There, where Sphynxed avenues
Lead to deep and awful shrines,
And the darkening spirit views
Still in supernatural lines
Those mysterious sculptured swarms
Of the grim Egyptian brood,
And the dreadful demon forms
Of the world before the flood,-
There within the deepest gloom Karnak's shadows o'er me spread, Rose a prayer from Egypt's tomb For those regions of the dead.
Then this old Egyptian stone
Met my sad but careless eye; Rough, unpolished, small, alone, Kept for me I know not why:
But I know there may be hid,
In the smallest things of earth,
Talismanic powers to bid
Vast sequences into birth.
'Tis an emblem, polished, bright, How in earthly form may shine, Lasting, gentle, Heaven's own light, Unpretending but divine.
So, dear Love, I give it thee,
Thou the dearest gift of life!
This bright stone was given to me
For my loved, my loving wife.
It may keep when summer leaves The last time have dropped away; It may keep when autumn weaves Her last chaplet of decay:
But our love outlasts the earth;
So upon celestial wing
Up to God, who gave it birth,
Daily shall it grateful spring.
From this holy Sabbath hour,
Sacred principle of Heaven,
It shall prove our shield and power,
Fresh as when it first was given.
F all the flowers of earth were mine,
And all intent on my design;
If all the seasons of the year
Could bring their varied treasures here;
If I could, by my waving hand,
The powers of either pole command;
If all the children of the sun,
And all his light ne'er shines upon,
By mountain top, in ocean caves,
Chilled by the snow, beat by the waves,
Were ministers at my control,
To meet the wishes of my soul,
I know not, Dearest, what could prove
An offering worthy of thy love.
The secrets of the deep should be
Unlocked and ransacked all for thee,
And I would gather all that grows, -
From mountain daisies to the rose;
The tiniest microscopic flower,
That springs and withers in an hour,
1 With a budding primrose.
And that for which kind Nature's tears
Have wept unseen a hundred years;
The everlasting purple bloom,
That fills the Orient with perfume;
And that in soft Italian vales,
Whose nightly blossom never fails;
And that which on Hymettus' top
In sweetest honey dew doth drop;
And that for which Chamouny's bees
Fly o'er the Alpine frozen seas.
If there be blossoming shrubs that grow
With Iceland moss beneath the snow;
If there be blossoms, fed by fire,
Whose life volcanic streams inspire, -
These all should spread their wild array
With those that open to the day.
All that the Persian maiden loves
In orange or acacia groves;
All that the Indian daughters wear
Tied in the fillets of their hair;
And all that in the Eastern Isles
Wake laughing in the sun's glad smiles,
And pour upon the lingering breeze
Their spicy odors o'er the seas;
All that in beds of garden mould
Their cherished loveliness unfold,
And all that in the forest hide
Their beauty from the eye of pride,
Or breathe perpetual fragrance round,
Where never trace of life was found;
Or shed in wild Arabian air
An unregarded sweetness, where
There's neither pilgrim on his way,
Nor bird to sing, nor man to pray.
But who could count from wreaths like these,
With all the fruit of Eden's trees
And all the wondrous plants of ocean,
The worth of one true heart's devotion,
Or weave a gift, by earthly art,
To match one sigh from such a heart?
Thus, Dearest, I can never bring
To thee a worthy offering;
But what I bring thou 'lt kindly take,
And think 't is worthy for my sake.
If I a primrose bring to thee,
A primrose only 't will not be;
But cherished as a mark of love,
Of hidden virtue, it shall prove
To bless and cheer full many an hour,
When costlier things have lost their power.
Perhaps thou 'lt say a book bestowed
The offering to the season owed
Had better symbolized and paid,
Than a pale gentle flower, arrayed
Not in the summer's bridal dress,
But autumn's graver loveliness.
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