TO

T

GEORGE H. BOKER.

you

the homage of this book I bring.

The earliest and the latest flowers I yield, And though their hues betray a barren field,

I know you will not slight the offering.

You were the mate of my poetic spring;

To you its buds of little worth concealed More than the summer years have since revealed, Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling. But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blown; If rich or scant, the wreath is at your feet;

And though it were the freshest ever grown, To you its incense could not be more sweet,

Since with it goes a love to match your own, A heart, dear Friend, that never falsely beat.

PORPHYROGENITUS.

B

I.

ORN in the purple! born in the purple!
Heir to the sceptre and crown!

Lord over millions and millions of vas-
sals,

Monarch of mighty renown!

Where, do you ask, are my banner-proud castles? Where my imperial town?

II.

Where are the ranks of my far-flashing lances, Trumpets, courageous of sound,

Galloping squadrons and rocking armadas,
Guarding my kingdom around?

Where are the pillars that blazon my borders,
Threatening the alien ground?

III.

Vainly you ask, if you wear not the purple,
Sceptre and diadem own;

Ruling, yourself, over prosperous regions,
Seated supreme on your throne.

Subjects have nothing to give but allegiance:
Monarchs meet monarchs alone.

IV.

But, if a king, you shall stand on my ramparts, Look on the lands that I sway,

Number the domes of magnificent cities,

Shining in valleys away,

Number the mountains whose foreheads are golden, Lakes that are azure with day.

V.

Whence I inherited such a dominion?
What was my forefathers' line?
Homer and Sophocles, Pindar and Sappho,
First were anointed divine:

Theirs were the realms that a god might have governed,

Ah, and how little is mine!

VI.

Hafiz in Orient shared with Petrarca
Thrones of the East and the West;
Shakespeare succeeded to limitless empire,
Greatest of monarchs, and best :
Few of his children inherited kingdoms,
Provinces only, the rest.

VII.

Keats has his vineyards, and Shelley his islands; Coleridge in Xanadu reigns;

Wordsworth is eyried aloft on the mountains,
Goethe has mountains and plains;

Yet, though the world has been parcelled among them,

A world to be parcelled remains.

VIII.

Blessing enough to be born in the purple,
Though but a monarch in name,
Though in the desert my palace is builded,
Far from the highways of Fame :
Up with my standards! salute me with trumpets!
Crown me with regal acclaim!

METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE.

S when the haze of some wan moonlight makes

Familiar fields a land of mystery, Where, chill and strange, a ghostly presence wakes

In flower, and bush, and tree,

Another life the life of Day o'erwhelms ;
The Past from present consciousness takes hue,
And we remember vast and cloudy realms
Our feet have wandered through :

So, oft, some moonlight of the mind makes dumb
The stir of outer thought: wide open seems

The gate wherethrough strange sympathies have come,

The secret of our dreams;

The source of fine impressions, shooting deep
Below the failing plummet of the sense;
Which strike beyond all Time, and backward sweep
Through all intelligence.

We touch the lower life of beast and clod,
And the long process of the ages see
From blind old Chaos, ere the breath of God
Moved it to harmony.

All outward wisdom yields to that within,
Whereof nor creed nor canon holds the key;
We only feel that we have ever been,
And evermore shall be.

And thus I know, by memories unfurled
In rarer moods, and many a nameless sign,
That once in Time, and somewhere in the world,
I was a towering Pine,

Rooted upon a cape that overhung

The entrance to a mountain gorge; whereon The wintry shadow of a peak was flung, Long after rise of sun.

Behind, the silent snows; and wide below,

The rounded hills made level, lessening down To where a river washed with sluggish flow A many-templed town.