Through every rift it foamed in vain, And lived but in an aimless seeking. So was my soul; but when 't was full Making its waters meet, rise. They lingering dropped and dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be. 1840. SONG. TO M. L. A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy share; Therain and the dewfor thee took care; A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, How did the tears to mygladeyesstart, Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart! Glad death may pluck thee, but never The gold dust of thy bloom divine To quicken its faint germs of heavenly For no breeze comes nigh thee but Some impulses bright Which fall upon souls that are lone To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day. ALLEGRA. I WOULD more natures were like thine, Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine Thou canst not see a shade in life: Thou wast some foundling whom the Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Some influence more gay than ours That shook their seeds round thee on And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child; All pleasant winds from south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. Thine every fancy seems to borrow I would more natures were like thine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea, THE FOUNTAIN. INTO the sunshine, Into the moonlight, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow! Into the starlight Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary: Glad of all weathers, Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Ceaseless aspiring, Glorious fountain! ODE. I. In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under Theoutwardshell and skin of daily life. Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, He knew that the One Soul no more His soul was led by the eternal law; There was in him no hope of fame, no rejoices passion, In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. But, with calm, godlike eyes he only He in his heart was ever meek and saw. humble, He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fitshissinging, like a cunningtimer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. Nothisthe song, which, inits metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humblingthetyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. Maker no more, O nol unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given by our loving Father To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth. Awake! great spirit of the ages olden ! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire. O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere! O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! Thislonging was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. O, thou who moanest tost with sealike longings Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break in musicthunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs have meant. Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, Where'er there lingers but a shade of Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For one to bring the Maker's name to light, To bethevoiceofthat almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ; He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-imbrownëd hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well attended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in hislooks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently; Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet, And find a bottom still of worthless clay; |