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MY LOVE.

1.

Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for

me,
For Christ's sweet sake and charity !
A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,
Old oak, give me, -
That the world's blasts may round me

blow,
And I yield gently to and fro,
While my stout-hearted trunk below
And firm-set roots unshaken be.

Not as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear ;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,
And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest - shock and withering

blight,
That I may keep at bay
The changeful April sky of chance
And the strong tide of circumstance,
Give me, old granite gray,
Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,
Put in this scrip of mine,
That griefs may fall like snow-flakes

light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright, —
O sweetly mournful pine.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to
blow.

III.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;
No simplest duty is forgot,
Life hath no dim and lowly spot
That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise ; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemëd in her eyes.

V. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and

clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook, —
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.
Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I 've been in the wood ;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my

heart;
But good by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun ;
Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.
Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
O, give, to strengthen me.

1839.

VI. Blessing she is : God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.

VII. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize ; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

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SUMMER STORM. UNTREMULous in the river clear, Toward the sky's inage, hangs the im

aged bridge ;

So still the air that I can hear Theslenderclarion of the unseen midge; Out of the stillness, with a gathering

creep Like rising wind in leaves, which now

decreases, Now lulls, now swells, and all the while

increases, The huddling trample of a drove of

sheep Tilts the loose planks, and then as grad

ually ceases In dust on the other side ; life's em

blem deep, A confused noise between two silences, Finding at last in dust precarious peace. On the wide marsh the purple-blos

somed grasses Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the

brimming tide, Save when the wedge-shaped wake in

silence passes Of some slow water-rat, whose sinu

ous glide Wavers the lung green sedge's shade

from side to siae ;

Now on the hills I hear the thunder

mutter,

The wind is gathering in the west ; The upturned leaves first whiten and

flutter,

Then droop to a fitful rest ; Up from the stream with sluggish flap

Struggles the gull and floats away; Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder

clap, We shall not see the sun go down to

day : Nowleaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, And tramples the grass with terrified

feet, Thestartledriver turnsleadenandharsh. You can hear the quick heart of the

tempest beat.

Look ! look ! that livid flash! And instantly follows the rattling thun

der, As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,

Fell, splintering with a ruinous

crash, On the Earth, which crouches in silence

under ; And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile , For a breath's space I see the blue

wood again,

LOVE.

And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind

hurled pile, That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched

roof; Against the windows the storm comes

dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears

crashing,

The blue lightning flashes,

The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,

And, in one baffled roar,
Like the toothless sea mumbling

A rock-bristled shore,
The thunder is rumbling,
And crashing and crumbling, –
Will silence return never more ?

Hush ! Still as death,

The tempest holds his breath

As from a sudden will ; Therainstopsshort, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the

leaves,
All is so bodingly still ;

Again, now, now, again
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,

The crinkled lightning
Seems ever brightening,

And loud and long
Again the thunder shouts

His battle-song,
One quivering flash,

One wildering crash,
Followed by silence dead and dull,

As if the cloud, let go,

Leapt bodily below
To whelm the earth in one mad over-

throw,
And then a total lull.

True Love is but a humble, low-born

thing, And hath its food served up in carthen

ware : It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the every-dayness of this work

day world, Baring its tender feet to every rough

ness, Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty's law of plainness and

content; A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet

smile Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a

home; Which, when our autumn cometh, as it

must, And life in the chill wind shivers bare

and leafless, Shall still be blest with Indian-summer

youth In bleak November, and, with thank

ful heart, Smile on its ample stores of garnered

fruit, As full of sunshine to our aged eyes As when it nursed the blossoms of our

spring. Such is true Love, which steals into

the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome

dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows

of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gen.

tleness, Not like a rocket, which, with savage

glare, Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and

leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seëth

faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle

points, But loving-kindly ever looks them

down With the o'ercoming faith of meek for

giveness ; A love that shall be new ard fresh each

hour,

Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form ;

The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Likeshattered rigging from a fightat sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.

1839.

ed types

As is the golden mystery of sunset,
Or the sweet coming of the evening

star,
Alike, and yet most unlike, every day,
And seeming ever best and fairest now;
A love that doth not kneel for what it

seeks, But faces Truth and Beauty as their

peer, Showing its worthiness of noble

thoughts By a clear sense of inward nobleness ; A love that in its object findeth not All grace and beauty, and enough to

sate Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good Found there, it sees but Heaven-grantOf good and beauty in the soul of man, And traces, in the simplest heart that

beats, A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brother

hood. For love is blind but with the fleshly

eye, That so its inner sight may be more

clear ; And outward shows of beauty only so Are needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to uphold an infant's

steps: Great spirits need them not : their earPierces the body's mask of thin dis

guise, And beauty ever is to them revealed, Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump

of clay, With arms outstretched and eager face

ablaze, Yearning to be but understood and

loved. 1840.

Every sad and happy feeling,
Thou hast had in bygone years,
Through thy lips comes stealing, steal-

ing,

Clear and low ;
All thy smiles and all thy tears

In thy voice awaken,
And sweetness, wove of joy and woe,

From their teaching it hath taken:
Feeling and music move together,
Like a swan and shadow ever
Floating on a sky-blue river
In a day of cloudless weather.
It hath caught a touch of sadness,

Yet it is not sad;
It hath tones of clearest gladness,

Yet it is not glad ;
A dim, sweet twilight voice it is

Where to-day's accustomed blue
Is over-grayed with memories,

With starry feelingsquivered through.

Thy voice is like a fountain Leaping up in sunshine bright,

And I never weary counting.
Its clear droppings, lone and single,
Or when in one full gush they ningle.

Shooting in melodious light.
Thine is music such as yields
Feelings of old brooks and fields,
And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume ;
O, thus forever sing to me!

O, thus forever!
The green, bright grass of childhood

bring to me,
Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above !
O, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,
The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,

Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze,

went
Through and through the old time!
Peace sits within thine eyes,
With white hands crossed in joyful

rest,
While, through thy lips and face

nest look

TO PERDITA, SINGING. Thy voice is like a fountain,

Leaping up in clear moonshine ; Silver, silver, ever mounting,

Ever sinking,

Without thinking,
To that brimful heart of thine

arise

The melodies from out thy breast;

She sits and sings,
With folded wings

And white arms crost,
“Weep not for bygone things,

They are not lost :
The beauty which the summer time
O'er thine opening spirit shed,
The forest oracles sublime
That filled thy soul with joyous dread,
The scent of every smallest flower
That made thy heart sweet for an

hour, -
Yea, every holy influence,
Flowing to thee, thou knewest not

whence,
In thine eyes to-day is seen,
Fresh as it hath ever been ;
Promptings of Nature, beckonings

sweet,
Whatever led thy childish feet,
Still will linger unawares
The guiders of thy silver hairs;
Every look and every word
Which thou givest forth to-day,
Tell of the singing of the bird
Whose music stilled thy boyish

play."
Thy voice is like a fountain,
Twinkling up in sharp starlight,
When the moon behind the mountain
Dims the low East with faintest

white,
Ever darkling,

Ever sparkling,
We know not if 't is dark or bright;
But, when the great moon hath rolled

round, And, sudden-slow, its solemn power Grows from behind its black, clear

edgëd bound, No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth Into waving silver flower.

1841.

Through every rist it foamed in vain,

About its earthly prison,
Seeking some unknown thing in pain,
And sinking restless back again,

For yet no moon had risen:
Its only voice a vast dumb moan,

Of utterless anguish speaking,
It lay unhopefully alone,

And lived but in an aimless seeking So was my soul; but when 't was full

Of unrest to o'erloading,
A voice of something beautiful

Whispered a dim foreboding,
And yet so soft, so sweet, so low,
It had not more of joy than woe;
And, as the sea doth oft lie still,

Making its waters meet, As if by an unconscious will,

For the moon's silver feet, So lay my soul within mine eyes When thou, its guardian moon, didst

rise.

And now, howe'er its waves above

May toss and seem uneaseful, One strong, eternal law of Love,

With guidance sure and peaceful, As calm and natural as breath, Moves its great deeps through life and

death.

REMEMBERED MUSIC.

A FRAGMENT.

THICK-RUSHING, like an ocean vast

Of bisons the far prairie shaking, The notes crowd heavily and fast As surfs, one plunging while the last Draws seaward from its foamy break

ing.
Or in low murmurs they began,

Rising and rising momently,
As o'er a harp Æolian
A fitful breeze, until they ran

Up to a sudden ecstasy.
Aud then, like minute drops of rain

Ringing in water silverly,

THE MOON.
My soul was like the sea,

Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague immensity,

Of its own strength afraid,
Unrestful and unstaid.

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