Hesperus Part 10

Why, man!--why tremble at the scoff Of fools and bigots? Scan

The mental firmament, and see How men in every age, Who strove for immortality-- Whose errand was to wage

Not War, but Peace--men of pure minds, Who sought and found the truth, And treasured it, as one who finds The secret of lost Youth

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Restored and made immortal--see How they were scorned, because Their Sphinx-lives spake of mystery To those to whom the laws

Of nature are as clasped books!-- Poets, who ruled the world Of Thought; in whose prophetic looks And minds there lay impearled,

But hidden from the vulgar sight, Such universal truths, That many, blinded by the light-- Gray-haired, green-gosling youths,

With whips of satire, looks of scorn, And finger of disdain, Have crushed these harbingers of morn, But could not kill the strain

That was a part of nature's mind, And therefore can not die.

That which men spurned, angels have shrined Among G.o.d's truths on high.

And so 't will ever be, till man Knows more of Goodness, Truth, And Beauty--more of nature's plan, And Love that brings back youth

To hearts that have grown frail and old By groping in the dark With blinded eyes; their idol, Gold, And Gain, their Pleasure-bark!

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"'Tis well that nature hath her ministers,"

She said, her voice and looks so pa.s.sing sweet; "Great-hearts that let in love, and keep it there, Like the true flame within the diamond's heart, Informing, blessing, chastening their lives.

Man has but one great love--his love for G.o.d; All other loves are lesser and more less As they recede from Him, as are the streams The farthest from the fountain. G.o.d is Love.

Who loves G.o.d most, loves most his fellow-men; Sees the Creator in the creature's form Where others see but man--and he, so frail The very devils are akin to him!

There is no light that is not born of love; No truth where love is not its guiding star; Faith without love is noonday without sun, For love begetteth works both good and true, And these give faith its immortality."

We parted at the outer door. The stars Seemed never half so bright or numberless As they appeared to-night. Margery's laugh Tripped after me in merry cadences, Like the quick steps of fairies in the air United to the chorus of their hearts Breathed into silvery music. Happy soul!

Nature's epitome in all her moods.

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EVA.

"G.o.d bless the darling Eva!" was my prayer.

A pure, unconscious depth of earnestness Was in her eyes, so indescribable You might as well the color of the air Seek to daguerreotype, or to impress A stain upon the river, whose first swell Would swirl it to the deep. A calm, sweet soul, Where Love's celestial saints and ministers Did hold the earthly under such control Virtue sprung up like daisies from the sod.

Oh, for one hour's sweet excellence like hers!

One hour of sinlessness, that never more Can visit me this side the Silent Sh.o.r.e, To stand, like her, serene, unblushing before G.o.d!

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THE POET'S RECOMPENSE.

His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice From fairer vales than those of Araby, Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice Discriminating ear of Deity Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume.

Man cannot know what starry lights illume The soaring spirit of his brother man!

He judges harshly with his mind's eyes closed; His loftiest understanding cannot scan The heights where Poet-souls have oft reposed; He cannot feel the chastened influence Divine, that lights the Ideal atmosphere, And never to his uninspired sense Rolls the majestic hymn that inspirates the Seer.

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THE WINE OF SONG.

Within Fancy's Halls I sit, and quaff Rich draughts of the Wine of Song, And I drink, and drink, To the very brink Of delirium wild and strong, Till I lose all sense of the outer world, And see not the human throng.

The lyral chords of each rising thought Are swept by a hand unseen; And I glide, and glide, With my music bride, Where few spiritless souls have been; And I soar afar on wings of sound, With my fair AEolian Queen.

Deep, deeper still, from the springs of Thought I quaff, till the fount is dry; And I climb, and climb, To a height sublime, Up the stars of some lyric sky, Where I seem to rise upon airs that melt Into song as they pa.s.s by.

Millennial rounds of bliss I live, Withdrawn from my c.u.mbrous clay, As I sweep, and sweep, Through infinite deep On deep of that starry spray; Myself a sound on its world-wide round, A tone on its spheral way.

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And wheresoe'er through the wondrous s.p.a.ce My soul wings its noiseless flight, On their astral rounds Float divinest sounds, Unseen, save by spirit-sight, Obeying some wise, eternal law, As fixed as the law of light.

But, oh, when my cup of dainty bliss Is drained of the Wine of Song, How I fall, and fall, At the sober call Of the body, that waiteth long To hurry me back to its cares terrene, And earth's spiritless human throng.

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THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM.

I stood upon the Plain, That had trembled when the slain, Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe, When the steed dashed right and left, Through the b.l.o.o.d.y gaps he cleft, When the bridle-rein was broken, and the rider was laid low.

What busy feet had trod Upon the very sod Where I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my aid!

And I saw the combat dire, Heard the quick, incessant fire, And the cannons' echoes startling the reverberating glade.

I saw them, one and all, The banners of the Gaul In the thickest of the contest, round the resolute Montcalm; The well-attended Wolfe, Emerging from the gulf Of the battle's fiery furnace, like the swelling of a psalm.

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I heard the chorus dire, That jarred along the lyre On which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave When the storm, at blackest night, Wakes the ocean in affright, As it shouts its mighty pibroch o'er some shipwrecked vessel's grave.

I saw the broad claymore Flash from its scabbard, o'er The ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce attack; When Victory gave the word, Then Scotland drew the sword, And with arm that never faltered drove the brave defenders back.

I saw two great chiefs die, Their last breaths like the sigh Of the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of morn; No envy-poisoned darts, No rancour, in their hearts, To unfit them for their triumph over death's impending scorn.