Close beside, in shade and gleam, Laughs and ripples Melvin stream; Melvin water, mountain-born, All fair flowers its banks adorn; All the woodland's voices meet, Mingling with its murmurs sweet.
Over lowlands forest-grown, Over waters island-strown, Over silver-sanded beach, Leaf-locked bay and misty reach, Melvin stream and burial-heap, Watch and ward the mountains keep.
Who that Titan cromlech fills?
Forest-kaiser, lord o' the hills?
Knight who on the birchen tree Carved his savage heraldry?
Priest o' the pine-wood temples dim, Prophet, sage, or wizard grim?
Rugged type of primal man, Grim utilitarian, Loving woods for hunt and prowl, Lake and hill for fish and fowl, As the brown bear blind and dull To the grand and beautiful:
Not for him the lesson drawn From the mountains smit with dawn, Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May, Sunset's purple bloom of day,-- Took his life no hue from thence, Poor amid such affluence?
Haply unto hill and tree All too near akin was he Unto him who stands afar Nature's marvels greatest are; Who the mountain purple seeks Must not climb the higher peaks.
Yet who knows in winter tramp, Or the midnight of the camp, What revealings faint and far, Stealing down from moon and star, Kindled in that human clod Thought of destiny and God?
Stateliest forest patriarch, Grand in robes of skin and bark, What sepulchral mysteries, What weird funeral-rites, were his?
What sharp wail, what drear lament, Back scared wolf and eagle sent?
Now, whate'er he may have been, Low he lies as other men; On his mound the partridge drums, There the noisy blue-jay comes; Rank nor name nor pomp has he In the grave's democracy.
Part thy blue lips, Northern lake!
Moss-grown rocks, your silence break!
Tell the tale, thou ancient tree!
Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee!
Speak, and tell us how and when Lived and died this king of men!
Wordless moans the ancient pine; Lake and mountain give no sign; Vain to trace this ring of stones; Vain the search of crumbling bones Deepest of all mysteries, And the saddest, silence is.
Nameless, noteless, clay with clay Mingles slowly day by day; But somewhere, for good or ill, That dark soul is living still; Somewhere yet that atom's force Moves the light-poised universe.
Strange that on his burial-sod Harebells bloom, and golden-rod, While the soul's dark horoscope Holds no starry sign of hope!
Is the Unseen with sight at odds?
Nature's pity more than God's?
Thus I mused by Melvin's side, While the summer eventide Made the woods and inland sea And the mountains mystery; And the hush of earth and air Seemed the pause before a prayer,--
Prayer for him, for all who rest, Mother Earth, upon thy breast,-- Lapped on Christian turf, or hid In rock-cave or pyramid All who sleep, as all who live, Well may need the prayer, "Forgive!"
Desert-smothered caravan, Knee-deep dust that once was man, Battle-trenches ghastly piled, Ocean-floors with white bones tiled, Crowded tomb and mounded sod, Dumbly crave that prayer to God.
Oh, the generations old Over whom no church-bells tolled, Christless, lifting up blind eyes To the silence of the skies!
For the innumerable dead Is my soul disquieted.
Where be now these silent hosts?
Where the camping-ground of ghosts?
Where the spectral conscripts led To the white tents of the dead?
What strange shore or chartless sea Holds the awful mystery?
Then the warm sky stooped to make Double sunset in the lake; While above I saw with it, Range on range, the mountains lit; And the calm and splendor stole Like an answer to my soul.
Hear'st thou, O of little faith, What to thee the mountain saith, What is whispered by the trees?
Cast on God thy care for these; Trust Him, if thy sight be dim Doubt for them is doubt of Him.
"Blind must be their close-shut eyes Where like night the sunshine lies, Fiery-linked the self-forged chain Binding ever sin to pain, Strong their prison-house of will, But without He waiteth still.
"Not with hatred's undertow Doth the Love Eternal flow; Every chain that spirits wear Crumbles in the breath of prayer; And the penitent's desire Opens every gate of fire.
"Still Thy love, O Christ arisen, Yearns to reach these souls in prison!
Through all depths of sin and loss Drops the plummet of Thy cross!
Never yet abyss was found Deeper than that cross could sound!"
Therefore well may Nature keep Equal faith with all who sleep, Set her watch of hills around Christian grave and heathen mound, And to cairn and kirkyard send Summer's flowery dividend.
Keep, O pleasant Melvin stream, Thy sweet laugh in shade and gleam On the Indian's grassy tomb Swing, O flowers, your bells of bloom!
Deep below, as high above, Sweeps the circle of God's love.
1865
He paused and questioned with his eye The hearers' verdict on his song.
A low voice asked: Is 't well to pry Into the secrets which belong Only to God?--The life to be Is still the unguessed mystery Unsealed, unpierced the cloudy walls remain, We beat with dream and wish the soundless doors in vain.
"But faith beyond our sight may go."
He said: "The gracious Fatherhood Can only know above, below, Eternal purposes of good.
From our free heritage of will, The bitter springs of pain and ill Flow only in all worlds. The perfect day Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway."
"I know," she said, "the letter kills; That on our arid fields of strife And heat of clashing texts distils The clew of spirit and of life.
But, searching still the written Word, I fain would find, Thus saith the Lord, A voucher for the hope I also feel That sin can give no wound beyond love's power to heal."
"Pray," said the Man of Books, "give o'er A theme too vast for time and place.
Go on, Sir Poet, ride once more Your hobby at his old free pace.
But let him keep, with step discreet, The solid earth beneath his feet.
In the great mystery which around us lies, The wisest is a fool, the fool Heaven-helped is wise."
The Traveller said: "If songs have creeds, Their choice of them let singers make; But Art no other sanction needs Than beauty for its own fair sake.
It grinds not in the mill of use, Nor asks for leave, nor begs excuse; It makes the flexile laws it deigns to own, And gives its atmosphere its color and its tone.
"Confess, old friend, your austere school Has left your fancy little chance; You square to reason's rigid rule The flowing outlines of romance.
With conscience keen from exercise, And chronic fear of compromise, You check the free play of your rhymes, to clap A moral underneath, and spring it like a trap."
The sweet voice answered: "Better so Than bolder flights that know no check; Better to use the bit, than throw The reins all loose on fancy's neck.
The liberal range of Art should be The breadth of Christian liberty, Restrained alone by challenge and alarm Where its charmed footsteps tread the border land of harm.
"Beyond the poet's sweet dream lives The eternal epic of the man.
He wisest is who only gives, True to himself, the best he can; Who, drifting in the winds of praise, The inward monitor obeys; And, with the boldness that confesses fear, Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience steer.
"Thanks for the fitting word he speaks, Nor less for doubtful word unspoken; For the false model that he breaks, As for the moulded grace unbroken; For what is missed and what remains, For losses which are truest gains, For reverence conscious of the Eternal eye, And truth too fair to need the garnish of a lie."