382 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 1850. - FOR AN AUTOGRAPH. say, "Passed is the sorest trial; No plot of man can stay The hand upon the dial; Night is the dark stem of the lily Day." If we, who watched in valleys here below, Toward streaks, misdeemed of morn, our faces turned When volcan glares set all the east aglow, We are not poorer that we wept and yearned; Though earth swing wide from God's intent, And though no man nor nation Yet by one Sun is every orbit bent. Greatly begin! though thou have time Ah, with what lofty hope we came ! AL FRESCO. The sun in his own wine to ple; O unestranged birds and bees! Of wood and water, hill and plain. Upon these elm-arched solitudes No hum of neighbor toil intrudes; The only hammer that I hear Is wielded by the woodpecker, The single noisy calling his In all our leaf-hid Sybaris; The good old time, close-hidden here, Persists, a loyal cavalier, While Roundheads prim, with point of fox, Probe wainscot-chink and empty box; A willing convert of the trees. How chanced it that so long I tost A cable's length from this rich coast, With foolish anchors hugging close The beckoning weeds and lazy ooze, Nor had the wit to wreck before On this enchanted island's shore, Whither the current of the sea, With wiser drift, persuaded me? O, might we but of such rare days Build up the spirit's dwelling-place! A temple of so Parian stone Would brook a marble god alone, The statue of a perfect life, Far-shrined from earth's bestaining strife, Alas! though such felicity In our vext world here may not be, And lure some nunlike thoughts to take Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot. He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode. WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS And builds of half-remembered things Through aisles of long-drawn centuries That throbs with praise and prayer. And all the way from Calvary down crown And safe in God repose; The saints of many a warring creed Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead Where Self the feet have spurned. And, as the mystic aisles I pace, By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace Alike through grace and guilt: One Mary bathes the blessed feet With ointment from her eyes, With spikenard one, and both are sweet, For both are sacrifice. Moravian hymn and Roman chant One choked with sinner's tears, Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out Each seems a hostile faith to shout, O chime of sweet Saint Charity, THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. WHO hath not been a poet? Who hath not, With life's new quiver full of winged years, Shot at a venture, and then, following on, Stood doubtful at the Parting of the Ways? There once I stood in dream, and as I paused, Looking this way and that, came forth to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, "My name is Duty, turn and follow me"; Something there was that chilled me in her voice; I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in mine, As if to be withdrawn, and I replied: "O, leave the hot wild heart within my breast! Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes Death; This slippery globe of life whirls of itself, Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric heats, Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck, Which whistling northwinds line with downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain, Thither the singing birds no more return." |