The New Penelope and Other Stories and Poems Part 43

SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS.

Now what ails our gentle friend?

In his eye a meaning double, Sorrow and defiance blend-- Let us soothe him of his trouble.

Poet! do not pa.s.s us by: See how we are robed to meet you; Heed you not our perfumed sigh?

Heed you not how sweet we greet you?

Ever since the breath of morn We have waited for your coming, Fearing when the bee's dull horn Round our quiet bower was humming: We have kept our sweets for thee-- Poet, do not pa.s.s us by: Place us on thy breast, for see!

By the sunset we must die.

SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.

Bathe thy pale face in the flood Which overflows this crystal fountain, Then to rouse thy sluggish blood, Seek its source far up the mountain.

Note thou how the stream doth sing Its soft carol, low and light, To the jagged rocks that fling Mildew shadows, black and blight.

Learn a lesson from the stream, Poet! though thy path may lie Hid forever from the gleam Of the blue and sunny sky,-- Though thy way be steep and long, Sing thou still a cheerful song!

SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

Come sister spirits, touch his eyelids newly, With that rare juice whose magic power it is, To give the rose-hue to those things which truly Wear the sad livery of ugliness.

Oh, dignify the office of the meanest Of all G.o.d's manifold created things; And sprinkle his heart's wounds with the serenest Waters of sweetness, from our fabled springs.

Oh, close him round with visions of all rareness, Make him see everything with smiling eye; Let all his dreams be unsurpa.s.sed for fairness, And what we feign out-charm reality.

Come, sister spirits, up and do your duty; When the Poet pines, feast his soul with beauty.

SPIRIT OF THE TREES.

Let us wave our branches gently With a murmur low and loving; He will say we sang him quaintly Some old ballad, sweetly moving.

'Tis of all the ways the surest To awake a poet's fancies, For he loves these things the purest-- Sigh of leaves, and scent of pansies.

He has loved us, we will love him, And will cheer his hour of sadness, Spirits, wave your boughs above him To a measure of soft gladness.

SPIRIT OF LOVE.

Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well, But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth, And till I spell him with my magic spell, In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth.

Behold I touch his heart, and there upspring Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes; His scornful lips upon the instant sing, And all his pulses leap with ecstasies.

'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live Without caressing and without caress, Which all to charity his fellows give; But I will wrap his soul in tenderness, And straightway from his lips will burst a song All loving hearts shall echo and prolong.

POET.

O Earth, and Sky, and Flowers, and Streams agushing, G.o.d made ye beautiful to make us blest: O bright-winged Songsters through the blue air rushing; O murmuring Tree-tops, by the winds carest; O Waves of Ocean, Ripples of the River, O Dew and Fragrance, Sunlight, and Starbeam, O blessed summer-sounds that round me quiver, Delights impa.s.sable that round me teem-- Oh all things beautiful! G.o.d made ye so That the glad hearts of men might overflow!

O Soul within me, whose wings sweep a lyre-- G.o.d gave thee song that thou might'st give him praise; O Heart that glows with the Promethean fire, O Spirit whose fine chords some influence plays: O all sweet thoughts and beautiful emotions, O smiles and tears, and trembling and delight, Have ye not all part in the soul's devotions, To help it swell its anthem's happy height?

Spirit of Love, of G.o.d, of inspiration, The poet's glad heart bursts in acclamation!

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

Ring every flower-bell on the wind, And let each insect louder sing; Let elfin "joy be unconfined;"

And let the laughing fairies bring A wreath enchanted, and to bind Upon the Poet's worthy brow Heartsease and laurel, and a kind Of valley lily, white as snow; And fresh May-roses, branching long-- Braid all these in a garland gay, To crown the Poet for his song, Sung in our haunts this summer day!

SUNSET AT THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA.

There sinks the sun; like cavalier of old, Servant of crafty Spain, He flaunts his banner, barred with blood and gold, Wide o'er the western main, A thousand spear heads glint beyond the trees In columns bright and long: While kindling fancy hears upon the breeze The swell and shout of song.

And yet, not here Spain's gay, adventurous host, Dipped sword or planted cross; The treasures guarded by this rock-bound coast, Counted them gain nor loss.

The blue Columbia, sired by the eternal hills, And wedded with the sea; O'er golden sands, t.i.thes from a thousand rills, Rolled in lone majesty--

Through deep ravine, through burning, barren plain, Through wild and rocky strait, Through forest dark, and mountain rent in twain, Toward the sunset gate.

While curious eyes, keen with the l.u.s.t of gold, Caught not the informing gleam; These mighty breakers age on age have rolled To meet this mighty stream.

Age after age these n.o.ble hills have kept, The same majestic lines: Age after age the horizon's edge been swept By fringe of pointed pines.

Summers and Winters circling came and went, Bringing no change of scene; Unresting, and unhasting, and unspent, Dwelt nature here serene.

Till G.o.d's own time to plant of Freedom's seed, In this selected soil; Denied forever unto blood and greed; But blest to honest toil.

There sinks the sun. Gay Cavalier! no more His banners trail the sea, And all his legions shining on the sh.o.r.e Fade into mystery.

The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach, Like any starving thing; And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach, In vain clamoring.

The shadows fall; just level with mine eye Sweet Hesper stands and shines, And shines beneath an arc of golden sky, Pinked round with pointed pines.

A n.o.ble scene! all breadth, deep tone and power, Suggesting glorious themes; Shaming the idler who would fill the hour With unsubstantial dreams.

Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forth The things that yet shall be, When through this gate the treasures of the North Flow outward to the sea.

THE Pa.s.sING OF THE YEAR.

Worn and poor, The Old Year came to Eternity's door.

Once, when his limbs were young and strong, From that shining portal came he forth, Led by the sound of shout and song, To the festive halls of jubilant earth;-- Now, his allotted cycle o'er, He waited, spent, by the Golden Door.

Faint and far--faint and far, Surging up soft between sun and star, Strains of revelry smote his ear; Musical murmurs from lyre and lute-- Rising in choruses grand and clear, Sinking in cadences almost mute-- Vexing the ear of him who sate Wearied beside the Shining Gate.

Sad and low, Flowed in an undertone of woe: Wailing among the moons it came, Sobbing in echoes against the stars; Smothered behind some comet's flame, Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars, --Mingling, ever and anon, With the music's swell a sigh or moan.

"As in a gla.s.s, Let the earth once before me pa.s.s,"

The Old Year said; and s.p.a.ce untold Vanished, till nothing came between; Folded away, crystal and gold, Nor azure air did intervene; "As in a gla.s.s" he saw the earth Decking a bier and waiting a birth.

"You crown me dead," the Old Year said, "Before my parting hour is sped: O fickle, false, and reckless world!

Time to Eternity may not haste; Not till the last Hour's wing is furled Within the gate my reign is past!

O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain, I grieve not at my closing reign."

Yet spirit-sore The dead king noted a palace door; He saw the gay crowd gather in; He scanned the face of each pa.s.ser by; Snowiest soul, and heart of sin; Tried and untried humanity: Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain, Braided at chance in a motley skein.

"Ill betide Ye thankless ones!" the Old Year cried; "Have I not given you night and day, Over and over, score upon score, Wherein to live, and love, and pray, And suck the ripe world to its rotten core?

Yet do you reek if my reign be done?

E're I pa.s.s ye crown the newer one!

At ball and rout ye dance and shout, Shutting men's cries of suffering out, That startle the white-tressed silences Musing beside the fount of light, In the eternal s.p.a.ce, to press Their roses, each a nebula bright, More close to their lips serene, While ye wear this unconscious mein!"