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VII.

morrow.

Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, Only to ceremonial days,
The aspirations unattained,

And great processions of imperial song
The rhythms so rathe and delicate, That set the world at gaze,
They bent and strained

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
That close' against rude day's offences, heart,
And open its shy midnight rose ! And I bow down in silence, shadowy

hosts !
VII.
Thou holdest not the master key
With which thy Sire sets free the mystic

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 ?
And charmed by distance,
To deepen the habitual mood

Such questionings are idle air :
Of my existence.

Leave what to do and what to spare

To the inspiring moment's care,
Are those, I muse, the Easter chimes ? | Nor ask for payment
And listen, weaving careless rhymnes Of fame or gold, but just to wear
While the loud city's griefs and crimes Unspotted raiment.

Pay gentle allegiance
To the fine quiet that sublimes
These dreamy regions.

TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT, And when the storm o'erwhelms the who HAD SENT ME A SEVEN-POUND shore,

TROUT.
I watch entranced as, o'er and o'er,
The light revolves amid the roar Fit for an Abbot of Theleme,
So still and saintly,

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 !)
And through the sod hears throbbing
slow

I see him step with caution due,
The muffled marches.

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
My Dante frowns with lip-locked mien, Confuses and appalls us oft.
As who would say, “'T is those, I ween,
Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean Unfluttered he: calm as the sky
That win the laurel" ;

Looks on our tragi-comedies,

This way and that he lets him fly, | Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward
A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die

yearning!
Lands him, with cool aplomb, at Thou first reveal'st to us thy face
ease.

| 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
piest !

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.
That, with the spurn of their farewell,
Sheds its last leaves, - thou once didst Not unto them dost thou consent
dwell

Who, passionless, can lead at ease
With me year-long, and make intense A life of unalloyed content
To boyhood's wisely vacant days

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
Days when my blood would leap and Thy truer inspiration, thou

Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow
As full of sunshine as a breeze. Spray from the plunging vessel thrown

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,
That played in Grecian games at strute, Is all that sunders life and death :

Where the frail hair-breadth of an if
And passed from eager hand to hand Is all that sunders life and death :
The onward-dancing torch of life! These, too, are cared-for, and round these

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

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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

Wrong.
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !

Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever!
VILLA FRANCA.

In the shadow, year out, year in,

The silent headsman waits forever.
1859.
Wait a little : do we not wait ? | The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin
Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Can promise what he ne'er could win ;
Francis Joseph is not Time; | Slavery reaped for fine words sown,

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;
Wash the black from the Ethiop's face, Why grovel longer in the gloom
Wash the past out of man or race! He is not here; he hath arisen."

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! | More life for me where he hath lain
In the shadow, year out, year in, | Hidden while ye believed him dead,
The silent headsman waits forever. | Than in cathedrals cold and vain,

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.
grass";
So dreamers prate ; did man ere live
Saw priest or woman yet forgive ?

If him I find not, yet I find
But Luther's broom is left, and eyes

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,
And all the while (how drearily !)
In one eternal note of B

My German stove kept humming.
“What 's Beauty ?" mused I; “is it

told
By synthesis ? analysis ?

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.

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