And bring a pallor into the cheek, And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." SANTA FILOMENA.* And lifts us unawares At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymphlike figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels, bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession," MRS. JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298. Honour to those whose words or deed, Raise us from what is low! The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,— The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, Pass through the glimmering And flit from room to room. The light shone and was spent. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand Nor even shall be wanting here SANDALPHON. HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air,Have you read it,-the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress: With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Into garlands of purple and red; Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediæval tradition, The beautiful strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon, the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, me. It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." CATAWBA WINE. THIS Song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. Of the Scuppernong, And the Muscadel Of whose purple blood For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room And as hollow trees For ever going and coming; Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. By Danube or Guadalquivir, As grows by the Beautiful River. When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, With the fever-pains That have driven the Old World frantic. And after them tumble the mixer; Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, The winds and the birds shall deliver On the banks of the Beautiful River. Ah! how cold are their caresses! Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! O my songs! whose winsome measures Not with steeper fall nor faster, From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling O'er the chords of our existence. Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted Lives, like days in summer, lengthened. Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl! my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer. And the unattained seems nearer When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces; Let us turn and wander thither. THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857 It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.' "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread And the rush of mountain streams MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1841-1846-1858. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, With measured beat and slow, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow When, sleeping in the grove, Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep But some heart, though unknown, Responds, -as if with unseen wings "Where hast thou stayed so long?" IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay pájaros en los nidos antaño.Spanish Proverb. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new; the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight? And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May! |