Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, And broke, beneath the sombre weight VII. What warm protection dost thou bend Round curtained talk of friend with friend, While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, To softest outline rounds the roof, Or the rude North with baffled strain Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane! By him with fire, by her with dreams, Thou fill'st the pauses of the speech That close against rude day's offences, VII. Thou holdest not the master key gates Of Past and Future: not for common fates Do they wide open fling, And, with a far-heard ring, Even as I sing, it turns to pain, And with vain tears my eyelids throb and swell: Enough; I come not of the race That hawk their sorrows in the marketplace. Earth stops the ears I best had loved to please; Then break, ye untuned chords, or rust in peace! As if a white-haired actor should come back Some midnight to the theatre void and black, And there rehearse his youth's great part Mid thin applauses of the ghosts, So seems it now: ye crowd upon my heart, And bow down in silence, shadowy hosts! FANCY'S CASUISTRY. How struggles with the tempest's swells Swing back their willing valves melo- As tower to tower confusedly tells diously; News of disaster. But on my far-off solitude Are those, I muse, the Easter chimes? Pay gentle allegiance To the fine quiet that sublimes But where is Truth? What does it mean, The world-old quarrel? Such questionings are idle air: Of fame or gold, but just to wear TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT, And when the storm o'erwhelms the WHO HAD SENT ME A SEVEN-POUND shore, I watch entranced as, o'er and o'er, The light revolves amid the roar So still and saintly, TROUT. FIT for an Abbot of Theleme, For the whole Cardinals' College, or Now large and near, now more and The Pope himself to see in dream more Withdrawing faintly. This, too, despairing sailors see While through the dark the shuddering sea Gropes for the ships. And is it right, this mood of mind Before his lenten vision gleam, He lies there, the sogdologer ! His precious flanks with stars besprent, His health! be Luck his fast ally! I see him trace the wayward brook To The events in line of battle go; I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend, In death's dark arches, And through the sod hears throbbing slow With amorous solicitude!) I see him step with caution due, Grave as in church, for who plies you, From all our common stock o' sins The unerring fly I see him cast, That as a rose-leaf falls as soft, A flash! a whirl! he has him fast! We tyros, how that struggle last Confuses and appalls us oft. Unfluttered he: calm as the sky Looks on our tragi-comedies, This way and that he lets him fly, A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die Thy high-heaped canvas yearning! shoreward Lands him, with cool aplomb, at Thou first reveal'st to us thy face ease. The friend who gave our board such gust, Life's care may he o'erstep it half, And, when Death hooks him, as he must, He'll do it handsomely, I trust, And John H-write his epitaph! O, born beneath the Fishes' sign, Of constellations happiest, May he somewhere with Walton dine, May Horace send him Massic wine, And Burns Scotch drink, the piest ! Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, A moment glimpsed, then seen no more, Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace Away from every mortal door. Nymph of the unreturning feet, How may I win thee back? But no, I do thee wrong to call thee so; "T is I am changed, not thou art fleet : The man thy presence feels again, Not in the blood, but in the brain, nap-Spirit, that lov'st the upper air Serene and passionless and rare, Such as on mountain heights we find And wide-viewed uplands of the mind; And when they come his deeds to weigh, ODE TO HAPPINESS. SPIRIT, that rarely comest now And only to contrast my gloom, bloom A moment on some autumn bough With me year-long, and make intense Of trustful inexperience, While soul could still transfigure sense, And thrill, as with love's first caress, At life's mere unexpectedness. Days when my blood would leap and run As full of sunshine as a breeze, Or spray tossed up by Summer seas That doubts if it be sea or sun! Days that flew swiftly like the band That played in Grecian games at strife, And passed from eager hand to hand The onward-dancing torch of life! Wing-footed! thou abid'st with him Who asks it not; but he who hath Watched o'er the waves thy waning path, Shall nevermore behold returning Or such as scorns to coil and sing Of souls that with long upward beat Have won an undisturbed retreat Where, poised like winged victories, They mirror in relentless eyes The life broad-basking 'neath their feet, Man ever with his Now at strife, Pained with first gasps of earthly air, Then praying Death the last to spare, Still fearful of the ampler life. Not unto them dost thou consent A life like that of land-locked seas, Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow Spray from the plunging vessel thrown Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath, Where the frail hair-breadth of an if Is all that sunders life and death: These, too, are cared-for, and round these Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace; These in unvexed dependence lie, Each 'neath his strip of household sky; O'er these clouds wander, and the blue Hangs motionless the whole day through; Stars rise for them, and moons grow | There's One hath swifter feet than large And lessen in such tranquil wise Like the leaf-shadows of the vine Unhistoried as smokes that rise "T is worse than vain to woo thee back! And faith to sorrow given alone: But "No," she answers, "I am she That other whom you seek forlorn He wins me late, but keeps me long, Who, dowered with every gift of passion, In that fierce flame can forge and fashion Of sin and self the anchor strong; Can thence compel the driving force Of daily life's mechanic course, Nor less the nobler energies Of needful toil and culture wise; Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure Who can renounce, and yet endure, To him I come, not lightly wooed, But won by silent fortitude." VILLA FRANCA. 1859. WAIT a little do we not wait? Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Francis Joseph is not Time; Crime; Cannon-parliaments settle naught; Venice is Austria's, - whose is Thought? Minié is good, but, spite of change, Gutenberg's gun has the longest range. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever. Wait, we say our years are long; Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! We saw the elder Corsican, Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! The Bonapartes, we know their bees That wade in honey red to the knees; Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep sound In dreamless garners underground: Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin Can promise what he ne'er could win ; Slavery reaped for fine words sown, System for all, and rights for none, Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings, So dreamers prate; did man ere live Smooth sails the ship of either realm, Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, THE MINER. Down mid the tangled roots of things Sometimes I hear, as 't were a sigh, The sea's deep yearning far above, "Thou hast the secret not," I cry, "In deeper deeps is hid my Love." They think I burrow from the sun, In darkness, all alone, and weak ; Such loss were gain if He were won, For 't is the sun's own Sun I seek. |