when I recall the gleam

  Thou shedd'st on skies of grey,

Shall murmur, "'Twas a radiant dream

  That shone--and passed away!"

Dear relic of a fruitful Past!

  Not yet thy work is done,

Though lingering years have o'er thee cast

  Their shadow and their sun;

Thou wearest yet, serene and free,

  The ancient stately grace;

And strangers come to look on thee,

  And know thee in thy place!

The autumn breeze, in tenderest mood,

  Its magic on thee lays;

And ever o'er thee seems to brood

  The light of other days.

The mart is close; more swiftly on

  Rushes the living tide!

On all, methinks, those cycles gone

  Breathe as they pass thy side.

What tales thy stones could tell--of power,

  Of promise and decay--

The glorious visions of an hour

  That rose and passed away!

What scenes those silent walls might see!

  Vain suppliance, mad regret,

Whose memory, in these days, may be

  A troubled darkness yet!

Thy aisles the swelling strains have known

  Of Victory's days of pride;

A radiance through their gloom has shone

  On bridegroom and on bride.

And then those other seasons grew--

  When Plague was in the air--

When myriads saw their doom, and knew

  Nothing was left--but Prayer.

Those days are o'er! Still to the skies

  Thou lookest, full and free;

Firm, as we hope, thou yet mayst rise,

  For many a year to be.

All round thee altered; landmarks flown,

  The ways, the looks of yore;

But the Man's nature thou hast known,

  That changes--nevermore!

My walks lie now among the leaves,

  Crimson, and gold, and brown;

For Nature her sweet broidery weaves

  O'er all the dreary town.

Slow wandering, in some nook I stand,

  And linger--while the grace,

Now spreading broadcast o'er the land,

  Shines "in a shady place!"

The mountain from these slopes is seen,

  A rain-bowed, dazzling height,

As if the Summer's sombre green

  Had lost itself in light.

And still no glare upon the sky--

  But softest, dreamiest rays

Look down through mists to sanctify

  These mellow Autumn days!

Yet never did fair scene but bring

  Some thoughts that were not fair;

The shadow of a phantom wing

  Forever in the air!

Why, when these Autumn leaflets fall,

  So coldly and so sere,

Should they those vanished hours recall,

  Made by thy presence dear?

Ah, friend! Those memories bring to me

  Not bliss so much as pain;

The burden of my thought must be,

  When shall we meet again?

Peace be with you! Peace at night,

In the obscure and solemn light;

Peace at morn, when, softly gay,

Those fair eyes open to the day;

Peace, while earth's light is round thee; peace

Beyond thy dreams when earth shall cease;

Peace forever! But for me,

What peace is there--save with thee?

When first I met your glance, my friend,

  Some instinct seemed to speak,

And murmur, "Here life's quest may end;

  Behold the heart you seek!

"Long, long the watch, the waiting; long

  The hope, the fell despair;

A Presence rises from the throng,

  The answer to thy prayer!

"Now drop the burden of thy fears,

  Thy sorrows put away;

The light that in thy East appears

  Shines to the perfect day.

"For thee no more the bitter gloom--

  The threatenings of the past;

Thy spirit, ransomed from its tomb,

  Leaps to its life at last!"

What was thy charm? Not till this hour

  Could earthly spell command

For me the witchery and the power

  Held in thy careless hand!

Was it that in some vanished year,

  Lost, lost in mists of yore,

Thy soul was part of mine--and here

  Reclaimed its own once more?

I know not. Friend, thou mayst not see

  (Thou shouldst not--it is best)

All thy affection is to me,

  My refuge and my rest!

The clouds may lower around, and dart

  The lightnings on the gale;

But--still thine image in my heart--

  On, on! I will not quail!

"Where dwells she?" "Seest thou in the vale

  Yon gracious mansion rise--

Where trees wave softest to the gale,

  And sweetest sunshine lies?

"The vines arch o'er the balcony;

  The roses bloom beyond;

The joyous birds, on every tree,

  To Nature's joy respond."

"What is her destiny? How speeds

  For her that shadow--Life?

How are fulfilled th' immortal needs?

  And how is met--the strife?"

"Her husband bears, known far and near,

  A true and honored name;

A seaman once, he would not fear

  Aught on this earth but shame.

"Wealth is his now--his toils are done:

  Yet, more than all beside,

The wife his constancy hath won,

  His treasure and his pride!

"The very apple of his eye,

  Stranger! 'tis even so--

How a strong man can love, and why,

  Perhaps you may not know.

"There plays, beside the lady's knee,

  A boy of fairy grace,

In whom already you may see

  The fairy mother's face!"

"Is she so fair, then?" "I have seen,

  O stranger, many lands;

Stood on Columbia's prairies green,

  Arabia's desert sands;

"And fair ones I have known, who taught

  My heart to feel their power;

Yet never met I, to my thought,

  One like this English flower!

"When I look on her face, meseems

  I stand in moonlight pale,

Stirless; nor can explain the dreams

  That o'er my thoughts prevail!

"So gracious, too! There's not a boor

  Her look might chance to meet,

But for her sake would toil endure--

  Would worship at her feet!"

"You paint," I said, "a mortal lot

  From mortal terrors free;

Without a bitterness or blot;

  Almost too bright to be!

"So sweet, so loved, so beautiful!

  All brightness round her cast;

Her cup of bliss must be so full,

  It should run o'er at last!"

"Stranger! I gave thee naught but truth;

  And yet--if thou shouldst spy,

In all her beauty and her youth,

  Th' Enchantress pass thee by,

"To God, thy Father, bend the knee,

  And of His mercy crave

For her, as happiest doom, to be

  This hour within her grave!"

My heart so beat, I flew so fast--

This cannot be "Too late!" at last.

They said that she was dying; though

How true the tale I could not know.

Such life as dwelt in her, by right,

Could death put, instant, out of sight?

How many years we spent apart!

How old this aching at my heart!

That morn we met! I know it well;

How fair the early sunlight fell

On lawn and terrace, lifted brave

High o'er the sleeping azure wave!

Behind, the stately mansion rose;

Its secrets locked in grim repose.

How bloomed, those peaceful morning hours,

In sheltered balcony, the flowers!

How, like all dazzling gems in one,

Glittered that sea beneath the sun!

How airs, that might have vexed the day,

In softest distance died away!

How hints would come, in pausing note,

Of sea-girt mariners afloat!

How zephyrs, from some far-off shore

Would round them nameless fragrance pour!

How sent the bird, unfaltering, there

His song into the upper air!

How earth and sky, and wave and beam,

Made all the world one fairy dream,

With hope, youth, joy, enchantment rife;

Might I not feel in love with life?

Ah, yes! I joyed in Nature's lore;

But knew--there wanted something more.

That came. A figure passed me by

As, leaning from the balcony,

Seaward I looked. A figure slight,

With unheard step, and eyes of night.

Though fixed and far my gaze was bent,

I knew that something came and went.

Retracing swift her noiseless ways--

I turned; the sunlight drooped to haze--

And our eyes met--in a long gaze.

A long gaze! The first is past;

There must be thousands ere the last!

Describe her! Words, thus coldly dealt,

To paint what is not seen, but felt!

Or--could a painter fix the dyes

That hover betwixt earth and skies?

She was my focus; in one blaze

Drew all my scattered spirit-rays.

Life dwelt within her; life so keen

And quick, naught else could intervene.

She with you, breathing earthly breath,

There was no room for thoughts of death!

One moment I describe--retrace;

Upon the darkness paint her face!

A brow broad, generous, gentle; eyes

More deeply black than midnight skies,

Which held so much within those deeps

Where, in its home, the spirit sleeps,

That this strange thought at times I knew--

Those eyes--were they a dream, or true?

Yet, fancying thus, I need but turn

Where, in their love, could lightnings burn--

Or, where each curve and line was grace,

Look on that sparkling, fairy face--

Or list those tones so rich, so sweet,

That made Life's music all complete,

To crush self-torments in their birth,

To know her woman of the earth!

Those eyes--they must be true, for me--

So much I needed them--and thee.

She of my life was star, was queen;

But ah, what shadows rushed between!

There were long years--I breathed, I felt;

At times this darkness seemed to melt,

And through its dying mists of strife

Show me a glory as of Life.

But even as I beheld, and knew

All else was false, this only true--

The light would fall, the peace be o'er,

Life's poison hold my life once more.

Past all. Only by God's sweet grace

Now can I meet thee, face to face.

A spirit, formed of light and flame--

Straight into a dark heart you came.

When first your face I chanced to meet,

I thought, "How fair it is! How sweet!"

But nothing then my eyes could see

Of messages it held--for me.

Still that face drew me, day by day,

As some fair prospect, far away,

Seen often, and more near, will send

Its beauty with our lives to blend--

And linger by us--to the end.

Yet why say on? These eyes may trace,

Perhaps no more, O gentle face,

Those lines of beauty and of power

That made thee dearer, hour by hour;

Perhaps no more into my skies

Shall break the light of those blue eyes--

Yet may I not their deeps forget,

Till all my earthly suns have set.

'Tis an unhomelike, pallid room,

  Yet something strangely fair

Would hold, for me, its midnight gloom--

  A soul was rescued there.

O worldly heart, that lackest faith

  In power thou hast not known!

What could His meaning be, who saith

  "Live not by bread alone"?

We sit together there--the saint,

  The sinner!--I and she,

Those wondrous eyes, in longing faint,

  Fixed, only, upon me,

Her breath, her presence, o'er me sweeps,

  The silent days are past;

Thou hast heard me, Lord! Out of the deeps

  Have I not cried at last?

Her eyes looked down into my soul;

  They read the ruin there;

There was no need to speak--the whole

  To that sweet glance was bare.

That glance on mine, these words she said,

  To me, of hope bereaved--

"The Lord hates NOTHING He has made;"

  She spake, and I believed.

Since then, there may be soul-distress,

  There may be wrestlings sore;

But the old poison-bitterness

  Returneth--nevermore.

Graven on my soul, those words I read,

  And in their strength abide;

Yet--such assurance could I need,

  When thou wert by my side?

Thy fair, new chamber, Love, I see--

  So bright, I had not known;

But in it thou hast left for me

  This crucifix alone.

And by that sign I recognize

  That sacred symbol still;

Thou art mine own beneath the skies,

  In happiness or ill.

At times the shadow of thy doom

  Falls o'er a smiling land;

None reach thee in thy living tomb,

  For none can understand.

And then a weight men call despair

  Tightens and stops thy breath:

And then God's crystal azure there

  Fades to a mask of death.

And then, Love, I have seen thee lie

  With dust upon thy head,

A ghost beneath the peaceful sky,

  And than the dead more dead.

But is it that thy soul could be

  Spurned thus from Love divine?

Beyond this darkness could I see

  No glorious future shine?

Ah, Love! the death-in-life we meet

  To death itself might blind.

Ah, Love! can any words be sweet

  When Love is not behind?

Those days are passed for thee, and now

  Thou walkest in the light;

God left upon thy glorious brow

  No scars to tell of fight.

Only thou hast at times a gaze

  His chosen ones must wear,

Telling, for those who look, of days

  Saved in the deeps of prayer.

But here thou art, and in thy hand

  My own--the strife is o'er;

And the sweet crucifix must stand

  Between us evermore.

And words like these seem hovering near,

  By wrath and tempest nursed:

"Love thou thy God, and dare not fear,

  Because He loved thee first."

This, not that, is true, mine own;

  True--far beyond these sighs;

Just as I see not eyes alone

  Looking from out thine eyes.

Just as I hear not issuing words

  From out those lips serene;

Instead--the truth of flashing swords

  Such as might guard a queen.

There is a spirit-radiancy

  That sight must all forego;

It is not thy mortality

  Thyself that makes me know.

Thus, when all hopes but mockery seem,

  All shadows one--Despair;

Thyself, the Real within a dream,

  Flashest upon me there;

And, whatsoever light or grace

  May yet be mine, I see

No sweeter memory than that face,

  God's loving thought for me!

The days depart; the black waves rise

  About life's barren strand;

There is no freshness in the skies,

  No greenness on the land.

But God looks on; His hand is there,

  Where nought but chaos seems;

He brings, from discords of despair,

  The music of our dreams.

And now, look close! the black waves creep,

  Lessening their noisome strife;

And other waters o'er them sweep,

  Bearing the hues of life.

These triumph, and not those! We see

  The olive-branch, the dove;

Not Death, but Life, our destiny;

  Not Hate at last, but Love.

Her eyes were deep, her face serene;

The presence of a crownéd queen

Was hers; with every word she spake

A beauty over life would break.

No meaner thoughts could live, that you

Once brought before that earnest view;

Despair was not, beneath the skies,

When you had looked into her eyes.

The petty things, the common ways,

That fill so much of all our days,

Were not the same, methinks, to her;

The pulses of her life would stir

With larger meanings, loftier powers;

Her soul stood nearer home than ours.

The strength one mortal life may hold,

Can it by word or pen be told?

All is past; Earth's sounds of strife,

  Shadows of fear or foes;

The treasured, gentle woman's life

  Has found its gentle close.

The earth is poorer, drearier now

  That that sweet sun is set;

The love-light quenched beneath the brow

  We never can forget.

In visions fair we watch thee stand

  Glad on the Eternal shore,

But the royal heart, the royal hand,

  Can help us here no more.

O treasured one! remorseful love

  Pictures thy smile serene,

The tenderest mortal lips could move,

  The fittest for a Queen:

Recalls the words those lips would part,

  Their maxims true and wise;

Recalls that loftiest mother-heart,

  The home of Sacrifice;

Recalls, O humble Christian, still

  That crowning memory sweet,

Of a pure life, self-conquering will,

  Laid at the Master's feet.

Fair friend, whose softest eyes, intent,

  Such witchery o'er me cast;

Thou ask'st me, then, how I have spent

  Those days of absence--past?

Those eyes--I shall not let them keep

  My actual presence nigh;

Nor with their radiant rangings sweep

  The cold Reality.

Yet--such their mercy and their power--

  Half would I let them know

This history, in some deepest hour

  Of love for all below.

Bound to some port I needs must be;

  It matters little where;

Behold me, then, on a calm sea

  Whose waters are Despair.

Yet naught affects it this that I,

  Serene, perhaps, and bland,

Should watch my vessel quietly

  Leave out of sight the land;

Like Egypt's love, I may recline

  On couches soft and deep,

And breathe the happiest airs divine

  In simulated sleep;

Or list the deep-voiced sailors' song.

  While rough but faithful hands

Prepare my ship for voyage long

  Among the unknown lands.

Not even a cloudlet floats, to speck

  The blue and dreamy air;

The steersman lies upon the deck,

  Buried, perhaps, in prayer.

Fast drew that season to its close;

  As, by some careless word--

Dropped suddenly from its repose--

  We know the heart is stirred;

So, when I heard a dreary sound

  Low muttering far away,

I knew the tempest was unbound,

  Ready to meet its prey.

I knew--I shuddered. With earth's woe

  Must earth's frail hearts despond;

What will be, will be; this we know;

  Why seek to pierce beyond?

I waited, reckless half, in thought,

  If that sea were my grave.

Waited--while, rising, round me wrought

  The powers of wind and wave.

Strange deeps in Life, in Nature, form

  Before the expectant eye;

Not for one hour, nor day, that storm

  Might rave beneath that sky.

Nothing foreboded lip to lip;

  Even closer human bands;

There were firm hearts within that ship,

  And strong and faithful hands.

Yet, to my thought, it seemed to be

  In that drear dark unknown

When th' others drew so close, for me

  Marked out to stand alone.

I cried unto the winds and waves;

  Methought their sole reply

Was but to uprear their ink-black caves

  Against the angry sky.

Nor sun, nor stars! but, worst of all,

  The bitterest I could prove,

This thought: God's power had let me fall

  From His, and human, love.

The storm's force lessening not, at last

  With our own trembling hands

Out of the ship we tackling cast--

  And on for unknown lands.

All elements in Earth or Heaven

  Seemed in that hour to meet;

Dreamed I, from out that ruptured levin,

  Fell on us radiance sweet!

But O my heart! how mayst thou show

  The horror, the despair?

It was in that hour thou said'st "My woe

  Is more than I can bear."

But did God leave thee comfortless,

  This cup of doom to fill?

Unknown to thee, in storm and stress,

  His Arm upheld thee still.

But oh, it was so dark, so deep!

  No help, no comfort near!

Tossed on such waves might I not sleep

  Without a hope or fear?

I slept, and woke. The world was fair;

  Soft sunbeams round me shone;

The wreck beneath me floated bare,

  And I alone, alone.

A million jewels seemed to melt

  Where might have been my tomb;

Land rose so near, methought I felt

  The freshness of its bloom.

Radiance was all around me thrown,

  And subtle odors sweet.

But it was I; I was still alone--

  All comfort incomplete.

The laden orange-boughs beneath

  One stepped, whose gentle eyes

In tender darkness seemed to sheathe

  A light from Paradise.

And we were friends, and walked below

  The spreading branches high,

Just as, in youth, I had seemed to know

  Some vision of the sky.

But this was real--and real to me

  Her love serene and fair.

Must not all being come to be

  Dissolved in grateful prayer?

Ah, Love!--why mourn the past, when Hate

  Flew far, in wrath and pain?

Ah, Love!--what matter if, though late,

  We lean on Love again?

How strangely now I felt it true,

  What sweet lips once had said;

Think NOT God has forgotten you,

  And Satan's hosts are fled.

He has not forgotten! I have won

  More than I dare receive.

He has not forgotten!--And His Son?

  At last I can believe.

He has taken me from out my doom,

  Set me in peace and might;

This earth I looked to have been my tomb

  Becomes again delight.

After long, poisonous anguish dumb,

  Love came and set me free.

And--I awoke. There was Death for some,

  But there was Life for me.

There are hushed and darkling mysteries still

  Through worlds we dare not sound;

But God all waiting hearts can fill

  From His own depths profound.

This story of my voyage is true;

  To all who prosper, known.

In fine, the ship was lost, the crew

  Perished, save I alone.

She rests, then! Solemn be that rest--

  After life's fever, sleep!

That heart, with passionate hopes oppressed,

  With longings strange and deep,

Has found its quiet. O'er her here

  How soft the grasses wave!

O stranger! Bring thy hope, thy fear,

  Not unto this fair grave!

She who rests here--I cannot see

  One touch of nature fled!

Ever, in lingering thought, to me

  She lives--she is not dead!

It is as though, by some strange chance,

  Wandering, with spirit sore,

I might behold that upward glance--

  Fenice! mine once more!

Sixteen! Those years when some have told

  They are but children still;

Life's deeps, as yet, may not unfold,

  The slumbering heart to thrill;

But she, when dropt God's sudden call

  Into her youthful sky,

It was as she had known the All,

  And now--could only die!

The All! But she had known a youth

  Rich with imperial hours;

Steeped in a natural girlish truth,

  Balmy with breath of flowers;

Life said, in accents that seemed true,

  "My child! I give thee days

To wind, 'neath skies of deepest blue,

  Only in radiant ways."

She listened, she believed; her ear

  Could but such promise greet;

Nor might a thought intrude, of fear,

  Beside its music sweet;

She walked, as reading a fair tale,

  Down some enchanted land:

Sudden the brilliance seemed to fail,

  The book fell from her hand!

And she beheld, where Fancy drew

  Arcades of glorious bloom,

That, through a mist, her pathway grew

  A pathway to the tomb!

That gentle spirit, warmed and cheered

  By all it met below,

Was doomed. What then she felt or feared

  I do not seek to know.

But this I know--that here, serene,

  Safe from the world's cold breath,

My fair Fenice lies, a queen,

  Sleeping the sleep of death!

The pale hands crossed; I know, e'en yet

  In thought, their touch benign;

And closed the eyes which never met,

  With aught but sweetness, mine!

We were together once, in truth;

  Our souls together; still

Those so departed days of youth

  Come back, one heart to thrill;

But now a wanderer I must be,

  Bound an some wayward quest,

While, set so far apart from me,

  She lies in holy rest.

My Sister! In your thoughts of me

Trust not these mortal sighs.

Press on my heart your hand, and see

The longing in my eyes!

How many a picture Fancy drew

In the proud days of yore,

Vanished in blackness as she knew

Her suns could shine no more!

Into the dust her life she flung,

Its bloom to ashes passed,

But from those ashes, Sister, sprung

A flower more sweet at last.

I hold, in my heart's treasury,

That lovely heart of yours!

I wonder, in your thoughts of me,

If the same spell endures!

I wonder, in the quietness

That fills your lofty days,

Through those calm hours, when they suppress

Their outward prayer and praise,

I wonder--nay, I wonder not,

O Sister, fair and sweet,

That memory seeks some sacred spot

To worship at your feet!

Perhaps through all we feel of worth

Steals the dissolvent Pain;

Perhaps, my Sister, not on earth

Are we to meet again;

But oh, God-cherished, loveliest one,

Who hushed a stranger's sighs,

And gave to view that Mercy's sun

Whose radiance filled her eyes;

Perhaps, when stilled these notes below,

When passed this earthly shore,

In thee my grateful heart shall know

Christ's image evermore.

They steal me back to other days,

  They smooth to youth my brow;

As through Venetian air I gaze,

  They flood the landscape now.

They lift the struggling spirit high

  Out of its pains and woe,

And set it near some cloudless sky,

  As in the long ago;

They praise, entreat, complain, adore,

  They soothe, and they awake

Sound-waves that strike some holier shore

  And the soul's silence break.

Earth's self-reproach and penitence

  Seems uttered in their tone;

Clouds gather round their heights intense,

  To mortal eyes unknown.

And still those echoes, rising true,

  Earth's deadlier vapors part,

While in the space they leave we view

  All that should fill the heart.

The fair, fair hills of Florence gleam

  Around, beside, on high;

Thy life itself thou feel'st a dream,

  Under such lovely sky!

Girt round by all the city's din,

  The brave cathedral stands;

A spark of fire, those deeps within,

  Dropt down from Heavenly hands;

It flings the splendor of a dream

  Upon th' unlovely street;

And in its strength all forms supreme,

  All holiest symbols, meet.

Yet men in every beauty see

  The one last touch divine;

And for each heart there seems to be

  Some special lighted shrine.

Thus, in no other outward nook

  So was my spirit bowed,

As where these figures seemed to look

  Upon the passing crowd.

They are so sweet! as they had come

  Borne soft through midnight air

To bring some soul, oppressed and dumb

  The vision of a prayer;

Which, in that sudden light set free,

  He, who such waiting bore,

Had, after, fixed in stone, to be

  An offering evermore.

They are so stern! because they know

  No faintest link with sin;

Soft figures, fleeing all below

  The Heavenly grace to win;

And, to my thought, the haloes true,

  That ever round them came,

Turned each heart outward to our view,

  Most different, yet the same.

Clad in monk's robe and cowl is one;

  Down-bent the waiting eyes;

His hands are crossed; his eyes upon

  The earth, not in the skies.

Yet, patient traveller in this clime,

  Loving and loved in strife,

How far beyond these shades of time

  Is lived his truest life!

His is a spirit; sad, yet true--

  Feeling its weight of sin;

Ordained, that very anguish through,

  Pardon and peace to win;

But yet--the Shadow. For the Light,

  In radiant angel guise,

His comrade stands, with eyes of might

  Uplifted to the skies!

Uplifted! Not a touch of fear

  Dwells on that star-like brow;

If sorrow dimmed those features here,

  The stains are vanished now.

How merciful the thought, to abide

  Through years of sinful breath,

In homes that might be glorified

  Thus by the hand of death!

Two products are they, of one root,

  These loving figures fair;

Type of the seed and of the fruit--

  Earthly and Heavenly prayer.

One without other might not be;

  Though every cloud should burst

To show us light's intensity,

  We need the shadow first.

Many and marvellous years have flown

  Since hands, so skilled and blest,

To shape these angel thoughts in stone,

  Have crossed themselves in rest;

The sculptor's soul might seek in vain

  His world of hopes and fears,

But yet his message shall remain,

  And speak through all the years.

He stood within his narrow cell,

  So narrow, loathsome, dim;

Was there a God?--and could these cries--

  His creature's--reach to Him?

He looked into his heart; 'twas naught

  But bitter to the brim.

"I know," he thought, "this morn of June,

  Outside, the lindens play;

The love-birds sing their madrigals,

  Soaring from earth away;

The glorious sun looks down from Heaven

  Serene upon the day."

"My God!" he said; not that he thought

  There could be such a one,

But that such words break from the lips

  When man is most undone,

Even by such instinct as the flowers

  Turn with to seek the sun.

He said no more. Goes ever aught

  As deep as earth's despair,

Save those two living, dying words,

  The briefest, longest prayer?

My God! if we believe, He is--

  Enough; our life is there.

As in some torpid trance of shame,

  Slow went the hours and days

Sometimes the sunlight burnt to flame,

  Sometimes it sank to haze:

It was the same to him; his eyes

  On stone and darkness gaze.

One night--it was a night when storm

  And rain were on the blast--

His hands, cold lying on the stones

  O'er which so oft they passed,

Shrunk, as they clutched a nail; he felt

  A flash of joy at last!

He grasped it firm. "In days of old,

  Now dead as leaves that fall,

Earth's pomps and gauds were mine--those powers

  Whose worth we dare not call--

And now this rusty nail shall bear

  The palm before them all!"

He groped to the blind niche, that turned

  Toward the outer air;

His hands were strung with steel; he lost,

  A moment, his despair;

And in that moment o'er him came

  A thought--that was a prayer.

He worked--he toiled. The drops would stand

  Like beads upon his brow;

The tissues of that hapless frame

  Such unused toil would bow;

What mattered it?--his breath came free,

  He had an interest now!

Once, tired, he leaned against the wall;

  It was a summer night;

(Half guessing how he might have come

  From darkness near to light;)

The measured sound of church bells came

  Piercing that stony might!

Was it he who heard? The hands fell free,

  The heart forgot its fears;

He in that moment tenderly

  Recalled his vanished years;

And, as he listened, could it be?

  This--that he felt--was tears.

He saw himself in boyhood's hour

  (A radiant, fleeting dream);

The earliest lights of Faith and Love

  Fresh on his memory gleam;

He saw fair Ermentrudis walk

  By the golden Moldau stream.

"In retrospect I can recall

  God's finger in the past;

I can behold (though I have not long)

  His mercy o'er me cast;

Can it be for token of the end

  That I know these truths at last?"

He listened to that music still,

  With thoughts so sweet and strange!

Upon the breathless dungeon air

  There passed a sudden change;

Whence came these sounds?--and whence these eyes

  That o'er him seemed to range?

They noted all; the rusty nail

  Fallen down upon the floor;

The misplaced stones, that told the tale

  Of hope revived once more;

The prisoner's face, though wan and pale,

  Lit by the dreams of yore!

Each noted, with triumphal brow;

  For him the die was cast;

This life of all mysterious woe

  Foreknew its conflicts passed.

His days were justly forfeit now

  To the outraged laws at last!

"Prisoner," the eldest said, "you were pent

  Here in this narrow room;

Men well had deemed you penitent--

  Hid in such dungeon gloom;

Now mercy pleads in vain; you are sent

  To-morrow to your doom!"

The door clanged close. The mournful eyes,

  Dazed by that cruel light,

Fell back upon their destinies--

  The shadow and the night;

And yet--and yet--not quite the same--

  They had known at last their might!

A shiver rustled through his frame;

  A shiver--not of fear;

His eyes were fixed, yet one might see

  Their vision soft and clear;

And yet he crouched upon the ground

  As though some foe were near.

Was it so to end--the agony

  Of that most bitter breath--

The dreams, the aspirings, that must see

  How slow Hope perisheth;

Then the after quiet, that might be,

  At last, the spirit's death?

Earth's battles are forever so

  Through all conflicting powers;

Soil must be tortured ere it show

  The summer fruits and flowers;

No eye but God's could ever know

  Of his last earthly hours.

The morn is here!' In sullen file

  The guards before the gate

Are gathered; then, a little while

  Below the lindens wait;

And then they enter, and they stand

  To bear him to his fate.

He is led forth then. How does he look,

  O men, of women born?

Fiends might their lesson take from you

  Of cruelty and scorn;

Yet he has little left to bear

  Upon this summer morn.

What know we more? The unseen world,

  The mystic realms untrod,

The Being that lifts us far above

  The creatures of the sod,

"The world's great altar-stairs that slope

  Through darkness up to God"--

These are the things by which we live,

  By which we live and die;

"God's reservations" still must be

  Treasures of life put by:

Can the creature to its Maker say,

  "Teach me all things, low and high?"

On "the little less, the little more,"

  Blessing of blight attend;

What power can gauge the hidden deeps

  In the sacred name of--Friend?

Even the true spirits gone before

  May help us to the end.

I walked within a smiling land.

The mountains stood on either hand,

Strife with their peace to overwhelm,

Fair guardians of a fairer realm.

They drew their outlines, soft and high,

Against the pureness of the sky;

Their height; their distance, grew to me

Ideals of mystic liberty.

Valleys and streamlets at their feet

Made the fair picture all complete,

And my soul quieted its sighs

To gaze upon their destinies.

I walked with pleasant comrades there;

The mountains towered divinely fair;

The air was balm; there came to me

A sense of utter misery.

Their talk--what was it? Heart, o'erthrow

Fair visions of the long ago--

Accept the emptiness of days

That know not yearning, power, or praise;

Even then thou wilt--not glad--behold

The shutting of the gates of gold--

The poisoning of the radiant thought

That means all meanings Life has wrought--

Sweet Hope's destruction, Satan's reign,

Echoes of madness, violence, pain--

Man's swelling words that, like fierce seas,

Bring shadows o'er God's silences!

But He remembered! I could see,

When other noontides rose for me.

I walked, then, with a little child;

His face, his spirit, undefiled;

His fancies ranging, wide and true

As those far hills beyond his view;

His soft, small brain in quietness

Gathering all powers that yet should bless.

He dwelt not with the things of time,

But of th' Eternities sublime--

And Life's Medusa-horrors fell

Before that gentle spectacle.

"A little child shall lead them!" True;

O my sad heart, was this for you?

A mystic scene! so quiet, sweet--

  The mountain and the graves--

And sacred dust beneath our feet,

  Relics the spirit craves!

And then above the monuments,

  That symbol life in life,

To mark how here they struck their tents

  And wandered from the strife.

The delicate snow lies all around--

  So thin and light its sheath,

No weight is cast upon the ground

  Or on the forms beneath.

And, ah! from hidden nook we see,

  Flusht with their own bright grace,

Red roses, smiling tenderly,

  As in the Winter's face.

So strange and fairy-like the scene

  Amid this mortal doom,

Nature's sweet colors, rose and green,

  The portal of the tomb.

My heart could but with passionate throes

  Dwell on this waiting dust,

And ask, "Is even this green and rose

  A symbol of the Just?"

Most noble spirit! rare and true,

Not fitly cherished here!

Held but this hand one wreath of rue,

One primrose for thy bier!

Thy own faint favorite--spirit born

Of March and April's showers,

Type to us of another morn

In happier spheres than ours!

For many a year shall English eyes,

Noting that golden bloom,

Connect it with thy prophecies,

Recall thee in thy tomb!

Oh, what a life was thine! how full

Of all experience deep!

Though there were hours so pitiful,

Ere thou might'st "fall on sleep,"

Thy star rose tremulous, lurid, bright,

Aglow with mystic flame--

Thou borest, ready for the fight,

An old and honored name--

Genius thy sphere-like forehead crowned,

Youth urged thy maiden sword--

Thou wouldst fight, on thy own conflict ground,

The battles of thy Lord!

Thou hadst thy failings--be it so;

Around us, anguish, strife,

Is it that we all scathless go

Along our path of life?

Most generous heart, most lofty mind!

The virtues of thy race,

Methinks, might in thy being find

Their fit abiding place!

All is so lost--we count the years

Since thy last sunbeams set;

Yet lingers, even below our tears,

One passionate, long regret.

I was a child. The earth, the sky,

  The long-descending beam,

Made life the all I could not fly,

  A riddle and a dream.

Its web above me grew and grew,

  Woven in a mystic shroud;

While my wild heart existence drew

  From every flower and cloud.

And if the skies were dim, I brought

  My hopes to darkening lands;

And if the heaven was fair, methought

  My spirit clapped her hands.

O Sun! O Mother! thou wert mine

  In those fair summers past:

The days I worshipped at thy shrine--

  Hast thou forgot at last?

It is so much to breathe--to be--

  More than all words have told!

My eyes, even through Death's shadow, see

  More clearly than of old.

This was my time--that time when I,

  Before my days of strife,

Knew not what fate should o'er me lie,

  But lived an inward life.

Then quiet Clotho to me came,

  And took me by the hand:

A gentle, yet mysterious dame

  I could not understand.

And under noontide's deepening flame

  She led me through the land.

The days passed on. The shadows deep

  Of Life upon me rose.

I had done with fairy tales of sleep--

  I had to meet my foes.

The World, the Flesh, the Devil! See!

  I have known them, each and all;

If Saint Aloysius had been me,

  He had answered to their call.

Yet one thing might have saved me yet--

  I asked a perfect friend,

One to reproach not, nor forget,

  But love until the end.

God's love, perchance, demands that we

  Lean on Him through the strife;

Such blessing came not then to me--

  Snare of our earthly life.

The days passed on. In manhood's prime

  All know some radiant hours;

Are there not also things whose slime

  One finds among the flowers?

Everywhere, everywhere the same;

  Wherever eyes may fall--

Or thought pause--still the hue of shame,

  The serpent's trail, o'er all.

My visions fell before me then--

  Fell--for they could not save.

"Deceitful are the hearts of men,

  And cruel as the grave."

"From my youth up Thy terrors, Lord,

  I have suffered in my mind."

When I am gone, be this dread word

  The last I leave behind.

He paused--were they death-damps glistening cold

  Upon his marble brow?

Of the lordly power and strength of old

  There were no traces now.

There was more than mine could understand

  In that deep-eyed, earnest gaze;

And my hand still sought to reach his hand

  For the clasp of other days.

Through backward wastes of hope and fear

  How Memory pours its tide!

We had comrades been for many a year

  And I was at his side.

O the mystic depth of Friendship's chords,

  Long echoing through the Past!

And I feared those mournful, bitter words

  Might be for me the last.

But the low breath came back tenderly--

  Once more the utterance came;

O the Gipsy's voice was sweet to me

  Like some beloved name.

And the mellow fire burned steadily;

  Its coals were caverns vast,

Within whose depths we could but see

  Strange pictures of the past!

He said: "The Book is at my side,

  And earthly hopes are o'er;

I drift, like a boat upon the tide,

  Fast to an unknown shore."

O the long-past, brilliant Summer suns!

  And O, the grass and flowers!

And the Gipsy's blood forever runs

  To passion-laden hours.

I used to think for me they came--

  The changing opal lights,

The hours that wrought the sea to flame,

  The halcyon days and nights.

I deemed no spirit so well as mine

  Knew Nature's mystic art;

And I pictured future hours divine--

  I, with my broken heart!

And was there love?--I cannot say:

  I know that rays of gold

Streamed for me round some hidden way,

  A secret yet untold.

I have stood beside thee, and my hand

  By clasp of thine was blest.

Oh, in that hour I touched the strand

  Of long-lost Isles of Rest!

Do I seek for Friendship, to atone

  For the yearnings of the past?

Not so--we must stand alone, alone,

  Through the struggle to the last!

And we seek for earthly friends who strive

  To help as here they know;

But, God!--to have one friend alive

  Above, and not below!

Can the truest friendship more than give

  Of its dearest things and best?

'Tis through one Sacrifice we live,

  On one Atonement rest.

I judge myself, and my thoughts are dark;

  But He, whose thoughts are high,

Will not quench the tiniest, feeblest spark

  That burns beneath His eye.

The mercy that bade the Singer rise

  From depths of anguished night--

The mercy that heard Manasseh's cries,

  That King of Evil Might--

That mercy liveth, reigneth now,

  And when our hearts are tried,

Ah, can we not remember how

  One heart was broken beside?

"Smitten of God and cursed;" even so;

  With this thy stress is o'er.

We tread no darker paths below

  Than He hath trodden before.

And then, "Why hast Thou, for our gloom

  Thus left Thy Father's hall?"

Not for the righteous am I come,

  But sinners to recall.

What is Man's thought? The Pharisee,

  Serenely passing by,

Pausing but to smile scornfully

  On all that meets his eye.

When Man's true spirit is dead within,

  Why Life's poor semblance wear?

Where is not consciousness of sin,

  What need of sinner's prayer?

His thoughts from ours lie far apart,

  Beyond these earthly sighs;

"A broken and a contrite heart,

  Lord! Thou wilt not despise."

There fell a silence. Leaning still,

  I strove some sound to hear,

And in the silence, hushed and chill,

  I felt the dawn was near.

I through the silence did not cease

  From inward songs of praise;

For the Gipsy had laid down in peace

  The burden of his days.

Up to th' unyielding, iron skies,

  And onward to the strand,

A weight of bitterest winter lies

  Upon the Mother Land!

Pictures of greenness and of flowers,

  The summer's smiles of yore,

Look to us, in these mournful hours,

  Vanished for evermore!

But most of all, the band of steel

  That binds our hearts to-day,

The weight we every moment feel,

  And cannot put away--

The promised gay and glad career,

  Finished before begun!

The nation's youthful hope lies here,

  So set this rising sun!

For festive robes a funeral shroud;

  For life's most brilliant bloom,

Filled with all echoes sweet and proud,

  The trophies of the tomb!

Yet e'en these depths are tender, true,

  All that the heart endears;

The saddened crowds that meet our view,

  The bride's, the people's tears!

Perhaps 'tis best. There might have been

  Sad and unworthy days--

Echoes of strife disturbed the scene,

  Silenced the people's praise.

Now all is past. We think of thee

  Only as stainless, brave;

And sweetest spells wake melody

  Above thy early grave!

O sweet, sweet Death! Thou seem'st to rise

  Out of the sunset deep;

Thou kissest me between the eyes,

  To wake me from my sleep.

Life's sleep of woe! Thou honorest me;

  I rest within thine arms;

Held in that clasp, I can but see

  Thy pity and thy charms.

"My Heart!" thou sayest, "my Heart! I yearned,

  For thee, in all thy ways:

Saw how, each hour, thy spirit turned

  From Earth's embittered days.

"It mattered not, by land or sea,

  Ever thy sorrows there;

The peace these hands have kept for thee

  Shall match thy long despair.

"For these slow clouds there shall be skies

  Serene as thy desire;

For tears that never left thine eyes,

  A vision as of fire.

"For words that died in agony,

  Triumphant hymns shall wave

Their soft tone-banners, true and free,

  Above thy happy grave."

O fool and blind! that thou shouldst deem

  (Thou in thy careless pride)

Life might be but a fairy's dream--

  Ignoring aught beside!

Noting the anguish, loss and strife,

  That on this earth we see;

To dream God's discipline of Life

  Should stand aside for thee!

Thou mayst picture jocund songs of mirth,

  Dances on flowery sod--

There was One who walked alone on earth,

  Alone the wine-press trod.

O mystery--that we seek not all

  That true, unaltering Friend!

O mystery--that our spirits call

  For pleasure to the end!

A life whose hidden mystery

  Lies deeper far than tears;

A life, O Lord! given back to Thee,

  But lived for sixty years!

Through sun and shower, through gleam and shade,

  As mortal footsteps wend;

A life to make men's souls afraid--

  But we have seen the end!

A prison! How we shrink and cower,

  And picture poisoning woe,

For those who must, through many an hour,

  Its spell of darkness know!

But this poor, burdened spirit knew

  (Nor bought by guiltiness)

Prison existence through and through

  Its bitter pang and stress;

What landmarks had she in her life

  What sudden flutterings near?

What fairy signs of inward strife?

  What lover's vows to hear?

Ah, me! the love that can redeem

  Can fill each passionate breast;

The "Lover of her Soul" supreme

  Has ta'en her to His Rest.

O'er endless lands our thoughts find scope,

  And th' immemorial sea--

God of all pity and all hope,

  Give us to rest in Thee!

In grey and, mystic years agone,

  A monarch on his throne

Met God's commands with wrath and scorn,

  Lived but for self alone.

The world around looked fair and sweet,

  The world he could but trust;

He walked with wayward, haughty feet

  To fix his power in dust.

For him were warning voices dumb,

  And idol altars high;

The lightning flashes did not come,

  And the days drifted by.

Even more--the loftiest spirits of good,

  Who strove to stay his power,

Bore witness to his lust for blood

  In many a martyr hour.^[5]

God is not mocked. The silence stirs;

  The time of grace is past;

And now the all-fateful messengers

  Have reached the king at last.

Trailed in the dust, no succor nigh,

  Around him darkness, fear,

Mourned he at last, "If I might die,

  Or if--the Lord would hear!"

True heart! Life's shadows come and go;

  (Dark shadows o'er thee rest);

But in thy love and in thy woe

  Alike thou must be blest:

For comfort o'er those souls must sweep

  Through years of misery,

Who love and tenderness can keep

  As in the days gone by!

A maid most rarely beautiful

  Thou wast, and true and sweet,

When first a heart's devotion full

  Was lavished at thy feet!

And when that love thou didst return

  With youth's divinest trust,

Ah, me! what happiest fires may burn,

  And yet die down to dust!

Thine has not died--through strife and sin,

  Malice of leaguered foes,

Thy constancy its way would win,

  Thy Spirit firmer rose.

All Satan's power thou hast repelled,

  And only kept in view

That which thy love-dreams first beheld,

  The honored and the true!

Whate'er the end, O woman fair!

  Whether at last may break

The light of hope above despair,

  Or even for thy sweet sake--

One truth is clear--God's gracious sign,

  Till our last suns have set--

This love and constancy of thine

  Shall be remembered yet!

A sunbeam on a darkening plain,

  Flower on a snow-cliff's brow;

Such in this world of toil and pain,

  O dearest Mab, wert thou!

I look back, back upon the days--

  The days so few, so sweet--

When I, too, walked along the ways

  Trod by those childish feet.

All was so little, yet so much!

  A presence light and fair--

An earnest look, a finger-touch,

  A gleam of golden hair.

It was a hidden, magic time

  Outside the gates of strife;

A glimpse of Heavenly love sublime

  Shed on this pilgrim life.

Dear Mab! I run my mournful race;

  My heart would almost say:

"Plead for me at the throne of grace

  As in that vanished day!"

But no--ah, no! The tenderest tone

  That earthly love could give

Shows naught beside His love unknown

  Who died that we might live.

Sweet Mab! thy little force was spent

  In journeying to the tomb;

Thou wert not given to us, but lent--

  A bud that might not bloom!

God's mercy tempers, full and free,

  The burdens that we bear;

Thou com'st not back to us, but we

  May live to meet thee there!

Away, away! It is not I

  (As in days of happier breath)

Who every moment seem to die,

  Breathing this air of death!

Not so--yet God is merciful,

  And there are blessed hours

When, through this trance of anguish dull,

  Pierces the scent of flowers;

And o'er long terraces I rove,

  Where I have walked my last--

Dream-splendors come to me, my love,

  As sweet as in the past!

A holy fire expands thy breast,

  Its passion lights thy brow;

Brave land! If e'er thou wouldst be blest,

  Keep to this firmness now!

Slaves are we not, to crouch and creep,

  When evil powers are met;

Ah, God be thanked! the heart can leap--

  We have a Country yet.

Life is not much when manhood wanes

  And self-respect is dead;

There is many and many a sin that chains

  The living to the dead.

In every heart, in each career,

  Some conflict there must be;

God gives to generous spirits here

  The happiest destiny.

All strength be thine, fair Western land!

  May hope and victory meet--

Uplift thy power on every hand

  Bring blessings to thy feet!

For the world's glance will follow thee

  With longing and with tears;

Thou bear'st the banner of the free,

  To consecrate the years.

Benign, blest country! Thou shalt lead

  The van of hope and power;

All who have helped thee in thy need,

  Rejoice in triumph's hour.

The smile of bright Prosperity

  Rest on thy hills and plains,

And the strong touch of Liberty

  Pour life into thy veins!

Mysterious world! the clouds of fear

  Are lowering on thy brow;

Spirits of evil, far and near,

  Lean from their watch-tower now.

But God reigns yet; His message throws

  Noon on our darkest night

What punishment is meet for those

  Who keep it from our sight?

If thy life were bound up utterly

In some other life--so, walking free

Through the deserts of mortality--

Ah me! how the wise Apostle saith

(With his calming power, like the night-wind's breath),

Would it be, at last, for life or death?

Alas, my heart! look where we will,

  Upon delights or woes,

Life is a mystery, deepening still

  From birth-hour to its close.

Our looks strive upward, but they fall,

  'Twixt longing and despair;

Night's mantle darkens over all,

  And lo--the end is there!

I was not the only one, I know,

  But my heart was racked so sore--

Methought there were few indeed below

  To need thy comfort more!

The heart and flesh go ever down--

  Downward to meet the sod:

But the soul thou liftest to its crown,

  Communion with its God!

A spirit as sweet, beneath the skies,

  As e'er drew mortal breath;

A fair, bright spirit--in her eyes

  The look of early death!

O the cold, indifferent hearts that move

  Along life's common ways!

But with thee, O sweetest! there was Love,

  Its tenderest blame and praise.

And such wondrous graces, rare and free,

  Were gathered to our sight,

Thou seemest, in my memory,

  A gift of flame and light!

O we wander, borne by many a breeze,

  From many a distant strand;

And I voyaged lonely, over seas--

  My life was in my hand.

That desolate life, despairing, dull,

  Caught fire from thy sweet breath;

Thou, young, beloved and beautiful--

  And I--to see thy death!

But thou hast a happier home than this,

  Poor child of light and love!

A home of righteousness and bliss,

  In the fair fields above.

The storm of life is past for thee,

  Vanished its grief and care;

Thou art in the haven where thou wouldst be,

  Hast met thy Saviour there.

Death is the night, so cool and free;

  Our life the sultry day;

Already fades its light for me;

  I am weary of the way.

Above my bed a tree grows near;

  There sings the nightingale;

She only sings of love; I hear,

  Even in my dreams, her tale.

I wept once in my sleep; I thought

  Thou wast laid within the grave;

I woke, and that dark dream had brought

  Salt tears my cheeks to lave.

I wept once in my sleep; I dreamed

  Thou hadst forsaken me;

I woke, the mournful torrents streamed

  Yet long and bitterly.

I wept once in my sleep; I dreamed

  Thou still to me wast good;

I woke, and yet forever streamed

  My passionate weeping's flood.

Sur l'appuis du monde

Que faut il qu'on fonde?

D'espoir?

Cette mer profonde

En débris feconde

Fait voir

Calme au matin, l'onde

Et l'orage y gronde

Le soir.

In the world's faiths--uncertain, blind--

What is the trust our hearts may find

Hope's dream of light?--

That dim, profound, and treacherous sea,

Fruitful in wrecks and woes to be,

Gives to our sight,

Seems calm at morn--where surging wave

And hurrying tempests howl and rave--

Ere sinks the night!