Heaven's cup held down to me I drain, The sunshine mounts and spurs my

brain ; Bathing in grass, with thirsty eye I suck the last drop of the sky; With each hot sense I draw to the lees The quickening out-door influences, And empty to each radiant comer A supernaculum of summer : Not, Bacchus, all thy grosser juice Could bring enchantment so profuse, Though for its press each grape-bunch

had The white feet of an Oread. Through our coarse art gleam, now and

then, The features of angelic men: 'Neath the lewd Satyr's veiling paint Glows forth the Sibyl, Muse, or Saint; The dauber's botch no more obscures The mighty master's portraitures. And who can say what luckier beam The hidden glory shall redeem, For what chance clod the soil may

wait To stumble on its nobler fate, Or why, to his unwarned abode, Still by surprises comes the God? Some moment, nailed on sorrow's cross, May meditate a whole youth's loss, Some windfalljoy, we know not whence, Redeem a lifetime's rash expense, And, suddenly wise, the soul may mark, Stripped of their simulated dark, Mountains of gold that pierce the sky, Girdling its valleyed poverty. I feel ye, childhood's hopes, return, With olden heats my pulses burn, Mine be the self-forgetting sweep,, The torrent impulse swift and wild, Wherewith Taghkanic's rockborn child Dares gloriously the dangerous leap, And, in his sky-descended mood, Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood, By touch of bravery's simple wand, To amethyst and diamond, Proving himself no bastard slip, But the true granite-cradled one, Nursed with the rock's primeval drip, The cloud-embracing mountain's son!

Prayer breathed in vain! no wish's

sway Rebuilds the vanished yesterday : For plated wares of Sheffield stamp We gave the old Aladdin's lamp ; 'Tis we are changed: ah, whither went That undesigned abandonment, That wise, unquestioning content, Which could erect its microcosm Out of a weed's neglected blossom, Could call up Arthur and his peers By a low moss's clump of spears, Or, in its shingle trireme launched, Where Charles in some green inlet

branched, Could venture for the golden fleece And dragon-watched Hesperides, Or, from its ripple-shattered fate, Ulysses' chances re-create ? When, heralding life's every phase, There glowed a goddess-veiling haze, A plenteous, forewarning grace, Like that more tender dawn that flies Before the full moon's ample rise ? Methinks thy parting glory shines Through yonder grove of singing pines; At that elm-vista's end I trace Dimly thy sad leave-taking face, Eurydice ! Eurydice ! The tremulous leaves repeat to me Eurydice ! Eurydice ! No gloomier Orcus swallows thee Than the unclouded sunset's glow; Thine is at least Elysian woe ; Thou hast Good's natural decay, And fadest like a star away Into an atmosphere whose shine With fuller day o'ermasters thine, Entering defeat as 't were a shrine ; For us, -- we turn life's diary o'er To find but one word, - Nevermore.



As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves un

bent, So is

my memory thrilled and stirred; I only know she came and went.

The very heart of her mother
Sending sun through her vuins to

me !

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless con

tent, So my soul held that moment's heav

en ;I only know she came and went. As, at one bound, our swift spring

heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps ;

I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays;

I only know she came and went.
O, when the room grows slowly dim,

And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim,

Only to think she came and went.

She had been with us scarce a twelve

month, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels

Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari

But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage

door, My little bird used her wings. But they left in her stead a changeling,

A little angel child, That seems like her bud in full blossom,

And smiles as she never smiled : When I wake in the morning, I see it

Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet

Alone 'neath the awful sky. As weak, yet as trustful also ;

For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature

Still worked for the love of me; Winds wander, and dews drip earth

ward, Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper

A poor little violet This child is not mine as the first was,

I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly

And bliss it upon my breast; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle

And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she 's gonc

Transfigures its golden hair.


I HAD a little daughter,

And she was given to me To lead me gently backward

To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature,,

Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience

To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her,

But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came

irom Still lingered and gleamed in her

For it was as wavy and golden,

And as many changes took,
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples

On the yellow bed of a brook.
To what can I liken her smiling

Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eye

lids, And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also,

And I almost seemed to see




What man would live coffined with

brick and stone, Imprisoned from the influences of

air, And cramped with selfish lana

marks everywhere,

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Cast leaves and feathers rot in last

year's nest, The winged brood, flown thence,

new dwellings plan ; The serf of his own Past is not a


Of all the myriad moods of mind

That through the soulcome thronging, Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,

So beautiful as Longing ?

The thing we long for, that we are

For one transcendent moment, Before the Present poor and bare

Can make its sneering comment. Still, through our paltry stir and strife,

Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing moulds in clay what Life

Carves in the marble Real ; To let the new life in, we know,

Desire must ope the portal ; Perhaps the longing to be so

Helps make the soul immortal. Longing is God's fresh heavenward will

With our poor earthward striving : We quench it that we may be still

Content with merely living ; But, would we learn that heart's full

scope Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hope

And realize our longing.
Ah ! let us hope that to our praise

Good God not only reckons
The moments when we tread his ways,

But when the spirit beckons, That some slight good is also wrought

Beyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought,

Howe'er we fail in action.

The brute despair of trampled centuries Leaped up with one hoarse yell and

snapped its bands, Groped for its right with horny,

callous hands, And stared around for God with blood,

shot eyes. What wonder if those palms were all

too hard For nice distinctions, if that mænad

throngThey whose thick atmosphere no bard Had shivered with the lightning of his

song, Brutes with the memories and desires

of men, Whose chronicles were writ with iron

In the crooked shoulder and the

forehead low-
Set wrong to balance wrong,
And physicked woe with woe ?



II. They did as they were taught; n; t

theirs the blame, If men who scattered firebrands reape 1

the flame : They trampled Peace beneath their

savage feet, And by her golden tresses drew Mercy along the pavement of th ,

street. O Freedom ! Freedom ! is thy morn.

ing-dew So

gory red? Alas, thy light had

ne'er Shone in upon the chaos of their

lair! They reared to thee such symbol as

they knew, And worshipped it with flame and

blood, A Vengeance, axe in hand, that

stood Holding a tyrant's head up by the

clotted hair.

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What wrongs the Oppressor suffered,

these we know ; These have found piteous voice in

song and prose ;

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It lights the poet's heart up like a

star:Ah! while the tyrant deemed it still

afar, And twined with golden threads his

futile snare, That swift, convicting glow all round

him ran ;

'T was close beside him there, Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of



But for the Oppressed, their darkness

and their woe, Their grinding

centuries, - what Muse had those ? Though hall and palace had nor eyes

nor ears, Hardening a people's heart to sense

less stone, Thou knowest them, 0 Earth, that

drank their tears, O Heaven, that heard their inarticu

late moan ! They noted down their fetters, link by

link; Coarse was the hand that scrawled, and

red the ink; Rude was their score, as suits un

lettered men, Notched with a headsman's axe upon

a block : What marvel if, when came the aveng

ing shock, 'T was Ate, not Urania, held the pen?

IV. With eye averted and an anguished

frown, Loathingly glides the Muse through

scenes of strife, Where, like the heart of Vengeance up

and down, Throbs in its framework the blood

muffled knife; Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her

feet Turn never backward: hers no bloody

glare ; Her light is calm, and innocent, and

sweet, And where it enters there is no de

spair : Not first on palace and cathedral

spire Quivers and gleams that unconsuming

fire ; While these stand black against her

morning skies, The peasant sees it leap from peak to

peak Along his hills; the craftsmau's burn

ing eyes Dwn with cool tears its influence moth

er-meek ;

O Broker-King, is this thy wisdom's

fruit ? A dynasty plucked out as 't were a

weed Grown rankly in a night, that leaves

no seed 1 Could eighteen years strike down no

deeper root? But now thy vulture eye was turned

on Spain, A shout from Paris, and thy crown

falls off, Thy race has ceased to reign, And thou become a fugitive and scoff: Slippery the feet that mount by

stairs of gold, And weakest of all fences one of

steel ; Go and keep school again like him

of old, The Syracusan tyrant ; – thou mayst

feel Royal amid a birch-swayed commonweal!

VI. Not long can he be ruler who allows His time to run before him ; thou

wast naught Soon as the strip of gold about thy

brows Was no more emblem of the People's

thought : Vain were thy bayonets against the

foe Thou hadst to cope with; thou didst

wage War not with Frenchmen merely ;Thy strife was with the Spirit of the


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