Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Moving thro' a fleecy night. II. You love, remaining peacefully, Laid by the tumult of the fight. Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen All thine, against the garden wall. And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to I hear thee not at all, or hoarse While yon sun prospers in the blue, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, He lieth still: he doth not move : He gave me a friend, and a true true And the New-year will take 'em away. So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, He was full of joke and jest, Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps: the light burns low: "Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. TO J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold. And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould, And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe, "Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love Helends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time, Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc I knew your brother: his mute dust I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Weep, weeping dulls the inward Let Grief be her own mistress still. I will not say, "God's ordinance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. "Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons in crease. And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie stil, dry dust, secure of change. You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas? It is the land that freemen till, A man may speak the thing he will; A land of just and old renown, From precedent to precedent: Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly greatTho' every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand-Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before 1 die The palms and temples of the South. Or old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal'd The fullness of her face Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And King-like, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine LOVE thou thy land, with love farbrought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused. Thro' future time by power of thought. True love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends Thy brothers and immortal souls. Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form. Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease, We all aro changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloomThe Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States— The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapor, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. Of many changes, aptly join'd, And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truthi Across the brazen bridge of war If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the away sword Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes: And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke: To-morrow yet would reap to-day. As we bear blossoms of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. THE GOOSE. I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, He utter'd rhyme and reason, "Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season." She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose-- 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter, She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf. And ran to tell her neighbors; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself And rested from her labors. And feeding high, and living soft, And hurl'd the pan and kettle. "A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer." Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. As head and heels upon the floor He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning; "So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.' The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder: And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the And God forget the stranger!" THE EPIC. goose, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge. I bump'd the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, "at home was little left, And none abroad: there was no anchor, none, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with, "I hold by him." "And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl." "Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way At college: but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books" And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, "Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothingworth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, And have it: keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for IIolmes." Ile laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears; For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen: then at my request "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep-the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. To rule once more-but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword-and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, |