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Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, Only to ceremonial days,
And great processions of imperial song
Doth such high privilege belong : And broke, beneath the sombre weight But thou a postern-door canst ope Of any airiest mortal word.
To humbler chambers of the selfsame
Where Memory lodges, and her sister What warm protection dost thou bend
Hope, Round curtained talk of friend with
ith Whose being is but as a crystal chalice friend,
Which, with her various mood, the While the gray snow-storm, held aloof,
elder fills To softest outline rounds the roof,
Of joy or sorrow, Or the rude North with baffled strain
So coloring as she wills Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane!
With hues of yesterday the unconscious Now the kind nymph to Bacchus born By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted upon her natal morn
IX. By him with fire, by her with dreams, Thou sinkest, and my fancy sinks with Nicotia, dearer to the Muse
thee: Than all the grape's bewildering juice, For thee I took the idle shell, We worship, unforbid of thee;
And struck the unused chords again, And, as her incense floats and curls But they are gone who listened well ; In airy spires and wayward whirls,
Some are in heaven, and all are far from Or poises on its tremulous stalk
me: A flower of frailest revery,
Even as I sing, it turns to pain, So winds and loiters, idly free,
And with vain tears my eyelids throb The current of unguided talk,
and swell : Now laughter-rippled, and now caught Enough ; I come not of the race In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought. That hawk their sorrows in the market. Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, place. A sweetly unobtrusive third ;
Earth stops the ears I best had loved to For thou hast magic beyond wine,
please; To unlock natures each to each ; Then break, ye untuned chords, or rust The unspoken thought thou canst L in peace! divine;
| As if a white-haired actor should come Thou fill'st the pauses of the speech I back With whispers that to dream-land reach Some midnight to the theatre void and And frozen fancy-springs unchain
black, In Arctic outskirts of the brain ; And there rehearse his youth's great Sun of all inmost confidences,
part To thy rays doth the heart unclose Mid thin applauses of the ghosts, Its formal calyx of pretences,
So seems it now : ye crowd upon my
FANCY'S CASUISTRY. gates Of Past and Future : not for common How struggles with the tempest's swells fates
| That warning of tumultuous bells ! Do they wide open fling,
| The fire is loose ! and frantic knells And, with a far-heard ring,
Throb fast and faster, Swing back their willing valves melo- | As tower to tower confusedly tells diously ;
News of disaster.
But on my far-off solitude
| But where is Truth? What does it No harsh alarums can intrude ;
mean, The terror comes to me subdued
The world-old quarrel ?
Such questionings are idle air :
Leave what to do and what to spare
To the inspiring moment's care,
Pay gentle allegiance
TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT, And when the storm o'erwhelms the who HAD SENT ME A SEVEN-POUND shore,
For the whole Cardinals' College, or Now large and near, now more and The Pope himself to see in dream more
Before his lenten vision gleam, Withdrawing faintly.
He lies there, the sogdologer ! This, too, despairing sailors see His precious flanks with stars besprent, Flash out the breakers 'neath their lee
| Worthy to swim in Castaly ! In sudden snow, then lingeringly The friend by whom such gifts are sent, Wane tow'rd eclipse,
For him shall bumpers full be spent, While through the dark the shuddering His health ! be Luck his fast ally!
sea Gropes for the ships.
I see him trace the wayward brook
Amid the forest mysteries, And is it right, this mood of mind Where at their shades shy aspens look, That thus, in revery enshrined, Or where, with many a gurgling crook, Can in the world mere topics find
It croons its woodland histories. For musing stricture, Seeing the life of humankind
I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend Only as picture ?
Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude
To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling The events in line of battle go;
bend,In vain for me their trumpets blow
(0, stew him, Ann, as 't were your As unto him that lieth low
friend, In death's dark arches,
With amorous solicitude !)
I see him step with caution due,
Soft as if shod with moccasins,
Grave as in church, for who plies you, O Duty, am I dead to thee
Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew In this my cloistered ecstasy,
From all our common stock o' sins In this lone shallop on the sea That drifts tow'rd Silence ?
The unerring fly I see him cast, And are those visioned shores I see
That as a rose-leaf falls as soft, But sirens' islands ?
A flash ! a whirl ! he has him fast !
We tyros, how that struggle last
Looks on our tragi-comedies,
This way and that he lets him fly, | Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward
| Turued o'er the shoulder's parting grace,
A moment glimpsed, then seen no The friend who gave our board such gust, more,
Life's care may he o'erstep it half, Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace And, when Death hooks him, as he must, Away from every mortal door. He 'll do it handsomely, I trust, And John H- write his epitaph ! Nymph of the unreturning feet,
How may I win thee back? But no, O, born beneath the Fishes' sign,
I do thee wrong to call thee so; Of constellations happiest,
'T is I am changed, not thou art fleet : May he somewhere with Walton dine, The man thy presence feels again, May Horace send him Massic wine, Not in the blood, but in the brain,
And Burns Scotch drink, the nap Spirit, that lov'st the upper air
Serene and passionless and rare,
Such as on mountain heights we find And when they come his deeds to weigh, And wide-viewed uplands of the And how he used the talents his,
mind; One trout-scale in the scales he 'll lay | Or such as scorns to coil and sing (If trout had scales), and 't will outsway Round any but the eagle's wing The wrong side of the balances. Of souls that with long upward beat
Have won an undisturbed retreat
Where, poised like winged victories, ODE TO HAPPINESS.
They mirror in relentless eyes
The life broad-basking 'neath their SPIRIT, that rarely comest now
feet, And only to contrast my gloom,
Man ever with his Now at strife, Like rainbow-feathered obirds that Pained with first gasps of earthly air, bloom
| Then praying Death the last to spare, A moment on some autumn bough
Still fearful of the ampler life.
Who, passionless, can lead at ease
A life like that of land-locked seas, Their fleet but all-sufficing grace
Who feel no elemental gush Of trustful inexperience,
Of tidal forces, no fierce rush While soul could still transfigure sense,
Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent And thrill, as with love's first caress,
"Twixt continent and continent. At life's mere unexpectedness.
Such quiet souls have never known
Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow
Or spray tossed up by Summer seas | Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff That doubts if it be sea or sun! That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its Days that flew swiftly like the band í breath,
That played in Grecian games at strife,
Where the frail hair-breadth of an if
Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace; Wing-footed ! thou abid'st with him These in unvexed dependence lie,
Who asks it not ; but he who hath Each 'neath his strip of household sky; Watched o'er the waves thy waning O'er these clouds wander, and the blue path,
Hangs motionless the whole day Shall nevermore behold returning
Stars rise for them, and moons grow | There's One hath swifter feet than large
Crime; And lessen in such tranquil wise Cannon-parliaments settle naught; As joys and sorrows do that rise Venice is Austria's, — whose is Thought?
Within their nature's sheltered marge; Minié is good, but, spite of change, Their hours into each other flit
Gutenberg's gun has the longest range. Like the leaf-shadows of the vine Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! And fig-tree under which they sit,
Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! And their still lives to heaven incline In the shadow, year out, year in, With an unconscious habitude,
The silent headsman waits forever. Unhistoried as smokes that rise From happy hearths and sight elude In kindred blue of morning skies.
| Wait, we say : our years are long ;
Men are weak, but Man is strong ; Wayward ! when once we feel thy lack,
Since the stars first curved their rings, 'T is worse than vain to woo thee back !
We have looked on many things ;
Great wars come and great wars go, Yet there is one who seems to be
Wolf-tracks light on polar snow ; Thine elder sister, in whose eyes
We shall see him come and gone, A faint far northern light will rise
This second-hand Napoleon. Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee ;
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! She is not that for which youth hoped,
Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever! But she hath blessings all her own,
In the shadow, year out, year in, Thoughts pure as lilies newly oped,
The silent headsman waits forever. And faith to sorrow given alone : Almost I deem that it is thou Come back with graver matron brow, We saw the elder Corsican,
With deepened eyes and bated breath, And Clotho muttered as she span, Like one that somewhere hath met While crowned lackeys bore the train, Death,
Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne : But “No," she answers, “I am she “Sister, stint not length of thread ! Whom the gods love, Tranquillity: Sister, stay the scissors dread !
That other whom you seek forlorn On Saint Helen's granite bleak,
Half earthly was ; but I am born Hark, the vulture whets his beak!” Of the immortals, and our race
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Wears still some sadness on its face : Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!
He wins me late, but keeps me long, In the shadow, year out, year in, Who, dowered with every gift of passion, The silent headsman waits forever. In that fierce flame can forge and
fashion Of sin and self the anchor strong;
The Bonapartes, we know their bees Can thence compel the driving force
That wade in honey red to the knees; Of daily life's mechanic course,
Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep Nor less the nobler energies
sound Of needful toil and culture wise ;
In dreamless garners underground : Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure
We know false glory's spendthrift race Who can renounce, and yet endure,
Pawning nations for feathers and lace ; To him I come, not lightly wooed,
It may be short, it may be long, But won by silent fortitude."
“'T is reckoning-day!” sneers unpaid
Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever!
In the shadow, year out, year in,
The silent headsman waits forever.
System for all, and rights for none, 1 “The earth," they murmur, “is the Despots atop, a wild clan below,
tomb Such is the Gaul from long ago ;
That vainly sought his life to prison;
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
Built on loose sands of It is said. 'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings,
| My search is for the living gold ; And snares the people for the kings ; Him I desire who dwells recluse, “Luther is dead ; old quarrels pass ; The stake's black scars are healed with
| And not his image worn and old,
Day-servant of our sordid uso.
If him I find not, yet I find
The ancient joy of cell and church, Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies.
The glimpse, the surety undefined, Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
The unquenched ardor of the search. Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in,
Happier to chase a flying goal The silent headsman waits forever.
Than to sit counting laurelled gains, To guess the Soul within the soul
Than to be lord of what remains. Smooth sails the ship of either realm, Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm;
Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise, We look down the depths, and mark
Beyond my nature's utmost scope; Silent workers in the dark
Be ever absent from mine eyes Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, To be twice present in my hope ! Old instincts hardening to new beliefs ; Patience a little ; learn to wait; Hours are long on the clock of Fate. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FANTASY. Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever! Darkness is strong, and so is Sin,
HOW A STUDENT IN SEARCH OF THE But surely God endures forever! BEAUTIFUL FELL ASLEEP IN DRES
DEN OVER HERR PROFESSOR DOCTOR
VISCHER'S WISSENSCHAFT DES SCHÖTHE MINER.
NEN, AND WHAT CAME THEREOF. Down mid the tangled roots of things
I swam with undulation soft,
Adrift on Vischer's ocean, That coil about the central fire,
And, from my cockboat up aloft, I seek for that which giveth wings
Sent down my mental plummet oft To stoop, not soar, to my desire.
In hope to reach a notion.
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."
But from the metaphysic sea
No bottom was forthcoming,
My German stove kept humming.
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 Simu I seek.