Not otherwise above its crag Could lean the blasted pine; Not otherwise the maple hold Aloft its red ensign.
So up the long and shorn foot-hills The mountain road should creep; So, green and low, the meadow fold Its red-haired kine asleep.
The river wound as it should wind; Their place the mountains took; The white torn fringes of their clouds Wore no unwonted look.
Yet ne'er before that river's rim Was pressed by feet of mine, Never before mine eyes had crossed That broken mountain line.
A presence, strange at once and known, Walked with me as my guide; The skirts of some forgotten life Trailed noiseless at my side.
Was it a dim-remembered dream?
Or glimpse through ions old?
The secret which the mountains kept The river never told.
But from the vision ere it passed A tender hope I drew, And, pleasant as a dawn of spring, The thought within me grew,
That love would temper every change, And soften all surprise, And, misty with the dreams of earth, The hills of Heaven arise.
1873.
A SEA DREAM.
We saw the slow tides go and come, The curving surf-lines lightly drawn, The gray rocks touched with tender bloom Beneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.
We saw in richer sunsets lost The sombre pomp of showery noons; And signalled spectral sails that crossed The weird, low light of rising moons.
On stormy eves from cliff and head We saw the white spray tossed and spurned; While over all, in gold and red, Its face of fire the lighthouse turned.
The rail-car brought its daily crowds, Half curious, half indifferent, Like passing sails or floating clouds, We saw them as they came and went.
But, one calm morning, as we lay And watched the mirage-lifted wall Of coast, across the dreamy bay, And heard afar the curlew call,
And nearer voices, wild or tame, Of airy flock and childish throng, Up from the water's edge there came Faint snatches of familiar song.
Careless we heard the singer's choice Of old and common airs; at last The tender pathos of his voice In one low chanson held us fast.
A song that mingled joy and pain, And memories old and sadly sweet; While, timing to its minor strain, The waves in lapsing cadence beat.
The waves are glad in breeze and sun; The rocks are fringed with foam; I walk once more a haunted shore, A stranger, yet at home, A land of dreams I roam.
Is this the wind, the soft sea wind That stirred thy locks of brown?
Are these the rocks whose mosses knew The trail of thy light gown, Where boy and girl sat down?
I see the gray fort's broken wall, The boats that rock below; And, out at sea, the passing sails We saw so long ago Rose-red in morning's glow.
The freshness of the early time On every breeze is blown; As glad the sea, as blue the sky,-- The change is ours alone; The saddest is my own.
A stranger now, a world-worn man, Is he who bears my name; But thou, methinks, whose mortal life Immortal youth became, Art evermore the same.
Thou art not here, thou art not there, Thy place I cannot see; I only know that where thou art The blessed angels be, And heaven is glad for thee.
Forgive me if the evil years Have left on me their sign; Wash out, O soul so beautiful, The many stains of mine In tears of love divine!
I could not look on thee and live, If thou wert by my side; The vision of a shining one, The white and heavenly bride, Is well to me denied.
But turn to me thy dear girl-face Without the angel's crown, The wedded roses of thy lips, Thy loose hair rippling down In waves of golden brown.
Look forth once more through space and time, And let thy sweet shade fall In tenderest grace of soul and form On memory's frescoed wall, A shadow, and yet all!
Draw near, more near, forever dear!
Where'er I rest or roam, Or in the city's crowded streets, Or by the blown sea foam, The thought of thee is home!
At breakfast hour the singer read The city news, with comment wise, Like one who felt the pulse of trade Beneath his finger fall and rise.
His look, his air, his curt speech, told The man of action, not of books, To whom the corners made in gold And stocks were more than seaside nooks.
Of life beneath the life confessed His song had hinted unawares; Of flowers in traffic's ledgers pressed, Of human hearts in bulls and bears.
But eyes in vain were turned to watch That face so hard and shrewd and strong; And ears in vain grew sharp to catch The meaning of that morning song.
In vain some sweet-voiced querist sought To sound him, leaving as she came; Her baited album only caught A common, unromantic name.
No word betrayed the mystery fine, That trembled on the singer's tongue; He came and went, and left no sign Behind him save the song he sung.
1874.
HAZEL BLOSSOMS.
The summer warmth has left the sky, The summer songs have died away; And, withered, in the footpaths lie The fallen leaves, but yesterday With ruby and with topaz gay.
The grass is browning on the hills; No pale, belated flowers recall The astral fringes of the rills, And drearily the dead vines fall, Frost-blackened, from the roadside wall.
Yet through the gray and sombre wood, Against the dusk of fir and pine, Last of their floral sisterhood, The hazel's yellow blossoms shine, The tawny gold of Afric's mine!
Small beauty hath my unsung flower, For spring to own or summer hail; But, in the season's saddest hour, To skies that weep and winds that wail Its glad surprisals never fail.
O days grown cold! O life grown old No rose of June may bloom again; But, like the hazel's twisted gold, Through early frost and latter rain Shall hints of summer-time remain.
And as within the hazel's bough A gift of mystic virtue dwells, That points to golden ores below, And in dry desert places tells Where flow unseen the cool, sweet wells,