Through tent, and cot, and proud saloon, This audible delight Of nightingales that love the noon, Of larks that court the night,We feel it all, the hopes and fears That language faintly tells, The spreading smiles, the passing tears,— The meetings and farewells. These harmonies that all can share, When chronicled by one, Enclose us like the living air, Still listen, still record, NAPLES AND VENICE. OVERLOOKING, overhearing, Naples, and her subject bay Stands Camaldoli, the convent, Shaded from the inclement ray. Thou, who to that lofty terrace Lovest on summer eve to go, Beauty, beauty, perfect beauty! Forms of grace alike contenting, White as snow-wreaths sunbeshone Lean the palaces and temples Green and purple heights upon. Streets and paths mine eye is tracing, All replete with clamorous throng, Where I see and where I see not Waves of uproar roll along. As the sense of bees unnumber'd, Burning through the walk of limes,As the thought of armies gathering Round a chief in ancient times,— So from Corso, Port, and Garden Rises life's tumultuous strain, Not secure from wildest utterance Rests the perfect-crystal main. Still the all-enclosing beauty Keeps my spirit free from harm,— Distance blends the veriest discords Into some melodious charm. -Overlooking, overhearing, Venice and her sister isles, Stands the giant Campanile, Massive mid a thousand piles. Thou who to this open summit On the bosom of broad ocean Seems the mighty weight to float: Gleaming banners, burnish'd domes,- Rises sound of voice or feet. Plash of oar or single laughter, Cry or song of gondolier,- That the work of life is here. Where its myriad pulses beat. Naples with her noisy speed? Which hath writ the goodlier tablet For the past to hoard and show, Naples in her living glow? Power afloat on blood and tears,- There the moment's hero ruled,— Here the state, each one subduing, Pride enchain'd and passion school'd: Here was art the nation's mistress, Art of colour, art of stone,There before the leman pleasure Bow'd the people's heart alone. Venice! vocal is thy silence, Can our soul but rightly hear; Naples! dumb as death thy voices, Listen we however near. PASTORAL SONG. I WANDER'D by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill,- The noisy wheel was still; I sat beside the elm-tree, I watcht the long, long shade, I did not feel afraid; I listen'd for a word, But the beating of my own heart I knew its touch was kind: We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. SONG OF THOUGHTS. LET the lays from poet-lips Shadow forth the speech of heaven,― Let melodious airs eclipse All delight to senses given; Yet to these my notes and words Listen with your heart alone, While the thought that best accords Makes a music of its own. Ye that in the fields of love Feel the breath and bloom of spring. While I sing, securely rove,― Rest in safety, while I sing.- Back towards that holy ground, All indifference, all distrust, From old friendships pass away! Let the faces of the just Shine as in God's perfect day! Fix the faintest, fleetest smile, E'er athwart your path has gleam'd— Take the charm without the wile, Be the beauty all it seem'd! Mid the flowers you love the best, Blush of eve or glow of noon,— Rest in peace and pleasaunce here. Be the future's glorious page With eternal calm be seal'd: RICH AND POOR. WHEN God built up the dome of blue, A line between the rich and poor; Or beauteous earth be scarr'd with flame, Or saving love be all in all, That rule of life will rest the same. We know not why, we know not how, If such things are, they must be so. One truth outshining bright and clear, Behold our children as they play! Blest creatures, fresh from nature's hand; The peasant boy as great and gay As the young heir to gold and land; Their various toys of equal worth, Their little needs of equal care, And halls of marble, huts of earth, All homes alike endear'd and fair. They know no better! would that we So pride be but the owner's curse; How wealthy the contented poor! Grant us, O God! but health and heart, Whatever else besets our way. STANZAS. BECAUSE, from all that round thee move, Planets of beauty, strength, and grace, I am elected to thy love, And have my home in thy embrace, I wonder all men do not see The crown that thou hast set on me. Because, when prostrate at thy feet, Thou didst emparadise my pain,— Because thy heart on mine has beat, Thy head within my hands has lain, I am transfigured, by that sign, Into a being like to thine. Augments the very solar might: Thou art the flame, whose rising spire Gathers at first, and then obeys: Is life a stream? Then from thy hair Its steadfast place shall know no more Is life a plant? The king of years To mine nor good nor ill can bring ;Mine grows no more; no more it fears Even the brushing of his wing; With sheathed scythe I see him go,I have no flowers that he can mow. THE FRIENDSHIP FLOWER. WHEN first the Friendship-flower is planted Within the garden of your soul, Little of care or thought are wanted To guard its beauty fresh and whole; But when the one empassion'd age Has full reveal'd the magic bloom, Alone can shun the open tomb. Fed, as with morn and even dews, The common-peopled atmosphere Of daily thoughts, and words, and looks; It trembles at the brushing wings Of many a careless fashion-fly, And strange suspicions aim their stings To taint it as they wanton by. Rare is the heart to bear a flower, That must not wholly fall and fade, Where alien feelings, hour by hour, Spring up, beset, and overshade; Better, a child of care and toil, To glorify some needy spot, Than in a glad redundant soil To pine neglected and forgot. Yet when, at last, by human slight, Sick odours of departed pride,Hoard as ye will your memory's gain, But let them perish where they died. THE MEN OF OLD. I KNOW not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine for force As if they thus could check the course Still it is true, and over true, That I delight to close That on those faces shone! With rights, though not too closely scann d, To them was life a simple art A game where each man took his part, A battle whose great scheme and scope Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on and proudly wears, Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares: Blending their souls' sublimest needs And what if nature's fearful wound To watch the misery there, For that their love but flow'd more fast, Their charities more free, Not conscious what mere drops they cast A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire, Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire. But, brothers, who up reason's hill Advance with hopeful cheer, ON LADY C, IN DECLINING HEALTH. GENTLY supported by the ready aid Of loving hands, whose little work of toil With all the benediction of her smile, Before the tranquil beauty of her face I bow'd in spirit, thinking that she were To heavenly beings in seraphic air. That ever prest her blue-vein'd eyelids down, But could not dim her lustrous eyes with pain, Nor seam her forehead with the faintest frown; She was as she were proud, So young, to be allow'd To follow Him who wore the thorny crown. Nor was she sad, but over every mood, To which her lightly-pliant mind gave birth, Gracefully changing, did a spirit brood, Of quiet gayety and serenest mirth; And thus her voice did flow, So beautifully low, A stream whose music was no thing of earth. Woman divine! ideal best-beloved, Here was thy image realized to me; In sensible existence lived and moved The vision of my sacred phantasy; Madonna! Mary mine! Her look, her smile, was thine,- THE LONG-AGO. EYES which can but ill define Shapes that rise about and near, Through the far horizon's line Stretch a vision free and clear: Memories feeble to retrace Yesterday's immediate flow, Find a dear familiar face In each hour of long-ago. Follow yon majestic train Down the slopes of old renown, Sainted heads without a frown; As the heart of childhood brings Spirits, wandering to and fro, On the altars it deceives; O'er the scenes of long-ago. Many a growth of pain and care, Cumbering all the present hour, Yields, when once transplanted there, Healthy fruit or pleasant flower; Thoughts that hardly flourish here, Feelings long have ceased to blow, Breathe a native atmosphere In the world of long-ago. On that deep-retiring shore Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high: Sorrows that are sorrows still Lose the bitter taste of woe; Nothing's altogether ill In the griefs of long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Ghastly tenements of tears, Wear the look of happy shrines Through the golden mist of years: Death, to those who trust in good, Vindicates his hardest blow; Oh! we would not, if we could, Wake the sleep of long-ago! Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong, Though for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlong,Still the weight will find a leaven, Still the spoiler's hand is slow, While the future has its heaven, And the past its long-ago. PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARM STADT. FROM Hessen-Darmstadt every step His valour shed victorious grace On all that dread retreat, That path across the wildering snow, And every follower of his sword Now, day and dark, along the storm The hungriest must not look for food, Thus never closed the bitter night, Nor rose the savage morn, But from that gallant company Some noble part was shorn, And, sick at heart, the prince resolved, To keep his purposed way, With steadfast, forward looks, nor count At length beside a black-burnt hut, Toward the saddle bow, They paused, and of that sturdy troop, That thousand banded men, At one unmeditated glance, Of all that high triumphant life This piteous remnant hardly saved While memory raised each friendly face, Then were his words serene and firm 66 Dear brothers, it is best That here, with perfect trust in Heaven, If we have borne, like faithful men, Where'er we wake, for Christ's good sake, We shall not sleep in vain." Some utter'd, others lookt assent, They had no heart to speak; They laid them side by side; and death To come attired in mazy robe Once more he floated on the breast Of old familiar Rhine, His mother's and one other smile A blessed dew of healing fell On every aching limb, Till the stream broaden'd and the air Nature has bent to other laws, If that tremendous night Past o'er his frame exposed and worn, And left no deadly blight; Then wonder not that when refresht And warm he woke at last, Soon raising his astonisht head Of vestments not his own; That very hour, fulfilling good, Oh, strength of loving will! |