1864.
THE PAGEANT.
A sound as if from bells of silver, Or elfin cymbals smitten clear, Through the frost-pictured panes I hear.
A brightness which outshines the morning, A splendor brooking no delay, Beckons and tempts my feet away.
I leave the trodden village highway For virgin snow-paths glimmering through A jewelled elm-tree avenue;
Where, keen against the walls of sapphire, The gleaming tree-bolls, ice-embossed, Hold up their chandeliers of frost.
I tread in Orient halls enchanted, I dream the Saga's dream of caves Gem-lit beneath the North Sea waves!
I walk the land of Eldorado, I touch its mimic garden bowers, Its silver leaves and diamond flowers!
The flora of the mystic mine-world Around me lifts on crystal stems The petals of its clustered gems!
What miracle of weird transforming In this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite!
This foregleam of the Holy City Like that to him of Patmos given, The white bride coming down from heaven!
How flash the ranked and mail-clad alders, Through what sharp-glancing spears of reeds The brook its muffled water leads!
Yon maple, like the bush of Horeb, Burns unconsumed: a white, cold fire Rays out from every grassy spire.
Each slender rush and spike of mullein, Low laurel shrub and drooping fern, Transfigured, blaze where'er I turn.
How yonder Ethiopian hemlock Crowned with his glistening circlet stands!
What jewels light his swarthy hands!
Here, where the forest opens southward, Between its hospitable pines, As through a door, the warm sun shines.
The jewels loosen on the branches, And lightly, as the soft winds blow, Fall, tinkling, on the ice below.
And through the clashing of their cymbals I hear the old familiar fall Of water down the rocky wall,
Where, from its wintry prison breaking, In dark and silence hidden long, The brook repeats its summer song.
One instant flashing in the sunshine, Keen as a sabre from its sheath, Then lost again the ice beneath.
I hear the rabbit lightly leaping, The foolish screaming of the jay, The chopper's axe-stroke far away;
The clamor of some neighboring barn-yard, The lazy cock's belated crow, Or cattle-tramp in crispy snow.
And, as in some enchanted forest The lost knight hears his comrades sing, And, near at hand, their bridles ring,--
So welcome I these sounds and voices, These airs from far-off summer blown, This life that leaves me not alone.
For the white glory overawes me; The crystal terror of the seer Of Chebar's vision blinds me here.
Rebuke me not, O sapphire heaven!
Thou stainless earth, lay not on me, Thy keen reproach of purity,
If, in this August presence-chamber, I sigh for summer's leaf-green gloom And warm airs thick with odorous bloom!
Let the strange frost-work sink and crumble, And let the loosened tree-boughs swing, Till all their bells of silver ring.
Shine warmly down, thou sun of noontime, On this chill pageant, melt and move The winter's frozen heart with love.
And, soft and low, thou wind south-blowing, Breathe through a veil of tenderest haze Thy prophecy of summer days.
Come with thy green relief of promise, And to this dead, cold splendor bring The living jewels of the spring!
1869.
THE PRESSED GENTIAN.
The time of gifts has come again, And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day's brief light, A Christmas token hangs in sight.
The wayside travellers, as they pass, Mark the gray disk of clouded glass; And the dull blankness seems, perchance, Folly to their wise ignorance.
They cannot from their outlook see The perfect grace it hath for me; For there the flower, whose fringes through The frosty breath of autumn blew, Turns from without its face of bloom To the warm tropic of my room, As fair as when beside its brook The hue of bending skies it took.
So from the trodden ways of earth, Seem some sweet souls who veil their worth, And offer to the careless glance The clouding gray of circumstance.
They blossom best where hearth-fires burn, To loving eyes alone they turn The flowers of inward grace, that hide Their beauty from the world outside.
But deeper meanings come to me, My half-immortal flower, from thee!
Man judges from a partial view, None ever yet his brother knew; The Eternal Eye that sees the whole May better read the darkened soul, And find, to outward sense denied, The flower upon its inmost side
1872.
A MYSTERY.
The river hemmed with leaning trees Wound through its meadows green; A low, blue line of mountains showed The open pines between.
One sharp, tall peak above them all Clear into sunlight sprang I saw the river of my dreams, The mountains that I sang!
No clue of memory led me on, But well the ways I knew; A feeling of familiar things With every footstep grew.