But one day came Northmen, and lithe | That do with thy whole might, or thou tongues of fire pass In midnights unholy his witches' mass, Or shouting "Ho! ho!" from the belfry high As the Devil's sabbath-train whirls by. But once a year, on the eve of All-Souls, Through these arches dishallowed the organ rolls, Fingers long fleshless the bell-ropes work, The chimes peal muffled with sea-mists mirk, The skeleton windows are traced anew On the baleful flicker of corpse lights blue, And the ghosts must come, so the legend saith, To a preaching of Reverend Doctor Death. And cannot be wrought on by blessings or tears, Awake in his coffin must wait and wait, In that blackness of darkness that means too late, And come once a year, when the ghostbell tolls, As till Doomsday it shall on the eve of All-Souls, For even our honeymoons must wane, And none will seem so safe from change, The glass unfilled all tastes can fit, As round its brim Conjecture dances; For not Mephisto's self hath wit To draw such vintages as Fancy's. When our pulse beats its minor key, When play-time halves and school. time doubles, Age fills the cup with serious tea, "Fie, Mr. Graybeard! Is this wise? From stars secreting what it feeds on, Is burnt-out passion's slag and soot Fit soil to strew its dainty seeds on? "Good heavens! but now 't was winter | And, when the Autumn comes, to flee High o'er the loud and dusty road The soft gray cup in safety swings, To brim ere August with its load Of downy breasts and throbbing wings, O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves. Below, the noisy World drags by In the old way, because it must, Oh, happy life, to soar and sway Master, not slave of daily bread, Wherever sunshine beckons thee! PALINODE. DECEMBER. Like some lorn abbey now, the wood The carven foliage quaint and rare, And homeless winds complain along The columned choir once thrilled with song. And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise The thankful oriole used to pour, Swing'st empty while the north winds chase Their snowy swarms from Labrador: But, loyal to the happy past, I love thee still for what thou wast. Ah, when the Summer graces flee From other nests more dear than thou, And, where June crowded once, I see Only bare trunk and disleaved bough; When springs of life that gleamed and gushed Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed; When our own branches, naked long, The vacant nests of Spring betray, Nurseries of passion, love, and song That vanished as our year grew gray; When Life drones o'er a tale twice told O'er embers pleading with the cold, — I'll trust, that, like the birds of Spring, Far off in some diviner air, A YOUTHFUL EXPERIMENT IN ENG LISH HEXAMETERS. IMPRESSIONS OF HOMER. SOMETIMES come pauses of calm, when the rapt bard, holding his heart back, Over his deep mind muses, as when o'er awestricken ocean Poises a heapt clond luridly, ripening the gale and the thunder; Slow rolls onward the verse with a long | From him the charm is slipping still, swell heaving and swinging, Full-sailed, forth like a tall ship steadies BIRTHDAY VERSES. 'T was sung of old in hut and hall Then, let him sorrow as he might, Those awful powers on man that wait, Therein are set four jewels rare : To him the simple spell who knows But he that with a slackened will And drops, ere he suspect the ill, ESTRANGEMENT. THE path from me to you that led, And who are they but who forget? Warned other ears and other eyes, But when I trace its windings sweet PHOEBE. ERE pales in Heaven the morning star, It is a wee sad-colored thing, It seems pain-prompted to repeat It calls and listens. Earth and sky, Phoebe! it calls and calls again, A pain articulate so long In penance of some mouldered crime COME back before the birds are flown, Nay, come although the boughs be bare, Though snowflakes fledge the summer's nest, And in some far Ausonian air The thrush, your minstrel, warm his breast. Come, sunshine's treasurer, and bring To doubting flowers their faith in spring, To birds and me the need to sing! |