No stronger voice than thine had then Called out the utmost might of men, To make the Union's charter free And strengthen law by liberty.
How had that stern arbitrament To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, Shaming ambition's paltry prize Before thy disillusioned eyes; Breaking the spell about thee wound Like the green withes that Samson bound; Redeeming in one effort grand, Thyself and thy imperilled land!
Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee, O sleeper by the Northern sea, The gates of opportunity!
God fills the gaps of human need, Each crisis brings its word and deed.
Wise men and strong we did not lack; But still, with memory turning back, In the dark hours we thought of thee, And thy lone grave beside the sea.
Above that grave the east winds blow, And from the marsh-lands drifting slow The sea-fog comes, with evermore The wave-wash of a lonely shore, And sea-bird's melancholy cry, As Nature fain would typify The sadness of a closing scene, The loss of that which should have been.
But, where thy native mountains bare Their foreheads to diviner air, Fit emblem of enduring fame, One lofty summit keeps thy name.
For thee the cosmic forces did The rearing of that pyramid, The prescient ages shaping with Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith.
Sunrise and sunset lay thereon With hands of light their benison, The stars of midnight pause to set Their jewels in its coronet.
And evermore that mountain mass Seems climbing from the shadowy pass To light, as if to manifest Thy nobler self, thy life at best!
1880
WORDSWORTH, WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS MEMOIRS.
Dear friends, who read the world aright, And in its common forms discern A beauty and a harmony The many never learn!
Kindred in soul of him who found In simple flower and leaf and stone The impulse of the sweetest lays Our Saxon tongue has known,--
Accept this record of a life As sweet and pure, as calm and good, As a long day of blandest June In green field and in wood.
How welcome to our ears, long pained By strife of sect and party noise, The brook-like murmur of his song Of nature's simple joys!
The violet' by its mossy stone, The primrose by the river's brim, And chance-sown daffodil, have found Immortal life through him.
The sunrise on his breezy lake, The rosy tints his sunset brought, World-seen, are gladdening all the vales And mountain-peaks of thought.
Art builds on sand; the works of pride And human passion change and fall; But that which shares the life of God With Him surviveth all.
1851.
TO ------, LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION.
Fair Nature's priestesses! to whom, In hieroglyph of bud and bloom, Her mysteries are told; Who, wise in lore of wood and mead, The seasons' pictured scrolls can read, In lessons manifold!
Thanks for the courtesy, and gay Good-humor, which on Washing Day Our ill-timed visit bore; Thanks for your graceful oars, which broke The morning dreams of Artichoke, Along his wooded shore!
Varied as varying Nature's ways, Sprites of the river, woodland fays, Or mountain nymphs, ye seem; Free-limbed Dianas on the green, Loch Katrine's Ellen, or Undine, Upon your favorite stream.
The forms of which the poets told, The fair benignities of old, Were doubtless such as you; What more than Artichoke the rill Of Helicon? Than Pipe-stave hill Arcadia's mountain-view?
No sweeter bowers the bee delayed, In wild Hymettus' scented shade, Than those you dwell among; Snow-flowered azaleas, intertwined With roses, over banks inclined With trembling harebells hung!
A charmed life unknown to death, Immortal freshness Nature hath; Her fabled fount and glen Are now and here: Dodona's shrine Still murmurs in the wind-swept pine,-- All is that e'er hath been.
The Beauty which old Greece or Rome Sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home; We need but eye and ear In all our daily walks to trace The outlines of incarnate grace, The hymns of gods to hear!
1851
IN PEACE.
A track of moonlight on a quiet lake, Whose small waves on a silver-sanded shore Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make Such harmonies as keep the woods awake, And listening all night long for their sweet sake A green-waved slope of meadow, hovered o'er By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light On viewless stems, with folded wings of white; A slumberous stretch of mountain-land, far seen Where the low westering day, with gold and green, Purple and amber, softly blended, fills The wooded vales, and melts among the hills; A vine-fringed river, winding to its rest On the calm bosom of a stormless sea, Bearing alike upon its placid breast, With earthly flowers and heavenly' stars impressed, The hues of time and of eternity Such are the pictures which the thought of thee, O friend, awakeneth,--charming the keen pain Of thy departure, and our sense of loss Requiting with the fullness of thy gain.
Lo! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross, Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine, Of thy beatitude the radiant sign!
No sob of grief, no wild lament be there, To break the Sabbath of the holy air; But, in their stead, the silent-breathing prayer Of hearts still waiting for a rest like thine.
O spirit redeemed! Forgive us, if henceforth, With sweet and pure similitudes of earth, We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green, Of love's inheritance a priceless part, Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart.
1851.
BENEDICITE.
God's love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair.
Whether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or, out among the woodland blooms,
It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!
Fair Nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead,--
The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine,-- All keep thy memory fresh and green.
Where'er I look, where'er I stray, Thy thought goes with me on my way, And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;
O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean.
Thou lack'st not Friendship's spell-word, nor The half-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law.
With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To hold the blessed angels fast.
If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me, What should, dear heart, its burden be?
The sighing of a shaken reed,-- What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need?
God's love,--unchanging, pure, and true,-- The Paraclete white-shining through His peace,--the fall of Hermon's dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day, As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away!
1851.