While I recline At ease beneath This immemorial pine, Small sphere!
(By dusky fingers brought this morning here And shown with boastful smiles), I turn thy cloven sheath, Through which the soft white fibres peer, That, with their gossamer bands, Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, And slowly, thread by thread, Draw forth the folded strands, Than which the trembling line, By whose frail help yon startled spider fled Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging bed, Is scarce more fine; And as the tangled skein Unravels in my hands, Betwixt me and the noonday light, A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles The landscape broadens on my sight, As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell Like that which, in the ocean shell, With mystic sound, Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, And turns some city lane Into the restless main, With all his capes and isles!
Yonder bird, Which floats, as if at rest, In those blue tracts above the thunder, where No vapors cloud the stainless air, And never sound is heard, Unless at such rare time When, from the City of the Blest, Rings down some golden chime, Sees not from his high place So vast a cirque of summer space As widens round me in one mighty field, Which, rimmed by seas and sands, Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams Of gray Atlantic dawns; And, broad as realms made up of many lands, Is lost afar Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams Against the Evening Star!
And lo!
To the remotest point of sight, Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, The endless field is white; And the whole landscape glows, For many a shining league away, With such accumulated light As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day!
Nor lack there (for the vision grows, And the small charm within my hands-- More potent even than the fabled one, Which oped whatever golden mystery Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, The curious ointment of the Arabian tale-- Beyond all mortal sense Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see, Beneath its simple influence, As if with Uriel's crown, I stood in some great temple of the Sun, And looked, as Uriel, down!) Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green With all the common gifts of God, For temperate airs and torrid sheen Weave Edens of the sod; Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold Broad rivers wind their devious ways; A hundred isles in their embraces fold A hundred luminous bays; And through yon purple haze Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud-crowned; And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps, An unhewn forest girds them grandly round, In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps!
Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth!
Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays Above it, as to light a favorite hearth!
Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the West See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!
And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!
Bear witness with me in my song of praise, And tell the world that, since the world began, No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, Or given a home to man!
But these are charms already widely blown!
His be the meed whose pencil's trace Hath touched our very swamps with grace, And round whose tuneful way All Southern laurels bloom; The Poet of "The Woodlands", unto whom Alike are known The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, And the soft west wind's sighs; But who shall utter all the debt, O Land wherein all powers are met That bind a people's heart, The world doth owe thee at this day, And which it never can repay, Yet scarcely deigns to own!
Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing The source wherefrom doth spring That mighty commerce which, confined To the mean channels of no selfish mart, Goes out to every shore Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips In alien lands; Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; And gladdening rich and poor, Doth gild Parisian domes, Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes, And only bounds its blessings by mankind!
In offices like these, thy mission lies, My Country! and it shall not end As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark; make thee great In white and bloodless state; And haply, as the years increase-- Still working through its humbler reach With that large wisdom which the ages teach-- Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace!
As men who labor in that mine Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, Hear the dull booming of the world of brine Above them, and a mighty muffled roar Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on, And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof; So I, as calmly, weave my woof Of song, chanting the days to come, Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn Wakes from its starry silence to the hum Of many gathering armies. Still, In that we sometimes hear, Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know The end must crown us, and a few brief years Dry all our tears, I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget That there is much even Victory must regret.
And, therefore, not too long From the great burthen of our country's wrong Delay our just release!
And, if it may be, save These sacred fields of peace From stain of patriot or of hostile blood!
Oh, help us, Lord! to roll the crimson flood Back on its course, and, while our banners wing Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate The lenient future of his fate There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas.
Praeceptor Amat
It is time (it was time long ago) I should sever This chain--why I wear it I know not--forever!
Yet I cling to the bond, e'en while sick of the mask I must wear, as of one whom his commonplace task And proof-armor of dullness have steeled to her charms!
Ah! how lovely she looked as she flung from her arms, In heaps to this table (now starred with the stains Of her booty yet wet with those yesterday rains), These roses and lilies, and--what? let me see!
Then was off in a moment, but turned with a glee, That lit her sweet face as with moonlight, to say, As 't was almost too late for a lesson to-day, She meant to usurp, for this morning at least, My office of Tutor; and instead of a feast Of such mouthfuls as 'poluphloisboio thalasses', With which I fed her, I should study the grasses (Love-grasses she called them), the buds, and the flowers Of which I know nothing; and if "with MY powers", I did not learn all she could teach in that time, And thank her, perhaps, in a sweet English rhyme, If I did not do this, and she flung back her hair, And shook her bright head with a menacing air, She'd be--oh! she'd be--a real Saracen Omar To a certain much-valued edition of Homer!
But these flowers! I believe I could number as soon The shadowy thoughts of a last summer's noon, Or recall with their phases, each one after one, The clouds that came down to the death of the Sun, Cirrus, Stratus, or Nimbus, some evening last year, As unravel the web of one genus! Why, there, As they lie by my desk in that glistering heap, All tangled together like dreams in the sleep Of a bliss-fevered heart, I might turn them and turn Till night, in a puzzle of pleasure, and learn Not a fact, not a secret I prize half so much, As, how rough is this leaf when I think of her touch.
There's one now blown yonder! what can be its name?
A topaz wine-colored, the wine in a flame; And another that's hued like the pulp of a melon, But sprinkled all o'er as with seed-pearls of Ceylon; And a third! its white petals just clouded with pink!
And a fourth, that blue star! and then this, too! I think If one brought me this moment an amethyst cup, From which, through a liquor of amber, looked up, With a glow as of eyes in their elfin-like lustre, Stones culled from all lands in a sunshiny cluster, From the ruby that burns in the sands of Mysore To the beryl of Daunia, with gems from the core Of the mountains of Persia (I talk like a boy In the flush of some new, and yet half-tasted joy); But I think if that cup and its jewels together Were placed by the side of this child of the weather (This one which she touched with her mouth, and let slip From her fingers by chance, as her exquisite lip, With a music befitting the language divine, Gave the roll of the Greek's multitudinous line), I should take--not the gems--but enough! let me shut In the blossom that woke it, my folly, and put Both away in my bosom--there, in a heart-niche, One shall outlive the other--is 't hard to tell which?
In the name of all starry and beautiful things, What is it? the cross in the centre, these rings, And the petals that shoot in an intricate maze, From the disk which is lilac--or purple? like rays In a blue Aureole!
And so now will she wot, When I sit by her side with my brows in a knot, And praise her so calmly, or chide her perhaps, If her voice falter once in its musical lapse, As I've done, I confess, just to gaze at a flush In the white of her throat, or to watch the quick rush Of the tear she sheds smiling, as, drooping her curls O'er that book I keep shrined like a casket of pearls, She reads on in low tones of such tremulous sweetness, That (in spite of some faults) I am forced, in discreetness, To silence, lest mine, growing hoarse, should betray What I must not reveal--will she guess now, I say, How, for all his grave looks, the stern, passionless Tutor, With more than the love of her youthfulest suitor, Is hiding somewhere in the shroud of his vest, By a heart that is beating wild wings in its nest, This flower, thrown aside in the sport of a minute, And which he holds dear as though folded within it Lay the germ of the bliss that he dreams of! Ah, me!
It is hard to love thus, yet to seem and to be A thing for indifference, faint praise, or cold blame, When you long (by the right of deep passion, the claim, On the loved of the loving, at least to be heard) To take the white hand, and with glance, touch, and word, Burn your way to the heart! That her step on the stair?
Be still thou fond flutterer!
How little I care For your favorites, see! they are all of them, look!
On the spot where they fell, and--but here is your book!
The Problem
Not to win thy favor, maiden, not to steal away thy heart, Have I ever sought thy presence, ever stooped to any art; Thou wast but a wildering problem, which I aimed to solve, and then Make it matter for my note-book, or a picture for my pen.
So, I daily conned thee over, thinking it no dangerous task, Peeping underneath thy lashes, peering underneath thy mask-- For thou wear'st one--no denial! there is much within thine eyes; But those stars have other secrets than are patent in their skies.
And I read thee, read thee closely, every grace and every sin, Looked behind the outward seeming to the strange wild world within, Where thy future self is forming, where I saw--no matter what!
There was something less than angel, there was many an earthly spot; Yet so beautiful thy errors that I had no heart for blame, And thy virtues made thee dearer than my dearest hopes of fame; All so blended, that in wishing one peculiar trait removed, We indeed might make thee better, but less lovely and less loved.
All my mind was in the study--so two thrilling fortnights passed-- All my mind was in the study--till my heart was touched at last.
Well! and then the book was finished, the absorbing task was done, I awoke as one who had been dreaming in a noon-day sun; With a fever on my forehead, and a throbbing in my brain, In my soul delirious wishes, in my heart a lasting pain; Yet so hopeless, yet so cureless--as in every great despair-- I was very calm and silent, and I never stooped to prayer, Like a sick man unattended, reckless of the coming death, Only for he knows it certain, and he feels no sister's breath.
All the while as by an Ate, with no pity in her face, Yet with eyes of witching beauty, and with form of matchless grace, I was haunted by thy presence, oh! for weary nights and days, I was haunted by thy spirit, I was troubled by thy gaze, And the question which to answer I had taxed a subtle brain, What thou art, and what thou wilt be, came again and yet again; With its opposite deductions, it recurred a thousand times, Like a coward's apprehensions, like a madman's favorite rhymes.
But to-night my thoughts flow calmer--in thy room I think I stand, See a fair white page before thee, and a pen within thy hand; And thy fingers sweep the paper, and a light is in thine eyes, Whilst I read thy secret fancies, whilst I hear thy secret sighs.
What they are I will not whisper, those are lovely, these are deep, But one name is left unwritten, that is only breathed in sleep.
Is it wonder that my passion bursts at once from out its nest?
I have bent my knee before thee, and my love is all confessed; Though I knew that name unwritten was another name than mine, Though I felt those sighs half murmured what I could but half divine.
Aye! I hear thy haughty answer! Aye! I see thy proud lip curl!
"What presumption, and what folly!" why, I only love a girl With some very winning graces, with some very noble traits, But no better than a thousand who have bent to humbler fates.
That I ask not; I have, maiden, just as haught a soul as thine; If thou think'st thy place above me, thou shalt never stoop to mine.
Yet as long as blood runs redly, yet as long as mental worth Is a nobler gift than fortune, is a holier thing than birth, I will claim the right to utter, to the high and to the low, That I love them, or I hate them, that I am a friend or foe.
Nor shall any slight unman me; I have yet some little strength, Yet my song shall sound as sweetly, yet a power be mine at length!
Then, oh, then! but moans are idle--hear me, pitying saints above!
With a chaplet on my forehead, I will justify my love.
And perhaps when thou art leaning on some less devoted breast, Thou shalt murmur, "He was worthier than my blinded spirit guessed."
A Year's Courtship
I saw her, Harry, first, in March-- You know the street that leadeth down By the old bridge's crumbling arch?-- Just where it leaves the dusty town
A lonely house stands grim and dark-- You've seen it? then I need not say How quaint the place is--did you mark An ivied window? Well! one day,
I, chasing some forgotten dream, And in a poet's idlest mood, Caught, as I passed, a white hand's gleam-- A shutter opened--there she stood
Training the ivy to its prop.
Two dark eyes and a brow of snow Flashed down upon me--did I stop?-- She says I did--I do not know.
But all that day did something glow Just where the heart beats; frail and slight, A germ had slipped its shell, and now Was pushing softly for the light.
And April saw me at her feet, Dear month of sunshine and of rain!
My very fears were sometimes sweet, And hope was often touched with pain.
For she was frank, and she was coy, A willful April in her ways; And in a dream of doubtful joy I passed some truly April days.
May came, and on that arch, sweet mouth, The smile was graver in its play, And, softening with the softening South, My April melted into May.