THE CHARTIST'S COMPLAINT. 113 A sycophant to smug success? Will the sweet sky and ocean broad O Sun! I curse thy cruel ray : Back, back to chaos, harlot Day! MY GARDEN. I could put my woods in song, And tell what's there enjoyed, In my plot no tulips blow, Snow-loving pines and oaks instead ; And rank the savage maples grow From spring's faint flush to autumn red. My garden is a forest ledge Which older forests bound; The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge, Then plunge to depths profound. Here once the Deluge ploughed, Laid the terraces, one by one; Ebbing later whence it flowed, NIVERSITY They bleach and dry in the sun. OF CALIFORNIA. The sowers made haste to depart, The wind and the birds which sowed it; Not for fame, nor by rules of art, Planted these, and tempests flowed it. Waters that wash my garden side They heed not moon or solar tide, Keen ears can catch a syllable, As if one spake to another, In the hemlocks tall, untamable, And what the whispering grasses smother. Eolian harps in the pine Ring with the song of the Fates; Infant Bacchus in the vine, Far distant yet his chorus waits. Canst thou copy in verse one chime Wonderful verse of the gods, Of one import, of varied tone; They chant the bliss of their abodes To man imprisoned in his own. Ever the words of the gods resound; But the porches of man's ear Seldom in this low life's round Are unsealed, that he may hear. Wandering voices in the air, And murmurs in the wold, Speak what I cannot declare, Yet cannot all withhold. When the shadow fell on the lake, The whirlwind in ripples wrote Air-bells of fortune that shine and break, And omens above thought. But the meanings cleave to the lake, |