Life Without and Life Within Part 39

And when a voice like yours its song doth pour, If it can raise palace and tower no more, It can each ugly fabric melt away, Bidding the fancy fairer scenes portray; Its soft and brilliant tones our thoughts can wing To climes whence they congenial magic bring; As by the sweet Italian voice is given Dream of the radiance of Italia's heaven.

Whether in round, low notes the strain may swell, As if some tale of woe or wrong to tell, Or swift and light the upward notes are heard, With the full carolling clearness of a bird, The stream of sound untroubled flows along, And no obstruction mars your finished song.

No stifled notes, no gasp, no ill-taught graces, No vulgar trills in worst-selected places, None of the miseries which haunt a land Where all would learn what so few understand, Afflict in hearing you; in you we find The finest organ, and informed by mind.

And as, in that same fable I have quoted, It is of that town-making artist noted, That, where he leaned his lyre upon a stone, The stone stole somewhat of that lovely tone, And afterwards each untaught pa.s.ser-by, By touching it, could rouse the melody,-- Even thus a heart once by your music thrilled, An ear which your delightful voice has filled, In memory a talisman have found To repel many a dull, harsh, after-sound; And, as the music lingered in the stone, After the minstrel and the lyre were gone, Even so my thoughts and wishes, turned to sweetness, Lend to the heavy hours unwonted fleetness; And common objects, calling up the tone, I caught from you, wake beauty not their own.

SISTRUM.[48]

Triune, shaping, restless power, Life-flow from life's natal hour, No music chords are in thy sound; By some thou'rt but a rattle found; Yet, without thy ceaseless motion, To ice would turn their dead devotion.

Life-flow of my natal hour, I will not weary of thy power, Till in the changes of thy sound A chord's three parts distinct are found.

I will faithful move with thee, G.o.d-ordered, self-fed energy.

Nature in eternity.

IMPERFECT THOUGHTS.

The peasant boy watches the midnight sky; He sees the meteor dropping from on high; He hastens whither the bright guest hath flown, And finds--a ma.s.s of black, unseemly stone.

Disdainful, disappointed, turns he home.

If a philosopher that way had come, He would have seized the waif with great delight, And honored it as an aerolite.

But truly it would need a Cuvier's mind High meaning in _my_ meteors to find.

Well, in my museum there is room to spare-- I'll let them stay till Cuvier goes there!

SADNESS.

Lonely lady, tell me why That abandonment of eye?

Life is full, and nature fair; How canst thou dream of dull despair?

Life is full and nature fair; A dull folly is despair; But the heart lies still and tame For want of what it may not claim.

Lady, chide that foolish heart, And bid it act a n.o.bler part; The love thou couldst be bid resign Never could be worthy thine.

O, I know, and knew it well, How unworthy was the spell In its silken band to bind My heaven-born, heaven-seeking mind.

Thou lonely moon, thou knowest well Why I yielded to the spell; Just so thou didst condescend Thy own precept to offend.

When wondering nymphs thee questioned why That abandonment of eye, Crying, "Dian,[49] heaven's queen, What can that trembling eyelash mean?"

Waning, over ocean's breast, Thou didst strive to hide unrest From the question of their eyes, Unseeing in their dull surprise.

Thy Endymion had grown old; Thy only love was marred with cold; No longer to the secret cave Thy ray could pierce, and answer have.

No more to thee, no more, no more, Till thy circling life be o'er, A mutual heart shall be a home, Of weary wishes happy tomb.

No more, no more--O words which sever Hearts from their hopes, to part forever!

They can believe it never!

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALb.u.m.[50]

Some names there are at sight of which will rise Visions of triumph to the dullest eyes; They breathe of garlands from a grateful race, They tell of victory o'er all that's base; To write them eagles might their plumage give, And granite rocks should yield, that they may live.

Others there are at sight of which will rise Visions of beauty to all loving eyes, Of radiant sweetness, or of gentle grace, The poesy of manner or of face, Spell of intense, if not of widest power; The strong the ages rule; the fair, the hour.

And there are names at sight of which will rise Visions of goodness to the mourner's eyes; They tell of generosity untired, Which gave to others all the heart desired; Of Virtue's _uncomplaining_ sacrifice, And holy hopes which sought their native skies.

If I could hope that at my name would rise Visions like these, before those gentle eyes, How gladly would I place it in the shrine Where many honored names are linked with thine, And know, if lone and far my pathway lies, My name is living 'mid the good and wise.

It must not be, for now I know too well That those to whom my name has aught to tell O'er baffled efforts would lament or blame.

Who heeds a breaking reed?--a sinking flame?

Best wishes and kind thoughts I give to thee, But mine, indeed, an _empty name_ would be.

TO S. C.

Our friend has likened thee to the sweet fern, Which with no flower salutes the ardent day, Yet, as the wanderer pursues his way, While the dews fall, and hues of sunset burn, Sheds forth a fragrance from the deep green brake, Sweeter than the rich scents that gardens make.

Like thee, the fern loves well the hallowed shade Of trees that quietly aspire on high; Amid such groves was consecration made Of vestals, tranquil as the vestal sky.

Like thee, the fern doth better love to hide Beneath the leaf the treasure of its seed, Than to display it, with an idle pride, To any but the careful gatherer's heed-- A treasure known to philosophic ken, Garnered in nature, asking nought of men; Nay, can invisible the wearer make, Who would unnoted in life's game partake.

But I will liken thee to the sweet bay, Which I first learned, in the Coha.s.set woods, To name upon a sweet and pensive day Pa.s.sed in their ministering solitudes.

I had grown weary of the anthem high Of the full waves, cheering the patient rocks; I had grown weary of the sob and sigh Of the dull ebb, after emotion's shocks; My eye was weary of the glittering blue And the unbroken horizontal line; My mind was weary, tempted to pursue The circling waters in their wide design, Like snowy sea-gulls stooping to the wave, Or rising buoyant to the utmost air, To dart, to circle, airily to lave, Or wave-like float in foam-born lightness fair: I had swept onward like the wave so full, Like sea weed now left on the sh.o.r.e so dull.

I turned my steps to the retreating hills, Rejected sand from that great haughty sea, Watered by nature with consoling rills, And gradual dressed with gra.s.s, and shrub, and tree; They seemed to welcome me with timid smile, That said, "We'd like to soothe you for a while; You seem to have been treated by the sea In the same way that long ago were we."

They had not much to boast, those gentle slopes, For the wild gambols of the sea-sent breeze Had mocked at many of their quiet hopes, And bent and dwarfed their fondly cherished trees; Yet even in those marks of by-past wind, There was a tender stilling for my mind.

Hiding within a small but thick-set wood, I soon forgot the haughty, chiding flood.

The sheep bell's tinkle on the drowsy ear, With the bird's chirp, so short, and light, and clear, Composed a melody that filled my heart With flower-like growths of childish, artless art, And of the tender, tranquil life I lived apart.

It was an hour of pure tranquillity, Like to the autumn sweetness of thine eye, Which pries not, seeks not, and yet clearly sees-- Which wooes not, beams not, yet is sure to please.

Hours pa.s.sed, and sunset called me to return Where its sad glories on the cold wave burn.