I hear the cry Of their voices high These have passed over it, or may have Falling dreamily through the sky, passed! Now in this crystal tower But their forms 1 cannot see. Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, O, say not so! It counts the passing hour. And as I gaze, these narrow walls ex pand; Before my dreamy eye Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Stretches the desert with its shifting Of the poet's songs, sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, This little golden thread Dilates into a column high and vast, And onward, and across the setting sun, Across the boundless plain, The column and its broader shadow run, Till thought pursues in vain. Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words. This is the cry On toiling, beating pinions, fly, From their distant flight It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. Shape the thought that stirs within Patiently, and still expectant, thee!" And the startled artist woke, Woke, and from the smoking embers And therefrom he carved an image, O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! Take this lesson to thy heart : That is best which lieth nearest ; Shape from that thy work of art. PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, It was Autumn, and incessant Looked he through the wooden bars, Till at length the bell at midnight Then, with nostrils wide distended, To those stars he soared again. On the morrow, when the village Piped the quails from shocks and From that hour, the fount unfailing sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found; Then the sombre village crier, And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Thus the day passed, and the evening Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. TEGNER'S DRAPA. I HEARD a voice, that cried, I saw the pallid corpse Borne through the Northern sky. Lifted the sheeted mists And the voice forever cried, Balder the Beautiful, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior's sword. All things in earth and air Hoeder, the blind old God, They laid him in his ship, A ring upon his finger, They launched the burning ship! Till like the sun it seemed, So perish the old Gods! Walk the young bards and sing. Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before! Ye fathers of the new race, The law of force is dead! Shall rule the earth no more, Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood! But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright SUSPIRIA. TAKE them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone! Take them, O Grave! and let them lie Folded upon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the soul laid by, And precious only to ourselves! Take them, O great Eternity! Our little life is but a gust That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust! HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet one thing more; If thou wouldst perfect be, Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, Within this temple Christ again, unseen, And evermore beside him on his way Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on! |