Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. For thy sure approach perceiving, In my constancy and pain I new life should win again, Thinking that I am not living. So to me, unconscious lying, All unknown thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me.
Unto him who finds thee hateful, Death, thou art inhuman pain; But to me, who dying gain, Life is but a task ungrateful. Come, then, with my wish complying, All unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me.
Glove of black in white hand bare, And about her forehead pale Wound a thin, transparent veil, That doth not conceal her hair; Sovereign attitude and air, Cheek and neck alike displayed, With coquettish charms arrayed, Laughing eyes and fugitive; This is killing men that live, 'Tis not mourning for the dead.
WHEN the Summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT. HAVE I dreamed? or was it real, What I saw as in a vision,
When to marches hymeneal
In the land of the Ideal
Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian? What are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances
As with magic circles bound me? 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 Filled my heart with secret rapture! Children of my golden leisures! Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture?
Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, When they came to me unbidden ; Voices single, and in chorus, Like the wild birds singing o'er us In the dark of branches hidden.
Disenchantment!
Disillusion ! Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation ?
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 Of unrest and long resistance Is but passionate appealing, A prophetic whisper stealing
O'er the chords of our existence.
Him whom thou dost once enamor, Thou, beloved, never leavest; In life's discord, strife, and clamor, Still he feels thy spell of glamour; Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest.
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin.
As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
But from the parlor of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir: Oft interrupted by the din Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlor large and low; It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, It touched with more than wonted grace Fair Princess Mary's pictured face; It bronzed the rafters overhead, On the old spinet's ivory keys
It played inaudible melodies,
It crowned the sombre clock with flame, The hands, the hours, the maker's name, And painted with a livelier red The Landlord's coat-of-arms again; And, flashing on the window-pane, Emblazoned with its light and shade The jovial rhymes, that still remain, Writ near a century ago, By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.
Before the blazing fire of wood Erect the rapt musician stood;
And ever and anon he bent His head upon his instrument, And seemed to listen, till he caught Confessions of its secret thought, The joy, the triumph, the lament, The exultation and the pain; Then, by the magic of his art,
He soothed the throbbings of its heart, And lulled it into peace again.
Around the fireside at their ease There sat a group of friends, entranced With the delicious melodies; Who from the far-off noisy town Had to the wayside inn come down, To rest beneath its old oak-trees. The fire-light on their faces glanced, Their shadows on the wainscot danced, And, though of different lands and speech,
Each had his tale to tell, and each Was anxious to be pleased and please. And while the sweet musician plays, Let me in outline sketch them all, Perchance uncouthly as the blaze With its uncertain touch portrays Their shadowy semblance on the wall.
But first the Landlord will I trace; Grave in his aspect and attire ; A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, And in the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed; He beareth gules upon his shield, A chevron argent in the field,
With three wolf's heads, and for the crest A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed Upon a helmet barred; below
And yet a friend of solitude; A man of such a genial mood The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good. Books were his passion and delight, And in his upper room at home Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, In vellum bound, with gold bedight, Great volumes garmented in white, Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance; Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist, The dusk of centuries and of song. The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, Mingled together in his brain With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.
A young Sicilian, too, was there; In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good King Bomba's happy reign.. His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light; His hands were small; his teeth shone white
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke; His sinews supple and strong as oak; Clean shaven was he as a priest, Who at the mass on Sunday sings,
The scroll reads, "By the name of Save that upon his upper lip
And over this, no longer bright, Though glimmering with a latent light, Was hung the sword his grandsire bore In the rebellious days of yore, Down there at Concord in the fight.
A youth was there, of quiet ways, A Student of old books and days,
To whom all tongues and lands were known
And yet a lover of his own; With many a social virtue graced,
His beard, a good palm's length at least,
Level and pointed at the tip, Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. The poets read he o'er and o'er, And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose, Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make Fiesole's green hills and vales Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. Much too of music was his thought;
The melodies and measures fraught With sunshine and the open air, Of vineyards and the singing sea Of his beloved Sicily;
And much it pleased him to peruse The songs of the Sicilian muse, Bucolic songs by Meli sung
In the familiar peasant tongue,
Lofty as in the love of God, And ample as the wants of man.
A Poet, too, was there, whose verse Was tender, musical, and terse; The inspiration, the delight,
The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem
That made men say, "Behold! once The revelations of a dream,
The pitying gods to earth restore Theocritus of Syracuse!"
A Spanish Jew from Alicant With aspect grand and grave was there; Vender of silks and fabrics rare, And attar of rose from the Levant. Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac, or at least Some later Prophet or High-Priest; With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin,
The tumbling cataract of his beard. His garments breathed a spicy scent Of cinnamon and sandal blent, Like the soft aromatic gales That meet the mariner, who sails Through the Moluccas, and the seas That wash the shores of Celebes. All stories that recorded are By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, And it was rumored he could say The Parables of Sandabar, And all the Fables of Pilpay, Or if not all, the greater part! Well versed was he in Hebrew books, Talmud and Targum, and the lore Of Kabala; and evermore There was a mystery in his looks; His eyes seemed gazing far away, As if in vision or in trance
He heard the solemn sackbut play, And saw the Jewish maidens dance.
A Theologian, from the school Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; Skilful alike with tongue and pen, He preached to all men everywhere The Gospel of the Golden Rule, The New Commandment given to men, Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Would help us in our utmost need. With reverent feet the earth he trod, Nor banished nature from his plan, But studied still with deep research To build the Universal Church,
All these were his; but with them came No envy of another's fame;
He did not find his sleep less sweet For music in some neighboring street, Nor rustling hear in every breeze The laurels of Miltiades.
Honor and blessings on his head While living, good report when dead, Who, not too eager for renown, Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!
Last the Musician, as he stood Illumined by that fire of wood; Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, His figure tall and straight and lithe, And every feature of his face Revealing his Norwegian race; A radiance, streaming from within, Around his eyes and forehead beamed, The Angel with the violin, Painted by Raphael, he seemed.. He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song ; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height; And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, Old ballads, and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth,
Like Elivagar's river flowing Out of the glaciers of the North.
The instrument on which he played Was in Cremona's workshops made, By a great master of the past, Ere yet was lost the art divine; Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolian forests vast
Had rocked and wrestled with the blast: Exquisite was it in design,
Perfect in each minutest part,
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