While, through thy lips and face, arise And white arms crost, The beauty which the summer time That filled thy soul with joyous dread, Yea, every holy influence, In thine eyes to-day is seen, Whatever led thy childish feet, Thy voice is like a fountain, We know not if 't is dark or bright; But, when the great moon hath rolled round, And, sudden-slow, its solemn power Grows from behind its black, clear-edged bound, No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth Into a waving silver flower. THE MOON. My soul was like the sea, Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unrestful and unstaid. Through every rift it foamed in vain, About its earthly prison, Seeking some unknown thing in pain, And sinking restless back again, For yet no moon had risen: And lived but in an aimless seeking. So was my soul; but when 't was full Whispered a dim foreboding, Making its waters meet, As if by an unconscious will, For the moon's silver feet, And now, howe'er its waves above With guidance sure and peaceful, REMEMBERED MUSIC. A FRAGMENT. THICK-RUSHING, like an ocean vast Rising and rising momently, Up to a sudden ecstasy. And then, like minute-drops of rain Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be. SONG. TO M. L. A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first, By morning, and noontide, and evening | As if thy natal stars were flowers nursed: That shook their seeds round thee on earth. Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night. II. But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, And fits his singing, like a cunning In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, timer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. Maker no rather, more, -O no! unmaker The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse let thy soul break in musicthunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs have meant. Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, Where'er there lingers but a shadow of And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurk- As when a sudden burst of rattling Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches The moving globe of being like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. THE FATHERLAND. WHERE is the true man's fatherland? Who doth not hold his soul's own free- Is it alone where freedom is, |