Life Without and Life Within Part 31

Would you the genius of the place enjoy, In all the charms contrast and color give?

Your eye and taste you now may best employ, For this the hour when minor beauties live; Scan ye the details as the sun rides high, For with the morn these sparkling glories fly.

VI.

TRENTON FALLS, (AFTERNOON.)

A calmer grace o'er these still hours presides; Now is the time to see the might of form; The heavy ma.s.ses of the b.u.t.tressed sides, The stately steps o'er which the waters storm; Where, 'neath the mill, the stream so gently glides, You feel the deep seclusion of the scene, And now begin to comprehend what mean The beauty and the power this chasm hides.

From the green forest's depths the portent springs, But from those quiet shades bounding away, Lays bare its being to the light of day, Though on the rock's cold breast its love it flings.

Yet can all sympathy such courage miss?

Answer, ye trees! who bend the waves to kiss.

VII.

TRENTON FALLS BY MOONLIGHT.

I deemed the inmost sense my soul had blessed Which in the poem of thy being dwells, And gives such store for thought's most sacred cells; And yet a higher joy was now confessed.

With what a holiness did night invest The eager impulse of impetuous life, And hymn-like meanings clothed the waters' strife!

With what a solemn peace the moon did rest Upon the white crest of the waterfall; The haughty guardian banks, by the deep shade, In almost double height are now displayed.

Depth, height, speak things which awe, but not appall.

From elemental powers this voice has come, And G.o.d's love answers from the azure dome.

SUB ROSA, CRUX.

In times of old, as we are told, When men more child-like at the feet Of Jesus sat, than now, A chivalry was known more bold Than ours, and yet of stricter vow, Of worship more complete.

Knights of the Rosy Cross, they bore Its weight within the heart, but wore Without, devotion's sign in glistening ruby bright; The gall and vinegar they drank alone, But to the world at large would only own The wine of faith, sparkling with rosy light.

They knew the secret of the sacred oil Which, poured upon the prophet's head, Could keep him wise and pure for aye.

Apart from all that might distract or soil, With this their lamps they fed.

Which burn in their sepulchral shrines unfading night and day.

The pa.s.s-word now is lost, To that initiation full and free; Daily we pay the cost Of our slow schooling for divine degree.

We know no means to feed an undying lamp; Our lights go out in every wind or damp.

We wear the cross of ebony and gold, Upon a dark background a form of light, A heavenly hope upon a bosom cold, A starry promise in a frequent night; The dying lamp must often trim again, For we are conscious, thoughtful, striving men.

Yet be we faithful to this present trust, Clasp to a heart resigned the fatal must; Though deepest dark our efforts should enfold, Unwearied mine to find the vein of gold; Forget not oft to lift the hope on high; The rosy dawn again shall fill the sky.

And by that lovely light, all truth-revealed, The cherished forms which sad distrust concealed, Transfigured, yet the same, will round us stand, The kindred angels of a faithful band; Ruby and ebon cross both cast aside, No lamp is needed, for the night has died.

Happy be those who seek that distant day, With feet that from the appointed way Could never stray; Yet happy too be those who more and more, As gleams the beacon of that only sh.o.r.e, Strive at the laboring oar.

Be to the best thou knowest ever true, Is all the creed; Then, be thy talisman of rosy hue, Or fenced with thorns that wearing thou must bleed, Or gentle pledge of Love's prophetic view, The faithful steps it will securely lead.

Happy are all who reach that sh.o.r.e, And bathe in heavenly day, Happiest are those who high the banner bore, To marshal others on the way; Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn, By burdens overborne.

THE DAHLIA, THE ROSE, AND THE HELIOTROPE.

In a fair garden of a distant land, Where autumn skies the softest blue outspread, A lovely crimson dahlia reared her head, To drink the l.u.s.tre of the season's prime; And drink she did, until her cup o'erflowed With ruby redder than the sunset cloud.

Near to her root she saw the fairest rose That ever oped her soul to sun and wind.

And still the more her sweets she did disclose, The more her queenly heart of sweets did find, Not only for her worshipper the wind, But for bee, nightingale, and b.u.t.terfly, Who would with ceaseless wing about her ply, Nor ever cease to seek what found they still would find.

Upon the other side, nearer the ground, A paler floweret on a slender stem, That cast so exquisite a fragrance round, As seemed the minute blossom to contemn, Seeking an ampler urn to hold its sweetness, And in a statelier shape to find completeness.

Who could refuse to hear that keenest voice, Although it did not bid the heart rejoice, And though the nightingale had just begun His hymn; the evening breeze begun to woo, When through the charming of the evening dew, The floweret did its secret soul disclose?

By that revealing touched, the queenly rose Forgot them both, a deeper joy to hope And heed the love-note of the heliotrope.

TO MY FRIENDS.

TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.

Beloved friends! Earth hath known brighter days Than ours; we vainly strive to hide this truth; Would history be silent in their praise, The very stones tell of man's glorious youth, In heavenly forms on which we crowd to gaze; But that high-favored race hath sunk in night; The day is ours--the living still have sight.

Friends of my youth! In happier climes than ours, As some far-wandering countrymen declare, The air is perfume; at each step spring flowers.

Nature has not been bounteous to our prayer; But art dwells here, with her creative powers, Laurel and myrtle shun our winter snows, But with the cheerful vine we wreathe our brows.

Though of more pomp and wealth the Briton boast, Who holds four worlds in tribute to his pride,-- Although from farthest India's glowing coast Come gems of gold to burden Thames' dull tide, And _bring_ each luxury that Heaven denied,-- Not in the torrent, but the still, calm brook, Delights Apollo at himself to look.

More n.o.bly lodged than we in northern halls, At Angelo's gate the Roman beggar dwells; Girt by the Eternal City's honored walls, Each column some soul-stiring story tells; While on the earth a second heaven dwells, Where Michael's spirit to St. Peter calls; Yet all this splendor only decks a tomb; For us fresh flowers from every green hour bloom

And while we live obscure, may others' names Through Rumor's trump be given to the wind; New forms of ancient glories, ancient shames, For nothing new the searching sun can find, As pa.s.s the motley groups of human kind; All other living things grow old and die-- Fancy alone has immortality.

STANZAS.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN.

I.

Come, breath of dawn! and o'er my temples play; Rouse to the draught of life the wearied sense; Fly, sleep! with thy sad phantoms, far away; Let the glad light scare those pale troublous shadows hence!