Set by some mordant of fancy, And, spite of the wear and tear Of time or distance or trouble, Insists on its right to be there. A chance had brought us together; Our talk was of matters-of-course; We were nothing, one to the other, But a short half-hour's resource. We spoke of French acting and actors, As we drove home from the play. We debated the social nothings We bore ourselves so to discuss; The thunderous rumors of battle Were silent the while for us. Arrived at her door, we left her With a drippingly hurried adieu, And our wheels went crunching the gravel Of the oak-darkened avenue. As we drove away through the shadow, The candle she held in the door From rain-varnished tree-trunk to treetrunk Flashed fainter, and flashed no more; Flashed fainter, then wholly faded Before we had passed the wood; But the light of the face behind it Went with me and stayed for good. The vision of scarce a moment, Had she beauty? Well, not what they call so : You may find a thousand as fair; And yet there's her face in my memory With no special claim to be there. As I sit sometimes in the twilight, Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound. Even as a wind-waved fountain's sway. ing shade Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun, So through his trial faith translucent rayed Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun. Surely if skill in song the shears may stay And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, If our poor life be lengthened by a lay, He shall not go, although his presence THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY. "COME forth!" my catbird calls to me, "And hear me sing a cavatina That, in this old familiar tree, Shall hang a garden of Alcina. "These buttercups shall brim with wine Beyond all Lesbian juice or Massic; May not New England be divine? My ode to ripening summer classic? "Or, if to me you will not hark, By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing Till all the alder-coverts dark Seem sunshine-dappled with his singing. "Come out beneath the unmastered sky, With its emancipating spaces, And learn to sing as well as I, Without premeditated graces. "What boot your many-volumed gains, Those withered leaves forever turning, To win, at best, for all your pains, A nature mummy-wrapt in learning? "The leaves wherein true wisdom lies On living trees the sun are drinking; Those white clouds, drowsing through the skies, Grew not so beautiful by thinking. "Come out! with me the oriole cries, Escape the demon that pursues you! And, hark, the cuckoo weatherwise, Still hiding, farther onward wooes you." "Alas, dear friend, that, all my days, Has poured from that syringa thicket The quaintly discontinuous lays To which I hold a season-ticket, "A season-ticket cheaply bought With a dessert of pilfered berries, And who so oft my soul hast caught With morn and evening voluntaries, "Deem me not faithless, if all day Among my dusty books I linger, No pipe, like thee, for June to play With fancy-led, half-conscious finger. "A bird is singing in my brain And bubbling o'er with mingled fancies, Gay, tragic, rapt, right heart of Spain Fed with the sap of old romances. "I ask no ampler skies than those His magic music rears above me, No falser friends, no truer foes, And does not Doña Clara love me? "Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars, A rush of feet, and rapiers clashing, Then silence deep with breathless stars, And overhead a white hand flashing. "O music of all moods and climes, Vengeful, forgiving, sensuous, saintly, Where still, between the Christian chimes, The moorish cymbal tinkles faintly! "O life borne lightly in the hand, For friend or foe with grace Castilian! O valley safe in Fancy's land, Not tramped to mud yet by the million 1 "Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale To his, my singer of all weathers, My Calderon, my nightingale, My Arab soul in Spanish feathers. "Ah, friend, these singers dead so long, IN THE TWILIGHT. MEN say the sullen instrument, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings Old summers in its memory glow; The magical moonlight then Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro With delight as it stood, O my life, have we not had seasons But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years? Have we not from the earth drawn Too fine for earth's sordid uses? All I feel and I know? Sometimes a breath floats by me, In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, That cannot forget or reclaim it, To make it a show, A something too vague, could For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, And yet, could I live it over, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, In the ages glad, THE FOOT-PATH. IT mounts athwart the windy hill Through sallow slopes of upland bare. And Fancy climbs with foot-fall still Its narrowing curves that end in air. By day, a warmer-hearted blue Stoops softly to that topmost swell; Its thread-like windings seem a clew To gracious climes where all is well. By night, far yonder, I surmise An ampler world than clips my ken, Where the great stars of happier skies Commingle nobler fates of men. I look and long, then haste me home, But now it leads me everywhere. Forever to the new it guides, From former good, old overmuch; What Nature for her poets hides, 'T is wiser to divine than clutch. And envy Science not her feat To make a twice-told tale of God. They said the fairies tript no more, And long ago that Pan was dead; 'T was but that fools preferred to bore Earth's rind inch-deep for truth instead. Pan leaps and pipes all summer long, The fairies dance each full-mooned night, Would we but doff our lenses strong, Our seeing, marvel ever new, Glimpsed in fair weather, a sweet doubt Sketched-in, mirage-like, on the blue. I build thee in yon sunset cloud, Whose edge allures to climb the height; I hear thy drowned bells, inly-loud, From still pools dusk with dreams of night. Thy gates are shut to hardiest will, Fronting Time's far East, who shall I know not and will never pry, But trust our human heart for all; Wonders that from the seeker fly Into an open sense may fall. Hide in thine own soul, and surprise The password of the unwary elves; Seek it, thou canst not bribe their spies : Unsought, they whisper it themselves POEMS OF THE WAR. THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD. OCTOBER, 1861. Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall be." No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed, But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed. "Still men and nations reap as they have strawn," So sang they, working at their task the while; "The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn: For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle? O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn? "Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, That gathered States for children round his knees, That tamed the wave to be his postinghorse, Feller of forests, linker of the seas, Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son of Thor's? "What make we, murmur'st thou ? and what are we? When empires must be wound, we |