I
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause.
II
In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone!
III
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms.
IV
Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay.
V
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned!
SONNETS
I "Poet! If on a Lasting Fame Be Bent"
Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent Thy unperturbing hopes, thou will not roam Too far from thine own happy heart and home; Cling to the lowly earth, and be content!
So shall thy name be dear to many a heart; So shall the noblest truths by thee be taught; The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art.
The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, And we may track the mighty sun above, Even by the shadow of a slender flower.
Always, O bard, humility is power!
And thou mayst draw from matters of the hearth Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love.
II "Most Men Know Love But as a Part of Life"
Most men know love but as a part of life; They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest In the brief pauses of that daily strife, Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.
Ah me! why may not love and life be one?
Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible God, might be our guide?
How would the marts grow noble! and the street, Worn like a dungeon-floor by weary feet, Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun!
III "Life Ever Seems as from Its Present Site"
Life ever seems as from its present site It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast, Into a purple cloud! Across the night Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn.
Not the near daisies, but yon distant height Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn.
And always, be the landscape what it may-- Blue, misty hill or sweep of glimmering plain-- It is the eye's endeavor still to gain The fine, faint limit of the bounding day.
God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain Hint of a happier home, far, far away!
IV "They Dub Thee Idler, Smiling Sneeringly"
They dub thee idler, smiling sneeringly, And why? because, forsooth, so many moons, Here dwelling voiceless by the voiceful sea, Thou hast not set thy thoughts to paltry tunes In song or sonnet. Them these golden noons Oppress not with their beauty; they could prate, Even while a prophet read the solemn runes On which is hanging some imperial fate.
How know they, these good gossips, what to thee The ocean and its wanderers may have brought?
How know they, in their busy vacancy, With what far aim thy spirit may be fraught?
Or that thou dost not bow thee silently Before some great unutterable thought?
V "Some Truths There Be Are Better Left Unsaid"
Some truths there be are better left unsaid; Much is there that we may not speak unblamed.
On words, as wings, how many joys have fled!
The jealous fairies love not to be named.
There is an old-world tale of one whose bed A genius graced, to all, save him, unknown; One day the secret passed his lips, and sped As secrets speed--thenceforth he slept alone.
Too much, oh! far too much is told in books; Too broad a daylight wraps us all and each.
Ah! it is well that, deeper than our looks, Some secrets lie beyond conjecture's reach.
Ah! it is well that in the soul are nooks That will not open to the keys of speech.
VI "I Scarcely Grieve, O Nature! at the Lot"