Hesperus Part 14

Love. Love should and will inherit The divine Euphrosyne."

When at night, the gleaming heavens Throb through all their starry veins, Oft I ponder on Orion, And I hear celestial strains Pa.s.sing through my soul, and flooding All its green immortal plains.

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Then I pray for strength Promethean, Pray for power to endure; Then I say, O soul, be steadfast!

Make the lofty purpose sure; And that love may be all-worthy, G.o.d of heaven, make me pure!

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THE MYSTERY.

My mind is like a troubled sea O'er which the winds forever sweep; Within its depths, eternally, My being's pulses throb and leap; There germs of contemplation sleep, Like stars beyond the Milky Way,-- Like pearls within the gloomy deep, That never saw the light of day.

Oh, wondrous mind, how little known!

Whence comes the thought that through my brain Floats weirdlike as the pleasing tone That quickens a beloved strain?

It may have graced some sweet refrain A thousand years ago, or more; Some Norman Prince, some valiant Dane, May have imbibed it with their lore.

It may have strengthened Plato's soul, Its clarion echoes ringing through His brain, the heaven-reaching goal Whence wisdom had its starry view; It may have cheered the gifted few Whose minds were mints of royal song, Who toiled where Shakespeare soared, and drew Down blessings from the grateful throng.

And on for ages yet to come, Through minds by heavenly impulse fired, That thought may strike some scorner dumb, In all its regal guise attired;

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Divinely blest, though uninspired, Some soul may change its swift career, Bearing the great truth, long-desired, In triumph to the highest sphere.

Unbounded universe of Thought!

Illimitable realms of mind!

Regions of Fancy, wonder-fraught!

Imagination unconfined!

Temples of mystery! behind Whose veils the G.o.d-appointed plan In perfect wisdom is enshrined, Beyond the pigmy reach of man:

I cannot--dare not--seek to know What finite vision, to the end, Through years of strictest search below, Must ever fail to comprehend!

G.o.d! whose intents so far transcend Our poor discernment, let me see Some portion of the truths that tend By slow gradations up to Thee:

That in the less imperfect years, When human frailty shall have died, When the vexed riddle of the spheres, Interpreted and glorified, Shall be as nothing to the tide Of light in which Thy hidden ways Will be revealed: I may abide Thy meanest instrument of praise, And from the broad calm ocean of Thy truth And wisdom drinking, find eternal youth.

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LOVE AND TRUTH.

Young Love sat in a rosy bower, Towards the close of a summer day; At the evening's dusky hour, Truth bent her blessed steps that way; Over her face Beaming a grace Never bestowed on child of clay.

Truth looked on with an ardent joy, Wondering Love could grow so tired; Hovering o'er him she kissed the boy, When, with a sudden impulse fired, Exquisite pains Burning his veins, Wildly he woke, as one inspired.

Eagerly Truth embraced the G.o.d, Filling his soul with a sense divine; Rightly he knew the paths she trod, Springing from heaven's royal line; Far had he strayed From his guardian maid, Perilling all for his rash design.

Still as they went, the tricksy youth Wandered afar from the maiden fair; Many a plot he laid, in sooth, Wherein the maid could have no share Sowing his seeds, Bringing forth weeds, Seldom a rose, and many a tare.

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Save when the maiden was by his side, Love was erratic, and rarely true; When she smiled on the graceful bride, Over the old world rose the new, Into life's skies Blending her dyes, Fairer than those of the rainbow's hue.

Sunny-eyed maidens, whom Love decoys, Mark well the arts of the wayward youth!

Sorrows he bringeth, disguised as joys, Rose-hued delights with cores of ruth; Learn to believe Love will deceive, Save when he comes with his guardian, Truth.

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THE WREN.

Early each spring the little wren Came scolding to his nest of moss; We knew him by his peevish cry, He always sung so very cross.

His quiet little mate would lay Her eggs in peace, and think all day.

He was a st.u.r.dy little wren; And when he came in spring, we knew, Or seemed to know, the flowers would grow To please him, where they always grew, Among the rushes, cheerfully; But not a rush so straight as he!

All summer long that little wren Would chatter like a saucy thing; And in the bush attack the thrush That on the hawthorn perched to sing.

Like many noisy little men, Lived, bragged, and fought that little wren.

There was a thoughtful maid, and I, We used to play along the sh.o.r.e, Searching for sh.e.l.ls, and culling flowers, As at the threshold of life's door, Through which we had to pa.s.s, we stood, Twin types of childish hardihood.

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Year after year we gathered flowers, And grew apace, as children do; And each returning spring we marked The little wrens, they never grew; One over-quiet and sedate, The other, a bird-reprobate.

But now the marsh is overflowed, The rushes rot beneath the sand; No spring brings back the little wrens, No children loiter hand in hand; The maiden rose-bud, pure and good, Grown to the flower of womanhood.

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GRANDPERE.

Old Grandpere gat in the corner, With his grandchild on his knee, Looking up at his wrinkled visage, For his winters were ninety-three.

Fair Eleanor's locks were flaxen, The old man's once were gray, But now, they were white as the snow-drift That lay on the bleak highway.

Her summers rolled on as golden As waves over sunny seas; But Grandpere could perceive no summers, The winters alone were his.

He folded his arms around her, Like Winter embracing Spring; And the angels looked down from heaven, And smiled on their slumbering.