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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
Those innocent dells.
"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,
The butterflies yellow,
As caught in an eddy 'Tis a woodland enchanted !
Of air's silent ocean,
Sink, waver, and steady
Like souls of dead flowers,
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
O'er the goats'-beard so golden.
'T is a woodland enchanted !
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
From the bottom keeps jetting,
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.
'T is a woodland enchanted !
'Tis a woodland enchanted !
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.
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 ?
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.”
WHAT RABBI JEHOSHA SAID. — A WINTER-EVENING HYMN. 377
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
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.
'T were glorious, no doubt, to be BEAUTY on my hearth-stone blazing!
While thou leapest fast and faster,
Elfish daughter of Apollo !
To serve in Vulcan's clangorous smithy |
| 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
Fathom deep men bury thee
O thou of home the guardian Lar,
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 ;
'T was by thy flicker that she conned
The fireside wisdom that enrings
With light from heaven familiar things; Staggers the lusty antique clieer,
By thee she found the homely faith
In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th,
Gropes for the latch-string in the porch;
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 !