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That all paths to the Father lead | The figure of a woman veiled, that said, Where Self the feet have spurned. “My name is Duty, turn and follow

me"; And, as the mystic aisles I pace, Something there was that chilled me in By aureoled workmen built,

her voice; Lives ending at the Cross I trace I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold Alike through grace and guilt;

in mine, One Mary bathes the blessed feet As if to be withdrawn, and I exclaimed: With ointment from her eyes,

“O, leave the hot wild heart within my With spikenard one, and both are sweet, breast ! For both are sacrifice.

Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes

Death; Moravian hymn and Roman chant

This slippery globe of life whirls of itself, In one devotion blend,

Hasting our youth away into the dark To speak the soul's eternal want

These senses, quivering with electric Of Him, the inmost friend;

heats, One prayer soars cleansed with martyr Too soon will show, like nests on wintry fire,

boughs One choked with sinner's tears,

Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck, In heaven both meet in one desire,

Which whistling north-winds line with And God one music hears.

downy snow

Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out

in vain,

Clash out Thither the singing birds no more reUpon the Sabbath air, Each seems a hostile faith to shout,

turn." A selfish form of prayer; My dream is shattered, yet who knows

Then glowed to me a maiden from the But in that heaven so near

left,

With bósom half disclosed, and naked These discords find harmonious close

arms In God's atoning ear?

More white and undulant than necks of

swans; O chime of sweet Saint Charity,

And all before her steps an influence ran Peal soon that Easter morn

Warm as the whispering South that When Christ for all shall risen be,

opens buds And in all hearts new-born !

And swells the laggard sails of Northern That Pentecost when utterance clear To all men shall be given,

“I am called Pleasure, come with me!" When all shall say My Brother here,

she said, And hear My Son in heaven ! Then laughed, and shook out sunshine

from her hair,

Nor only that, but, so it seemed, shook THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.

out

All memory too, and all the moonlit Who hath not been a poet ? Who hath past, not,

Old loves, old aspirations, and old With life's new quiver full of winged dreams, years,

More beautiful for being old and gone. Shot at a venture, and then, following

| So we two went together; downward Stood doubtful at the Parting of the sloped Ways ?

The path through yellow meads, or so I

dreamed, There once I stood in dream, and as I | Yellow with sunshine and young green,

paused, Looking this way and that, came forth Saw naught nor heard, shut up in one to me

close joy;

May.

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but I

I only felt the hand within my own, Stood forth and beckoned, and I followed
Transmuting all my blood to golden fire, now :
Dissolving all my brain in throbbing Down to no bower of roses led the
mist.

path,

But through the streets of towns where Suddenly shrank the hand ; suddenly chattering Cold burst

Hewed wood for fires whose glow was A cry that split the torpor of my brain, owned and fenced, And as the first sharp thrust of lightning Where Nakedness wove garments of loosens

warm wool From the heaped cloud its rain, loosened Not for itself; - or through the fields it my sense :

led “Save me!” it thrilled ; “0, hide me! Where Hunger reaped the unattainable there is Death !

grain, Death the divider, the unmerciful, Where Idleness enforced saw idle lands, That digs his pitfalls under Love and Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common Youth

earth, And covers Beauty up in the cold Walled round with paper against God ground;

and Man. Horrible Death! bringer of endless dark ;“ I cannot look," I groaned, “at only Let him not see me! hide me in thy these ; breast !”

The heart grows hardened with perpetThereat I strove to clasp her, but my ual wont, arms

And palters with a feigned necessity, Met only what slipped crumbling down, Bargaining with itself to be content; and fell,

Let me behold thy face.” A handful of gray ashes, at my feet.

The Form replied :

“Men follow Duty, never overtake; I would have fled, I would have followed Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks behind.” back

But, as she spake, a loosened lock of That pleasant path we came, but all was hair changed ;

Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, Rocky the way, abrupt, and hard to find; who looked Yet I toiled on, and, toiling on, iTo see it gray and thin, saw amplest thought,

gold; “That way lies Youth, and Wisdom, Not that dull metal dug from sordid and all Good;

earth, For only by unlearning Wisdom comes | But such as the retiring sunset food And climbing backward to diviner Leaves heaped on bays and capes of Youth ;

island cloud. What the world teaches profits to the “O Guide divine," I prayed, “although world,

not yet What the soul teaches profits to the soul, I may repair the virtue which I feel Which then first stands erect with God Gone out at touch of untuned things ward face,

and foul When she lets fall her pack of withered With draughts of Beauty, yet declare facts,

how soon !" The gleanings of the outward eye and ear,

« Faithless and faint of heart," the voice And looks and listens with her finer returned, sense ;

“Thou see'st no beauty save thou make Nor Truth nor Knowledge cometh from it first; without."

Man, Woman, Nature, each is but a

glass After long weary days I stood again Where the soul sees the image of herAnd waited at the Parting of the Ways; self, Again the figure of a woman veiled | Visible echoes, offsprings of herself.

But, since thou need'st assurance of how | Since last, dear friend, I clasped your soon,

hand, Wait till that angel comes who opens And stood upon the impoverished land, all,

Watching the steamer down the bay. The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death." I held the token which you gave,

While slowly the smoke-pennon curled I waited, and methought he came ; but O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, how,

And shut the distance like a grave, Or in what shape, I doubted, for no Leaving me in the colder world.

sign, By touch or mark, he gave me as he The old worn world of hurry and heat, passed :

The young, fresh world of thought and Only I knew a lily that I held

scope, Snapt short below the head and shriv. While you, where beckoning billows elled up;

fleet Then turned my Guide and looked at Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, me unveiled,

Sank wavering down the ocean-slope. And I beheld no face of matron stern, But that enchantment I had followed You sought the new world in the old, erst,

| I found the old world in the new, Only more fair, more clear to eve and | All that our human hearts can hold, brain,

The inward world of deathless mould, Heightened and chastened by a house. The same that Father Adam knew.

hold charm; She smiled, and '' Which is fairer," said He needs no ship to cross the tide, her eyes,

Who, in the lives about him, sees “ The hag's unreal Florimel or mine ?". Fair window-prospects opening wide

O'er history's fields on every side,

To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece. ALADDIN.

Whatever moulds of various brain When I was a beggarly boy,

E'er shaped the world to weal or woe, And lived in a cellar damp,

Whatever empires' wax and wane, I had not a friend nor a toy,

To him that hath not eyes in vain, But I had Aladdin's lamp;

Our village-microcosm can show. When I could not sleep for the cold,

I had fire enough in my brain, Come back our ancient walks to tread, And builded, with roofs of gold,

Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, My beautiful castles in Spain ! Old Harvard's scholar-factories red,

Where song and smoke and laughter Since then I have toiled day and night, sped

I have money and power good store, The nights to proctor-haunted ends. But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,

Constant are all our former loves, For the one that is mine no inore ; Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond, Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves,

You gave, and may snatch again ; Where floats the coot and never moves, I have nothing 't would pain me to lose, Its slopes of long

| Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond. For I own no more castles in Spain !

Our old familiars are not laid,
AN INVITATION.

Though snapt our wands and sunk our
TO J. F. H.

books;

They beckon, not to be gainsaid, NINE years have slipt like hour-glass Where, round broad meads that mowers sand

wade, From life's still-eniptying globe away, The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks.

here, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, | Against the beach's yellow zone, From glow to gloom the hillsides shift | Curl slow, and plunge forever in. Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, | And, as we watch those canvas towers Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift. La summer drift. That lean along the horizon's rim,

“Sail on,” I'll say ; “may sunniest There have we watched the West unfurl | hours A cloud Byzantium newly born,

Convoy you from this land of ours, With flickering spires and domes of

Since from my side you bear not him!” pearl, And vapory surfs that crowd and curl For years thrice three, wise Horace said, Into the sunset's Golden Horn.

A poem rare let silence bind;

And love may ripen in the shade, There, as the flaming occident

Like ours, for nine long seasons laid Burned slowly down to ashes gray,

In deepest arches of the mind.
Night pitched o'erhead her silent tent,
And glimmering gold from Hespersprent

Come back! Not ours the Old World's Upon the darkened river lay,

good,

The Old World's ill, thank God, not Where a twin sky but just before

ours ; Deepened, and double swallows skimmed,

But here, far better understood, And, from a visionary shore,

The days enforce our native mood, Hung visioned trees, that more and

And challenge all our manlier powers. more

Kindlier to me the place of birth Grew dusk as those above were dimmed.

That first my tottering footsteps trod ;

| There may be fairer spots of earth, Then eastward saw we slowly grow

But all their glories are not worth Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, The virtue in the native sod. While creat elm-masses blacken slow, And linden-ricks their round heads Thence climbs an influence more benign show

Through pulse and nerve, through heart Against a flush of widening fire.

and brain ;

Sacred to me those fibres fine Doubtful at first and far away,

That first clasped earth. O, ne'er be The moon-flood creeps more wide and mine wide ;

The alien sun and alien rain! Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray, Curved round the east as round a bay, These nourish not like homelier glows It slips and spreads its gradual tide. Or waterings of familiar skies,

And nature fairer blooms bestows Then suddenly, in lurid mood,

On the heaped hush of wintry snows, The moon looms large o'er town and in pastures dear to childhood's eyes,

field As upon Adam, red like blood,

Than where Italian earth receives "Tween him and Eden's happy wood, The partial sunshine's ampler boons, Glared the commissioned angel's shield. Where vines carve friezes 'neath the

eaves, Or let us seek the seaside, there

And, in dark firmaments of leaves,
To wander idly as we list,

The orange lifts its golden moons.
Whether, on rocky headlands bare,
Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear
The trailing fringes of gray mist,

THE NOMADES.
Or whether, under skies full flown, What Nature makes in any mood
The brightening surfs, with foamy din, To me is warranted for good,
Their breeze-caught forelocks backward Though long before I learned to see
blown,

She did not set us moral theses,

And scorned to have her sweet caprices The beach-bird on its pearly verge
Strait-waistcoated in you or me.

Follows and flies the whispering surge,

While, in his tent, the rock-stayed sheli I, who take root and firmly cling, Awaits the flood's star-timed vibrations, Thought fixedness the only thing;

And both, the flutter and the patience, Why Nature made the butterflies, The sauntering poet loves them well. (Those dreams of wings that foat and hover

Fulfil so much of God's decree
At noon the slumberous poppies over,) As works its problem out in thee,
Was something hidden from mine eyes,

Nor dream that in thy breast alone
The conscience of the changeful seasons,

The Will that in the planets reasons
Till once, upon a rock's brown bosom,
Bright as a thorny cactus-blossom,

With space-wide logic, has its throne. I saw a butterfly at rest;

Thy virtue makes not vice of mine, Then first of both I felt the beauty;

Unlike, but none the less divine; The airy whim, the grim-set duty, Thy toil adorns, not chides, my play; Each from the other took its best.

Nature of sameness is so chary,

With such wild whim the freakish fairy Clearer it grew than winter sky

Picks presents for the christening-day.
That Nature still had reasons why;
And, shifting sudden as a breeze,
My fancy found no satisfaction,

SELF-STUDY.
No antithetic sweet attraction,
So great as in the Nomades.

A PRESENCE both by night and day,

That made my life seem just begun, Scythians, with Nature not at strife,

Yet scarce a presence, rather say Light Arabs of our complex life,

The warning aureole of one. They build no houses, plant no mills

And yet I felt it everywhere; To utilize Time's sliding river,

Walked I the woodland's aisles along, Content that it flow waste forever,

It seemed to brush me with its hair; If they, like it, may have their wills.

Bathed I, I heard a mermaid's song. An hour they pitch their shifting tents How sweet it was! A buttercup In thoughts, in feelings, and events; Could hold for me a day's delight, Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass, A bird could lift my fancy up They sing, they dance, make love, and To ether free from cloud or blight.

chatter, Vex the grim temples with their clatter, Who was the nymph? Nay, I will see, And make Truth's fount their looking Methought, and I will know her near; glass.

If such, divined, her charm can be,

Seen and possessed, how triply dear! A picnic life; from love to love, From faith to faith they lightly move,

So every magic art I tried, And yet, hard-eyed philosopher,

And spells as numberless as sand, The flightiest maid that ever hovered

Until, one evening, by my side To me your thought-webs fine discov

I saw her glowing fulness stand.

I turned to clasp her, but "Farewell,” No lens to see them through like her.

Parting she sighed, “we meet no more;

Not by my hand the curtain fell So witchingly her finger-tips

That leaves you conscious, wise, and To Wisdom, as away she trips,

poor. She kisses, waves such sweet farewells To Duty, as she laughs “ To-morrow!” “Since you have found me out, I go; That both from that mad contrast bor Another lover I must find, row

Content his happiness to know,
A perfectness found nowhere else. | Nor strive its secret to unwind."

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