Weeds by the Wall Part 5

Not for our ears The cosmic music of the rolling spheres, That sweeps the skies!

Music we hear, but only with our eyes.

For all too weak Our mortal frames to bear the words these speak, Those detonations that we name the dawn And sunset--hues Earth's harmony puts on.

UNHEARD.

All things are wrought of melody, Unheard, yet full of speaking spells; Within the rock, within the tree, A soul of music dwells.

A mute symphonic sense that thrills The silent frame of mortal things; Its heart beats in the ancient hills, In every flower sings.

To harmony all growth is set-- Each seed is but a music mote, From which each plant, each violet, Evolves its purple note.

Compact of melody, the rose Woos the soft wind with strain on strain Of crimson; and the lily blows Its white bars to the rain.

The trees are paeans; and the gra.s.s One long green fugue beneath the sun-- Song is their life; and all shall pa.s.s, Shall cease, when song is done.

REINCARNATION.

High in the place of outraged liberty, He ruled the world, an emperor and G.o.d His iron armies swept the land and sea, And conquered nations trembled at his nod.

By him the love that fills man's soul with light, And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified; l.u.s.t-crowned he lived, yea, lived in G.o.d's despite, And old in infamies, a king he died.

Justice begins now.--Many centuries In some vile body must his soul atone As slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease, Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.

ON CHENOWETH'S RUN.

I thought of the road through the glen, With its hawk's nest high in the pine; With its rock, where the fox had his den, 'Mid tangles of sumach and vine, Where she swore to be mine.

I thought of the creek and its banks, Now glooming, now gleaming with sun; The rustic bridge builded of planks, The bridge over Chenoweth's Run, Where I wooed her and won.

I thought of the house in the lane, With its pinks and its sweet mignonette; Its fence and the gate with the chain, Its porch where the roses hung wet, Where I kissed her and met.

Then I thought of the family graves, Walled rudely with stone, in the West, Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves, And the wind is a spirit distressed, Where they laid her to rest.

And my soul, overwhelmed with despair, Cried out on the city and mart!-- How I longed, how I longed to be there, Away from the struggle and smart, By her and my heart!

By her and my heart in the West,-- Laid sadly together as one;-- On her grave for a moment to rest, Far away from the noise and the sun, On Chenoweth's Run.

HOME AGAIN.

Far down the lane A window pane Gleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.

The weeds are dense Through which a fence Of pickets rambles, none sees whence, Before a porch, all indistinct of line, O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.

No thing is heard, No beast or bird, Only the rain by which are stirred The draining leaves, And trickling eaves Of crib and barn one scarce perceives; And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wet The phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.

The hour is late-- At any rate She has not heard him at the gate: Upon the roof The rain was proof Against his horse's galloping hoof: And when the old gate with its weight and chain Creaked, she imagined 'twas the wind and rain.

Along he steals With cautious heels, And by the lamplit window kneels: And there she sits, And rocks and knits Within the shadowy light that flits On face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray, Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.

Upon his cheeks-- Is it the streaks Of rain, as now the old porch creaks Beneath his stride?

Then, warm and wide, The door flings and she's at his side-- "Mother!"--and he, back from the war, her boy, Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.

A STREET OF GHOSTS.

The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes, Dreams in this quaint forgotten street, That, like some old-world wreckage, lies,-- Left by the sea's receding beat,-- Far from the city's restless feet.

Abandoned pavements, that the trees'

Huge roots have wrecked, whose flagstones feel No more the sweep of draperies; And sunken curbs, whereon no wheel Grinds, nor the gallant's spur-bound heel.

Old houses, walled with rotting brick, Thick-creepered, dormered, weather-vaned,-- Like withered faces, sad and sick,-- Stare from each side, all broken paned, With battered doors the rain has stained.

And though the day be white with heat, Their ancient yards are dim and cold; Where now the toad makes its retreat, 'Mid flower-pots green-caked with mold, And naught but noisome weeds unfold.

The slow gray slug and snail have trailed Their slimy silver up and down The beds where once the moss-rose veiled Rich beauty; and the mushroom brown Swells where the lily tossed its crown.

The shadowy scents, that haunt and flit Along the walks, beneath the boughs, Seem ghosts of sweethearts here who sit, Or wander 'round each empty house, Wrapped in the silence of dead vows.

And, haply, when the evening droops Her amber eyelids in the west, Here one might hear the swish of hoops, Or catch the glint of hat or vest, As two dim lovers past him pressed.

And, instant as some star's slant flame, That scores the swarthy cheek of night, Perhaps behold Colonial dame And gentleman in stately white Go glimmering down the pale moonlight.

In powder, patch, and furbelow, c.o.c.ked-hat and sword; and every one,-- Tory and whig of long ago,-- As real as in the days long done, The courtly days of Washington.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES.

In the shadow of the beeches, Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; Where the pensive silence pleaches Green a roof of cool perfume, Have you felt an awe imperious As when, in a church, mysterious Windows paint with G.o.d the gloom?