MARTHA. Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell toll the bell! 'Tis fitting she should lie below A pure white sheet of drifted snow. Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light, Toll the bell! 233 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 237 Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! THE TWO ARMIES. As Life's unending column pours, Two marshalled hosts are seen, Two armies on the trampled shores That Death flows black between. One marches to the drum-beat's roll, The wide-mouthed clarion's bray, And bears upon a crimson scroll, "Our glory is to slay." One moves in silence by the stream, With sad, yet watchful eyes, Calm as the patient planet's gleam That walks the clouded skies. THE TWO ARMIES. Along its front no sabres shine, For those no death-bed's lingering shade; With knitted brow and lifted blade In Glory's arms they fall. For these no clashing falchions bright, The bloodless stabber calls by night, – For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, The anthems pealing o'er their dust For these the blossom-sprinkled turf When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf 239 |