Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Ασπασίη, τρίλλιστος. And, where the sunshine darted through, I HEARD the trailing garments of the Spread a vapor soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay! Thou art no more a child! ; "The land of Song within thee lies, Its clouds are angels' wings. "Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, "There is a forest where the din "Athwart the swinging branches cast, We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! Yes, into Life's deep stream! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, Be these henceforth thy theme." Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light But to act, that each to-morrow Art is long, and Time is fleeting, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, Footprints on the sands of time; Let us, then, be up and doing, "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.' And the mother gave, in tears and pain, O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 'T was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, O star of strength! I see thee stand Within my breast there is no light The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, No other voice nor sound was there, But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley fast and far I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep churchbell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY. ING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely! [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, "T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives: |