EARLIER POEMS. THRENODIA. When his glad mother on him stole GONE, gone from us! and shall we see O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, Those sibyl-leaves of destiny, That would have soared like strong winged birds Those deep, dark eyes so warm and Far, far into the skies, bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man The stars of those two gentle eyes As we watched them slowly rise, And she would read them o'er and o'er, Gladding the earth with song, Had he but tarried with us long! How peacefully they rest, Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er were But ever sported with his mother's hair, wore ! Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, sweet. How quiet are the hands But that they do not rise and sink The tongue that scarce had learned to Alas! too deep, too deep claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name, Fluttering with half-fledged words, That more than words expressed, Is this his slumber! The years ere he shall wake again. As the airy gossamere, oar; Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest forevermore ! Forevermore !" And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore! Thus, on Life's weary sea, Is it not better here to be, To see the still seals only Making it yet more lonely? A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Ever waiting there for thee: And snorting through the angry spray, In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Voices sad, from far and near, Here all is pleasant as a dream; Here is a gush of many streams, And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees So smooth the sand, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land; All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly, As if they fain would seek the shore, Forevermore. Far down into her large and patient eyes So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free; The garden of her soul still keepeth she A dignity as moveless as the centre; Unto her queenly soul doth minister. Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that be, Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open is as eglantine full blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book. A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake; The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's clear law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;- -a holy awe For holy things, not those which men call holy, But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and But hath gone calmly forth into the Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The darkness is pressing coldly around, The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the shell of this great world? Why should we any more be alone? Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! O, 't is a bitter and dreary word, WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. THIS little blossom from afar Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, The changeful April sky of chance Some of thy pensiveness serene, That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, A little of thy merriment, “He loves me, loves me not," she cries; Of thy sparkling, light content, "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" Give me, my cheerful brook, That I may still be full of glee And then glad tears have filled her eyes And gladsomeness, where'er I be, To find the number was uneven. And thou must count its petals well, But here at home, where we were born, For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, THE BEGGAR. A BEGGAR through the world am I, From place to place I wander by. Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity! A little of thy steadfastness, That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest - shock and withering blight, That I may keep at bay Though fickle fate hath prisoned me Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaven help me! how could I forget That blossoms here as well, unseen, MY LOVE. I. NOT as all other women are II. Great feelings hath she of her own, III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; |