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Beyond sight or hearing

| With lone cries that wander Of human annoyance,

Now hither, now yonder, The little fount gushes,

Like souls doomed of old First smoothly, then dashes

To a mild purgatory; And gurgles and fashes,

But through noonlight and moonlight To the maples and ashes

The little fount tinkles Confiding its joyance ;

Its silver saints'-bells, Unconscious confiding,

That no sprite ill-boding Then, silent and glossy,

May make his abode in
Slips winding and hiding

Those innocent dells.
Through alder-stems mossy,
Through gossamer roots

IV.
Fine as nerves,
That tremble, as shoots

"T is a woodland enchanted ! Through their magnetized curves When the phebe scarce whistles The allurement delicious

Once an hour to his fellow, Of the water's capricious

And, where red lilies flaunted, Thrills, gushes, and swerves.

Balloons from the thistles

Tell summer's disasters,
II.

The butterflies yellow,

As caught in an eddy 'Tis a woodland enchanted !

Of air's silent ocean,
I am writing no fiction ;

Sink, waver, and steady
And this fount, its sole danghter, O'er goats'-beard and asters,
To the woodland was granted

Like souls of dead flowers,
To pour holy water

With aimless emotion Anil win benediction ;

Still lingering unready In summer-noon flushes,

To leave their old bowers ; When all the wood hushes,

And the fount is no dumber, Blue dragon-flies knitting

But still gleams and flashes, To and fro in the sun,

And gurgles and plashes, With sidelong jerk fitting

To the measure of summer ; Sink down on the rushes,

The butterflies hear it, And, motionless sitting,

And spell-bound are holden, Hear it bubble and run,

Still balancing near it
Hear its low inward singing,

O'er the goats'-beard so golden.
With level wings swinging
On green tasselled rushes,
To dream in the sun.

'T is a woodland enchanted !
III.

A vast silver willow,

I know not how planted, 'T is a woodland enchanted!

(This wood is enchanted, The great August noonlight,

And full of surprises) Through myriad rifts slanted,

Stands stemming a billow, Leaf and bole thickly sprinkles

A motionless billow With flickering goid;

Of ankle-deep mosses ; There, in warm August gloaming, Two great roots it crosses With quick, silent brightenings, To make a round basin, From meadow-lands roaming,

And there the Fount rises; The firefly twinkles

Ah, too pure a mirror His fitful heat-lightnings;

For one sick of error There the magical moonlight

To see his sad face in ! With meek, saintly glory

No dew-drop is stiller Steeps suminit and wold;

In its lupin-leaf setting There whippoorwills plain in the soli- Than this water moss-bounded; tudes hoary

But a tiny sand-pillar

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From the bottom keeps jetting,
And mermaid ne'er sounded
Through the wreaths of a shell,
Down amid crimson dulses
In some dell of the ocean,
A melody sweeter
Than the delicate pulses,
The soft, noiseless metre,
The pause and the swell
Of that musical motion;
I recall it, not see it;
Could vision be clearer ?
Half I'm fain to draw nearer,
Half tempted to flee it;
The sleeping Past wake not,
Beware!
One forward step take not,
Ah! break not
That quietude rare !
By my step unaffrighted
A thrush hops before it,
And o'er it
A birch hangs delighted,
Dipping, dipping, dipping its tremu.

lous hair;
Pure as the fountain, once
I came to the place,
(How dare I draw nearer ?)
I bent o'er its mirror,
And saw a child's face
Mid locks of bright gold in it;
Yes, pure as this fountain once-
Since, how much error!
Too holy a mirror
For the man to behold in it
His harsh, bearded countenance !

It shapes as it pleases, Unharmed by the breezes, Its fine hanging gardens ? Hast those in thy keeping, And canst not uncover, Enchantedly sleeping, The old shade of thy lover? It is there! I have found it ! He wakes, the long sleeper! The pool is grown deeper, The sand dance is ending, The white floor sinks, blending With skies that below me Are deepening and bending, And a child's face alone That seems not to know me, With hair that fades golden In the heaven-glow round it, Looks up at my own; Ah, glimpse through the portal That leads to the throne, That opes the child's olden Regions Elysian! Ah, too holy vision For thy skirts to be holden By soiled hand of mortal! It wavers, it scatters, 'Tis gone past recalling! A tear's sudden falling The magic cup shatters, Breaks the spell of the waters, And the sand cone once more, With a ceaseless renewing, Its dance is pursuing On the silvery floor, O'er and o'er, With a noiseless and ceaseless renewing.

VI.

VII.

'T is a woodland enchanted !
Ah, fly unreturning!
Yet stay; -
"T is a woodland enchanted,
Where wonderful chances
Have sway ;
Luck flees from the cold one
But leaps to the bold one
Half-way;
Why should I be daunted ?
Still the smooth mirror glances,
Still the amber sand dances,
One look, - then away!
O magical glass!
Canst keep in thy bosom
Shades of leaf and of blossom
When summer days pass,
So that when thy wave hardens

'Tis a woodland enchanted !
If you ask me, Where is it?
I can but make answer,
“ 'T is past my di-closing;"
Not to choice is it granted
By sure paths to visit
The still pool enclosing
Its blithe little dancer;
But in some day, the rarest
Of many Septembers,
When the pulses of air rest,
And all things lie dreaming
In drowsy haze steaming
From the wood's glowing embers,
Then, sometimes, unheeding,
And asking not whither,
By a sweet inward leading

My feet are drawn thither,

| As one lamp lights another, nor grows And, looking with awe in the magical less, mirror,

So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.
I see through my tears,
Half doubtful of seeing,

That inward light the stranger's face The face unperverted,

made grand, The warm golden being

Which shines from all self-conquest; Of a child of five years ;

kneeling low, And spite of the mists and the error, He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's And the days overcast,

hand, Can feel that I walk undeserted, Sobbing: “O Sheik, I cannot leave thee But forever attended

so; By the glad heavens that bended

I will repay thee; all this thou hast O'er the innocent past;

done Toward fancy or truth

Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son !" Doth the sweet vision win me? Dare I think that I cast

"Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, In the fountain of youth

“for with thee The fleeting reflection

Into the desert, never to return, Of some bygone perfection

My one black thought shall ride away That still lingers in me ?

from me;
First-born, for whom by day and night

I yearn,
YUSSOUF.

Balanced and just are all of God's de

crees ; A STRANGER came one night to Yus- Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep souf's tent,

in peace !" Saying, “Behold one outcast and in

dread, Against whose life the bow of power is THE DARKENED MIND.

bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay The fire is burning clear and blithely, his head ;

Pleasantly whistles the winter wind; I come to thee for shelter and for food, We are about thee, thy friends and kinTo Yussouf, called through all our tribes dred, The Good.'

On us all Aickers the firelight kind ;

There thou sittest in thy wonted corner “This tent is mine," said Yussouf, “but Lone and awful in thy darkened mind.

no more Than it is God's ; come in, and be at There thou sittest; now and then thou peace;

moanest; Freely shalt thou partake of all my Thou dost talk with what we cannot see, store

Lookest at us with an eye so doubtful, As I of His who buildeth over these It doth put us very far from thee; Our tents his glorious roof of night and There thou sittest ; we would fain be day,

nigh thee, And at whose door none ever yet heard But we know that it can never be. | Nay.”

We can touch thee, still we are no So Yussouf entertained his guest that nearer ; night,

Gather round thee, still thou art alone; And, waking him ere day, said : “Here The wide chasm of reason is between us; is gold;

Thou confutest kindness with a moan ; My swiftest horse is saddled for thy We can speak to thee, and thou canst flight;

answer, Depart before the prying day grow Like two prisoners through a wall of bold.”

stone.

WHAT RABBI JEHOSHA SAID. — A WINTER-EVENING HYMN. 377

fame.

Hardest heart would call it very awful

ALL-SAINTS. When thou look'st at us and seest - 0, what?

ONE feast, of holy days the crest, If we move away, thou sittest gazing I, though no Churchman, love to With those vague eyes at the selfsame

keep, spot,

All-Saints, — the unknown good that And thou mutterest, thy hands thou rest wringest,

In God's still memory folded deep; Seeing something, — us thou seëst not. The bravely dumb that did their deed,

And scorned to blot it with a name,

Men of the plain heroic breed, Strange it is that, in this open bright

That loved Heaven's silence more than ness, Thou shouldst sit in such a narrow cell ; Strange it is that thou shouldst be so

Such lived not in the past alone, lonesome Where those are who love thee all so

But thread to-day the unheeding well;

street,. Not so much of thee is left among us

And stairs to Sin and Famine known As the hum outliving the hushed bell.

Sing with the welcome of their feet; The den they enter grows a shrine,

The grimy sash an oriel burns,

Their cup of water warms like wine, WHAT RABBI JEHOSHA SAID. Their speech is filled from heavenly

urns. RABBI JEHOSHA used to say That God made angels every day,

About their brows to me appears Perfect as Michael and the rest

An aureole traced in tenderest light, First brooded in creation's nest,

The rainbow-gleam of smiles through Whose only office was to cry

tears Hosanna ! once, and then to die;

In dying eyes, by them made bright, Or rather, with Life's essence blent,

Of souls that shivered on the edge To be led home from banishment.

Of that chill ford repassed no more,

And in their mercy felt the pledge Rabbi Jehosha had the skill

And sweetness of the farther shore. To know that Heaven is in God's will ; And doing that, though for a space One heart-beat long, may win a grace A WINTER-EVENING HYMN TO MY As full of grandeur and of glow

FIRE As Princes of the Chariot know.

I.

'T were glorious, no doubt, to be BEAUTY on my hearth-stone blazing!
One of the strong-winged Hierarchy, To-night the triple Zoroaster
To burn with Seraphs, or to shine Shall my prophet be and master :
With Cherubs, deathlessly divine ; To-night will I pure Magian be,
Yet I, perhaps, poor earthly clod, Hymns to thy sole honor raising,
Could I forget myself in God,

While thou leapest fast and faster,
Could I but find my nature's clew Wild with self-delighted glee,
Simply as birds and blossoms do, Or sink'st low and glowest faintly
And but for one rapt moment know As an aureole still and saintly,
'Tis Heaven must come, not we must go, Keeping cadence to my praising
Should win my place as near the throne Thee! still thee! and only thee!
As the pearl-angel of its zone,
And God would listen mid the throng
For my one breath of perfect song,
That, in its simple human way,

Elfish daughter of Apollo !
Said all the Host of Heaven could say. Thee, from thy father stolen and bound

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To serve in Vulcan's clangorous smithy |
Prometheus (primal Yankee) found,
And, when he had tampered with thee,

| But when we make a friend of thee, (Too confiding little maid !)

And admit thee to the hall, In a reed's precarious hollow

On our nights of festival, To our frozen earth conveyed :

Then, Cinderella, who could see For he swore I know not what ;

In thee the kitchen's stunted thrall ? Endless ease should be thy lot,

Once more a Princess lithe and tall, Pleasure that should never falter,

Thou dancest with a whispering tread,

While the bright marvel of thy head Lifelong play, and not a duty Save to hover o'er the altar,

In crinkling gold floats all abroad, Vision of celestial beauty,

And gloriously dost vindicate Fed with precious woods and spices ;

The legend of thy lineage great, Then, perfidious! having got

Earth-exiled daughter of the Pythian Thee in the net of his devices,

god! Sold thee into endless slavery,

Now in the ample chimney-place, Made thee a drudge to boil the pot,

To honor thy acknowledged race, Thee, Helios' daughter, who dost bear

We crown thee high with laurel good, His likeness in thy golden hair ;

Thy shining father's sacred wood, Thee, by nature wild and wavery,

Which, guessing thy ancestral right, Palpitating, evanescent

Sparkles and snaps its dumb delight, As the shade of Dian's crescent,

And, at thy touch, poor outcast one, Life, motion, gladness, everywhere!

Feels through its gladdened fibres go
The tingle and thrill and vassal glow
Of instincts loyal to the sun.

III.

Fathom deep men bury thee
In the furnace dark and still,

O thou of home the guardian Lar,
There, with dreariest mockery,

And, when our earth hath wandered far Making thee eat, against thy will,

Into the cold, and deep snow covers Blackest Pennsylvanian stone;

The walks of our New England lovers, But thou dost avenge thy doom,

Their sweet secluded evening-star ! For, from out thy catacomb,

'T was with thy rays the English Muse

Ripened her mild domestic hues ;
Day and night thy wrath is blown
In a withering simoom,

'T was by thy flicker that she conned

The fireside wisdom that enrings
And, adown that cavern drear,
Thy black pitfall in the floor,

With light from heaven familiar things; Staggers the lusty antique clieer,

By thee she found the homely faith
Despairing, and is seen no more!

In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th,
When Death, extinguishing his torch,

Gropes for the latch-string in the porch;
IV.

The love that wanders not beyond

His earliest nest, but sits and sings Elfish I may rightly name thee; While children smooth his patient We enslave, but cannot tame thee;

wings; With fierce snatches, now and then, Therefore with thee I love to read Thou pluckest at thy right again, Our brave old poets : at thy touch how And thy down-trod instincts savage

stirs To stealthy insurrection creep,

Life in the withered words ! how swift While thy wittol masters sleep,

recede And burst in undiscerning ravage: Time's shadows ! and how glows again Then how thou shak'st thy bacchant Through its dead mass the incandescent locks!

verse, While brazen pulses, far and near, As when upon the anvils of the brain Throb thick and thicker, wild with fear It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought And dread conjecture, till the drear By the fast-throbbing hammers of the Disordered clangor every steeple rocks! | poet's thought !

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