I give thee joy!--I know to thee The dearest spot on earth must be Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet's tomb, The land of Virgil gave thee room To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.
I know that when the sky shut down Behind thee on the gleaming town, On Baiae's baths and Posilippo's crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day Burned Ischia's mountain lines away, And Capri melted in its sunny bay;
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot The sharp pang of a bitter thought That slaves must tread around that holy spot.
Thou knewest not the land was blest In giving thy beloved rest, Holding the fond hope closer to her breast,
That every sweet and saintly grave Was freedom's prophecy, and gave The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.
That pledge is answered. To thy ear The unchained city sends its cheer, And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear
Ring Victor in. The land sits free And happy by the summer sea, And Bourbon Naples now is Italy!
She smiles above her broken chain The languid smile that follows pain, Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.
Oh, joy for all, who hear her call From gray Camaldoli's convent-wall And Elmo's towers to freedom's carnival!
A new life breathes among her vines And olives, like the breath of pines Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.
Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath, Rejoice as one who witnesseth Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!
Thy sorrow shall no more be pain, Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain, Writing the grave with flowers: "Arisen again!"
1860.
A MEMORIAL
Moses Austin Cartland, a dear friend and relation, who led a faithful life as a teacher and died in the summer of 1863.
Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing, The solemn vista to the tomb Must know henceforth another shadow, And give another cypress room.
In love surpassing that of brothers, We walked, O friend, from childhood's day; And, looking back o'er fifty summers, Our footprints track a common way.
One in our faith, and one our longing To make the world within our reach Somewhat the better for our living, And gladder for our human speech.
Thou heard'st with me the far-off voices, The old beguiling song of fame, But life to thee was warm and present, And love was better than a name.
To homely joys and loves and friendships Thy genial nature fondly clung; And so the shadow on the dial Ran back and left thee always young.
And who could blame the generous weakness Which, only to thyself unjust, So overprized the worth of others, And dwarfed thy own with self-distrust?
All hearts grew warmer in the presence Of one who, seeking not his own, Gave freely for the love of giving, Nor reaped for self the harvest sown.
Thy greeting smile was pledge and prelude Of generous deeds and kindly words; In thy large heart were fair guest-chambers, Open to sunrise and the birds;
The task was thine to mould and fashion Life's plastic newness into grace To make the boyish heart heroic, And light with thought the maiden's face.
O'er all the land, in town and prairie, With bended heads of mourning, stand The living forms that owe their beauty And fitness to thy shaping hand.
Thy call has come in ripened manhood, The noonday calm of heart and mind, While I, who dreamed of thy remaining To mourn me, linger still behind,
Live on, to own, with self-upbraiding, A debt of love still due from me,-- The vain remembrance of occasions, Forever lost, of serving thee.
It was not mine among thy kindred To join the silent funeral prayers, But all that long sad day of summer My tears of mourning dropped with theirs.
All day the sea-waves sobbed with sorrow, The birds forgot their merry trills All day I heard the pines lamenting With thine upon thy homestead hills.
Green be those hillside pines forever, And green the meadowy lowlands be, And green the old memorial beeches, Name-carven in the woods of Lee.
Still let them greet thy life companions Who thither turn their pilgrim feet, In every mossy line recalling A tender memory sadly sweet.
O friend! if thought and sense avail not To know thee henceforth as thou art, That all is well with thee forever I trust the instincts of my heart.
Thine be the quiet habitations, Thine the green pastures, blossom-sown, And smiles of saintly recognition, As sweet and tender as thy own.
Thou com'st not from the hush and shadow To meet us, but to thee we come, With thee we never can be strangers, And where thou art must still be home.
1863.
BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY
Mr. Bryant's seventieth birthday, November 3, 1864, was celebrated by a festival to which these verses were sent.
We praise not now the poet's art, The rounded beauty of his song; Who weighs him from his life apart Must do his nobler nature wrong.
Not for the eye, familiar grown With charms to common sight denied, The marvellous gift he shares alone With him who walked on Rydal-side;
Not for rapt hymn nor woodland lay, Too grave for smiles, too sweet for tears; We speak his praise who wears to-day The glory of his seventy years.
When Peace brings Freedom in her train, Let happy lips his songs rehearse; His life is now his noblest strain, His manhood better than his verse!
Thank God! his hand on Nature's keys Its cunning keeps at life's full span; But, dimmed and dwarfed, in times like these, The poet seems beside the man!
So be it! let the garlands die, The singer's wreath, the painter's meed, Let our names perish, if thereby Our country may be saved and freed!
1864.