The Past
To-day's most trivial act may hold the seed Of future fruitfulness, or future dearth; Oh, cherish always every word and deed!
The simplest record of thyself hath worth.
If thou hast ever slighted one old thought, Beware lest Grief enforce the truth at last; The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught The value and the beauty of the Past.
Not merely as a warner and a guide, "A voice behind thee," sounding to the strife; But something never to be put aside, A part and parcel of thy present life.
Not as a distant and a darkened sky, Through which the stars peep, and the moon-beams glow; But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby We live and breathe, sustained in pain and woe.
A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss, Each still to each corrective and relief, Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, And nothing wholly perishes but Grief.
Ah, me!--not dies--no more than spirit dies; But in a change like death is clothed with wings; A serious angel, with entranced eyes, Looking to far-off and celestial things.
Dreams
Who first said "false as dreams"? Not one who saw Into the wild and wondrous world they sway; No thinker who hath read their mystic law; No Poet who hath weaved them in his lay.
Else had he known that through the human breast Cross and recross a thousand fleeting gleams, That, passed unnoticed in the day's unrest, Come out at night, like stars, in shining dreams;
That minds too busy or too dull to mark The dim suggestion of the noisier hours, By dreams in the deep silence of the dark, Are roused at midnight with their folded powers.
Like that old fount beneath Dodona's oaks, That, dry and voiceless in the garish noon, When the calm night arose with modest looks, Caught with full wave the sparkle of the moon.
If, now and then, a ghastly shape glide in, And fright us with its horrid gloom or glee, It is the ghost of some forgotten sin We failed to exorcise on bended knee.
And that sweet face which only yesternight Came to thy solace, dreamer (didst thou read The blessing in its eyes of tearful light?), Was but the spirit of some gentle deed.
Each has its lesson; for our dreams in sooth, Come they in shape of demons, gods, or elves, Are allegories with deep hearts of truth That tell us solemn secrets of ourselves.
The Arctic Voyager
Shall I desist, twice baffled? Once by land, And once by sea, I fought and strove with storms, All shades of danger, tides, and weary calms; Head-currents, cold and famine, savage beasts, And men more savage; all the while my face Looked northward toward the pole; if mortal strength Could have sustained me, I had never turned Till I had seen the star which never sets Freeze in the Arctic zenith. That I failed To solve the mysteries of the ice-bound world, Was not because I faltered in the quest.
Witness those pathless forests which conceal The bones of perished comrades, that long march, Blood-tracked o'er flint and snow, and one dread night By Athabasca, when a cherished life Flowed to give life to others. This, and worse, I suffered--let it pass--it has not tamed My spirit nor the faith which was my strength.
Despite of waning years, despite the world Which doubts, the few who dare, I purpose now-- A purpose long and thoughtfully resolved, Through all its grounds of reasonable hope-- To seek beyond the ice which guards the Pole, A sea of open water; for I hold, Not without proofs, that such a sea exists, And may be reached, though since this earth was made No keel hath ploughed it, and to mortal ear No wind hath told its secrets.... With this tide I sail; if all be well, this very moon Shall see my ship beyond the southern cape Of Greenland, and far up the bay through which, With diamond spire and gorgeous pinnacle, The fleets of winter pass to warmer seas.
Whether, my hardy shipmates! we shall reach Our bourne, and come with tales of wonder back, Or whether we shall lose the precious time, Locked in thick ice, or whether some strange fate Shall end us all, I know not; but I know A lofty hope, if earnestly pursued, Is its own crown, and never in this life Is labor wholly fruitless. In this faith I shall not count the chances--sure that all A prudent foresight asks we shall not want, And all that bold and patient hearts can do Ye will not leave undone. The rest is God's!
Dramatic Fragment
Let the boy have his will! I tell thee, brother, We treat these little ones too much like flowers, Training them, in blind selfishness, to deck Sticks of our poor setting, when they might, If left to clamber where themselves incline, Find nobler props to cling to, fitter place, And sweeter air to bloom in. It is wrong-- Thou striv'st to sow with feelings all thine own, With thoughts and hopes, anxieties and aims, Born of thine own peculiar self, and fed Upon a certain round of circumstance, A soul as different and distinct from thine As love of goodness is from love of glory, Or noble poesy from noble prose.
I could forgive thee, if thou wast of them Who do their fated parts in this world's business, Scarce knowing how or why--for common minds See not the difference 'twixt themselves and others-- But thou, thou, with the visions which thy youth did cherish Substantialized upon thy regal brow, Shouldst boast a deeper insight. We are born, It is my faith, in miniature completeness, And like each other only in our weakness.
Even with our mother's milk upon our lips, Our smiles have different meanings, and our hands Press with degrees of softness to her bosom.
It is not change--whatever in the heart That wears its semblance, we, in looking back, With gratulation or regret, perceive-- It is not change we undergo, but only Growth or development. Yes! what is childhood But after all a sort of golden daylight, A beautiful and blessed wealth of sunshine, Wherein the powers and passions of the soul Sleep starlike but existent, till the night Of gathering years shall call the slumbers forth, And they rise up in glory? Early grief, A shadow like the darkness of eclipse, Hath sometimes waked them sooner.
The Summer Bower
It is a place whither I've often gone For peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool, A beautiful recess in neighboring woods.
Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall, Arch it o'erhead and column it around, Framing a covert, natural and wild, Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosed But that the gentlest breezes reach the spot Unwearied and unweakened. Sound is here A transient and unfrequent visitor; Yet if the day be calm, not often then, Whilst the high pines in one another's arms Sleep, you may sometimes with unstartled ear Catch the far fall of voices, how remote You know not, and you do not care to know.
The turf is soft and green, but not a flower Lights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright-- I do not know its name--which here and there Gleams like a sapphire set in emerald.
A narrow opening in the branched roof, A single one, is large enough to show, With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much, The blue air and the blessing of the sky.
Thither I always bent my idle steps, When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart, And found the calm I looked for, or returned Strong with the quiet rapture in my soul.
But one day, One of those July days when winds have fled One knows not whither, I, most sick in mind With thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt, Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though dark With gloom, and touched with discontent, they had No adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end, I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day, Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for once No medicinal virtue.
Not a leaf Stirred with the whispering welcome which I sought, But in a close and humid atmosphere, Every fair plant and implicated bough Hung lax and lifeless. Something in the place, Its utter stillness, the unusual heat, And some more secret influence, I thought, Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw, Though not a cloud was visible in heaven, The pallid sky look through a glazed mist Like a blue eye in death.
The change, perhaps, Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight, The weather, and the time explain it all: Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot, And shrined it in these verses for my heart.
Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have sought Not less, and in all shades of various moods; But always shun to desecrate the spot By vain repinings, sickly sentiments, Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, though Pure as she was in Eden when her breath Kissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse, In her own way and with a just reserve, To sympathize with human suffering; But for the pains, the fever, and the fret Engendered of a weak, unquiet heart, She hath no solace; and who seeks her when These be the troubles over which he moans, Reads in her unreplying lineaments Rebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness, Strike like contempt.
A Rhapsody of a Southern Winter Night
Oh! dost thou flatter falsely, Hope?
The day hath scarcely passed that saw thy birth, Yet thy white wings are plumed to all their scope, And hour by hour thine eyes have gathered light, And grown so large and bright, That my whole future life unfolds what seems, Beneath their gentle beams, A path that leads athwart some guiltless earth, To which a star is dropping from the night!
Not many moons ago, But when these leafless beds were all aglow With summer's dearest treasures, I Was reading in this lonely garden-nook; A July noon was cloudless in the sky, And soon I put my shallow studies by; Then, sick at heart, and angered by the book, Which, in good sooth, was but the long-drawn sigh Of some one who had quarreled with his kind, Vexed at the very proofs which I had sought, And all annoyed while all alert to find A plausible likeness of my own dark thought, I cast me down beneath yon oak's wide boughs, And, shielding with both hands my throbbing brows, Watched lazily the shadows of my brain.
The feeble tide of peevishness went down, And left a flat dull waste of dreary pain, Which seemed to clog the blood in every vein; The world, of course, put on its darkest frown-- In all its realms I saw no mortal crown Which did not wound or crush some restless head; And hope, and will, and motive, all were dead.
So, passive as a stone, I felt too low To claim a kindred with the humblest flower; Even that would bare its bosom to a shower, While I henceforth would take no pains to live, Nor place myself where I might feel or give A single impulse whence a wish could grow.
There was a tulip scarce a gossamer's throw Beyond that platanus. A little child, Most dear to me, looked through the fence and smiled A hint that I should pluck it for her sake.
Ah, me! I trust I was not well awake-- The voice was very sweet, Yet a faint languor kept me in my seat.
I saw a pouted lip, a toss, and heard Some low expostulating tones, but stirred Not even a leaf's length, till the pretty fay, Wondering, and half abashed at the wild feat, Climbed the low pales, and laughed my gloom away.
And here again, but led by other powers, A morning and a golden afternoon, These happy stars, and yonder setting moon, Have seen me speed, unreckoned and untasked, A round of precious hours.
Oh! here, where in that summer noon I basked, And strove, with logic frailer than the flowers, To justify a life of sensuous rest, A question dear as home or heaven was asked, And without language answered. I was blest!
Blest with those nameless boons too sweet to trust Unto the telltale confidence of song.
Love to his own glad self is sometimes coy, And even thus much doth seem to do him wrong; While in the fears which chasten mortal joy, Is one that shuts the lips, lest speech too free, With the cold touch of hard reality, Should turn its priceless jewels into dust.
Since that long kiss which closed the morning's talk, I have not strayed beyond this garden walk.