Rose and Roof-Tree Part 2

Take thou up the song again: There is nothing sad afloat On the tide that swells thy throat!

FAIRHAVEN BAY.

I push on through the s.h.a.ggy wood, I round the hill: 't is here it stood; And there, beyond the crumbled walls, The shining Concord slowly crawls,

Yet seems to make a pa.s.sing stay, And gently spreads its lilied bay, Curbed by this green and reedy sh.o.r.e, Up toward the ancient homestead's door.

But dumbly sits the shattered house, And makes no answer: man and mouse Long since forsook it, and decay Chokes its deep heart with ashes gray.

On what was once a garden-ground Dull red-bloomed sorrels now abound; And boldly whistles the shy quail Within the vacant pasture's pale.

Ah, strange and savage, where he shines, The sun seems staring through those pines That once the vanished home could bless With intimate, sweet loneliness.

The ignorant, elastic sod The feet of them that daily trod Its roods hath utterly forgot: The very fire-place knows them not.

For, in the weedy cellar, thick The ruined chimney's ma.s.s of brick Lies strown. Wide heaven, with such an ease Dost thou, too, lose the thought of these?

Yet I, although I know not who Lived here, in years that voiceless grew Ere I was born,--and never can,-- Am moved, because I am a man.

Oh glorious gift of brotherhood!

Oh sweet elixir in the blood, That makes us live with those long dead, Or hope for those that shall be bred

Hereafter! No regret can rob My heart of this delicious throb; No thought of fortunes haply wrecked, Nor pang for nature's wild neglect.

And, though the hearth be cracked and cold, Though ruin all the place enfold, These ashes that have lost their name Shall warm my life with lasting flame!

CHANT FOR AUTUMN.

Veiled in visionary haze, Behold, the ethereal autumn days Draw near again!

In broad array, With a low, laborious hum These ministers of plenty come, That seem to linger, while they steal away.

O strange, sweet charm Of peaceful pain, When yonder mountain's bended arm Seems wafting o'er the harvest-plain A message to the heart that grieves, And round us, here, a sad-hued rain Of leaves that loosen without number Showering falls in yellow, umber, Red, or russet, 'thwart the stream!

Now pale Sorrow shall enc.u.mber All too soon these lands, I deem; Yet who at heart believes The autumn, a false friend, Can bring us fatal harm?

Ah, mist-hung avenues in dream Not more uncertainly extend Than the season that receives A summer's latest gleam!

But the days of death advance: They tarry not, nor turn!

I will gather the ashes of summer In my heart, as an urn.

Oh draw thou nearer, Thou Spirit of the distant height, Whither now that slender flight Of swallows, winging, guides my sight!

The hill cloth seem to me A fading memory Of long delight, And in its distant blue Half hideth from my view This shrinking season that must now retire; And so shall hold it, hopeful, a desire And knowledge old as night and always new.

Draw nigher! And, with bended brow, I will be thy reverer Through the long winter's term!

So, when the snows hold firm, And the brook is dumb; When sharp winds come To flay the hill-tops bleak, And whistle down the creek; While the unhappy worm Crawls deeper down into the ground, To 'scape Frost's jailer on his round; Thy form to me shall speak From the wide valley's bound, Recall the waving of the last bird's wing, And help me hope for spring.

BEFORE THE SNOW.

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the windy rain. A thousand leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air, Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.

Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.

Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain!

How soon death settles on us, and the snow Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!

Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood Of that which makes moods dear,--some shoot of spring Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood We walked in,--memory's rare environing.

And, though they die, the seasons only take A ruined substance. All that's best remains In the essential vision that can make One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains.

THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH.

Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep.

Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems, Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep O'er whitened fields full many a h.o.a.ry heap From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams!

With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems, And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.

But such ethereal slumber may not bide The ascending sun's bright scorn--not long, I fear; And all its visions on the golden tide Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.

Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear!

THE LILY-POND.

Some fairy spirit with his wand, I think, has hovered o'er the dell, And spread this film upon the pond, And touched it with this drowsy spell.

For here the musing soul is merged In moods no other scene can bring, And sweeter seems the air when scourged With wandering wild-bees' murmuring.

One ripple streaks the little lake, Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break To let a straying sunbeam in.

How came we through the yielding wood, That day, to this sweet-rustling sh.o.r.e?

Oh, there together while we stood, A b.u.t.terfly was wafted o'er,

In sleepy light; and even now His glimmering beauty doth return Upon me, when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn.

The yielding wood? And yet 't was both To yield unto our happy march; Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both Could pa.s.s its green, elastic arch.

Yet there, at last, upon the marge We found ourselves, and there, behold, In hosts the lilies, white and large, Lay close, with hearts of downy gold!

Deep in the weedy waters spread The rootlets of the placid bloom: So sprung my love's flower, that was bred In deep, still waters of heart's-gloom.

So sprung; and so that morn was nursed To live in light, and on the pool Wherein its roots were deep immersed Burst into beauty broad and cool.

Few words were said; a moment pa.s.sed; I know not how it came--that awe And ardor of a glance that cast Our love in universal law!

But all at once a bird sang loud, From dead twigs of the gleamy beech; His notes dropped dewy, as out of a cloud, A blessing on our married speech.