And, suddenly wise, the soul may mark,
Stripped of their simulated dark,
Mountains of gold that pierce the sky,
Girdling its valleyed poverty.
I feel

уе, ,

childhood's hopes, return,
With olden heats my pulses burn,-
Mine be the self-forgetting sweep,
The torrent impulse swift and wild,
Wherewith Taghkanic's rockborn child
Dares gloriously the dangerous leap,
And, in his sky-descended mood,
Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood,
By touch of bravery's simple wand,
To amethyst and diamond,
Proving himself no bastard slip,
But the true granite-cradled one,
Nursed with the rock’s primeval drip,
The cloud-embracing mountain's son !
Prayer breathed in vain ! no wish's sway
Rebuilds the vanished yesterday ;
For plated wares of Sheffield stamp

the old Aladdin's lamp ;
'Tis we are changed; ah, whither went
That undesigned abandonment,
That wise, unquestioning content,
Which could erect its microcosm
Out of a weed's neglected blossom,
Could call up Arthur and his peers
By a low moss's clump of spears,
Or, in its shingle trireme launched,
Where Charles in some green inlet branched,
Could venture for the golden fleece
And dragon-watched Hesperides,
Or, from its ripple-shattered fate,
Ulysses' chances recreate ?

When, heralding life's every phase,
There glowed a goddess-veiling haze,
A plenteous, forewarning grace,
Like that more tender dawn that flies
Before the full moon's ample rise ?
Methinks thy parting glory shines
Through yonder grove of singing pines;
At that elm-vista's end I trace
Dimly thy sad leave-taking face,
Eurydice! Eurydice !
The tremulous leaves repeat to me
Eurydice! Eurydice !
No gloomier Orcus swallows thee
Than the unclouded sunset's glow;
Thine is at least Elysian woe;
Thou hast Good's natural decay,
And fadest like a star away
Into an atmosphere whose shine
With fuller day o'ermasters thine,
Entering defeat as 'twere a shrine;
For us,—we turn life's diary o'er
To find but one word - Nevermore,


As a twig trembles, which a bird

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred ;

I only know she came and went.

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,

The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven ;

I only know she came and went.

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps

The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps ;

I only know she came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays ;

I only know she came and went.

O, when the room grows slowly dim,

And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim,

Only to think she came and went.

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I HAD a little daughter,

And she was given to me To lead me gently backward

To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature,

Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience

To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her,

But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ;
For it was as wavy and golden,

And as many changes took,
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples

On the yellow bed of a brook.

To what can I liken her smiling

Upon me, her kneeling lover,
How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids,

And dimpled her wholly over,
Till her outstretched hands smiled also,

And I almost seemed to see

heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth,

And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels

Stole my little daughter away ;

Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari

But loosed the hampering strings,
And when they had opened her cage-door,

My little bird used her wings.
But they left in her stead a changeling,

A little angel child,
That seems like her bud in full blossom,

And smiles as she never smiled :
When I wake in the morning, I see it

Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet

Alone 'neath the awful sky.

As weak, yet as trustful also;

For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature

Still worked for the love of me; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,

Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper poor

little violet.

This child is not mine as the first was,

I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly

And bliss it upon my breast; Yet-it lies in my little one's cradle

And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to

Transfigures its golden hair.

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