Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, As in the round wherein our lives are pent; Chance for a while shall seem to reign, While Goodness roves like Guilt about the street, And Guilt looks innocent.
But all at last shall vindicate the right, Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, And Fortune's general justice rendered plain.
Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet.
As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth A sudden beauty unexpected starts, So you shall find some germs of hidden worth Within the vilest hearts; And now and then, when in those moods that turn To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn You've struck a spring of tears!
But while we lead you thus from change to change, Shall we not find within our ample range Some type to elevate a people's heart-- Some hero who shall teach a hero's part In this distracted time?
Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell!
And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, As if across the billows unenthralled Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, Bid Liberty rejoice!
Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, Make every crag of Switzerland sublime!
And say to those whose feeble souls would lean, Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, That once a single mind sufficed to quell The malice of a tyrant; let them know That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, But the whole spirit of a mighty land!
Bid Liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red With the large promise of the coming ray.
Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, Let us among the charms of Art awhile Fleet the deep gloom away; Nor yet forget that on each hand and head Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.
A Vision of Poesy
Part I
I
In a far country, and a distant age, Ere sprites and fays had bade farewell to earth, A boy was born of humble parentage; The stars that shone upon his lonely birth Did seem to promise sovereignty and fame-- Yet no tradition hath preserved his name.
II
'T is said that on the night when he was born, A beauteous shape swept slowly through the room; Its eyes broke on the infant like a morn, And his cheek brightened like a rose in bloom; But as it passed away there followed after A sigh of pain, and sounds of elvish laughter.
III
And so his parents deemed him to be blest Beyond the lot of mortals; they were poor As the most timid bird that stored its nest With the stray gleanings at their cottage-door: Yet they contrived to rear their little dove, And he repaid them with the tenderest love.
IV
The child was very beautiful in sooth, And as he waxed in years grew lovelier still; On his fair brow the aureole of truth Beamed, and the purest maidens, with a thrill, Looked in his eyes, and from their heaven of blue Saw thoughts like sinless Angels peering through.
V
Need there was none of censure or of praise To mould him to the kind parental hand; Yet there was ever something in his ways, Which those about him could not understand; A self-withdrawn and independent bliss, Beside the father's love, the mother's kiss.
VI
For oft, when he believed himself alone, They caught brief snatches of mysterious rhymes, Which he would murmur in an undertone, Like a pleased bee's in summer; and at times A strange far look would come into his eyes, As if he saw a vision in the skies.
VII
And he upon a simple leaf would pore As if its very texture unto him Had some deep meaning; sometimes by the door, From noon until a summer-day grew dim, He lay and watched the clouds; and to his thought Night with her stars but fitful slumbers brought.
VIII
In the long hours of twilight, when the breeze Talked in low tones along the woodland rills, Or the loud North its stormy minstrelsies Blent with wild noises from the distant hills, The boy--his rosy hand against his ear Curved like a sea-shell--hushed as some rapt seer,
IX
Followed the sounds, and ever and again, As the wind came and went, in storm or play, He seemed to hearken as to some far strain Of mingled voices calling him away; And they who watched him held their breath to trace The still and fixed attention in his face.
X
Once, on a cold and loud-voiced winter night, The three were seated by their cottage-fire-- The mother watching by its flickering light The wakeful urchin, and the dozing sire; There was a brief, quick motion like a bird's, And the boy's thought thus rippled into words:
XI
"O mother! thou hast taught me many things, But none I think more beautiful than speech-- A nobler power than even those broad wings I used to pray for, when I longed to reach That distant peak which on our vale looks down, And wears the star of evening for a crown.
XII
"But, mother, while our human words are rife To us with meaning, other sounds there be Which seem, and are, the language of a life Around, yet unlike ours: winds talk; the sea Murmurs articulately, and the sky Listens, and answers, though inaudibly.
XIII
"By stream and spring, in glades and woodlands lone, Beside our very cot I've gathered flowers Inscribed with signs and characters unknown; But the frail scrolls still baffle all my powers: What is this language and where is the key That opes its weird and wondrous mystery?
XIV
"The forests know it, and the mountains know, And it is written in the sunset's dyes; A revelation to the world below Is daily going on before our eyes; And, but for sinful thoughts, I do not doubt That we could spell the thrilling secret out.
XV
"O mother! somewhere on this lovely earth I lived, and understood that mystic tongue, But, for some reason, to my second birth Only the dullest memories have clung, Like that fair tree that even while blossoming Keeps the dead berries of a former spring.
XVI
"Who shall put life in these?--my nightly dreams Some teacher of supernal powers foretell; A fair and stately shape appears, which seems Bright with all truth; and once, in a dark dell Within the forest, unto me there came A voice that must be hers, which called my name."
XVII
Puzzled and frightened, wondering more and more, The mother heard, but did not comprehend; "So early dallying with forbidden lore!
Oh, what will chance, and wherein will it end?
My child! my child!" she caught him to her breast, "Oh, let me kiss these wildering thoughts to rest!
XVIII
"They cannot come from God, who freely gives All that we need to have, or ought to know; Beware, my son! some evil influence strives To grieve thy parents, and to work thee woe; Alas! the vision I misunderstood!
It could not be an angel fair and good."
XIX