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And bids the billows bear it where
they can! Deep calleth unto deep, and, from
the cloud, Launches the bolt, that, bursting
o'er the sea, Rends for a moment the thick pitchy
And shows the ship the shore beneath her lee: Start not, dear wife, no dangers here betide,—
And see, the boy still sleeping at your side!
The grave but ends the struggle!
Grows loveliest, and looks best, to
Oh! with the stoppage of the impul-
That vexed the impatient heart
with needful strife, The soul that is hope's living, leaps to life, And shakes her fragrant plumage far
and wide! Eyes follow then in worship which but late
Frowned in defiance, — and the timorous herd, [word, That sleekly waited for another's Grow bold, at last, to bring,— obeying fate,— The tribute of their praise, but late denied,— Tribute of homage which is sometimes,— hate!
On the Sabbath-day,
Through the church-yard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves 1 held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,
I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere
While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine — Gleamed and vanished in a moment — Oh, that face was surely thine
Out of heaven, Barbara!
O pallid, pallid face!
O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist; The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist — A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed,
That wild morning, Barbara!
I searched, in my despair,
Sunny noon and midnight air;
You were sleeping, Barbara!
'Mong angels, do you think
Of the precious golden link
Till the day broke, Barbara?
In the years I've changed;
Wild and far my heart hath ranged,
Still I love you, Barbara!
Yet, love, I am unblest;
With many doubts opprest,
You could teach me, Barbara!
In vain, in vain, in vain!
You will never come again!
Srao, poet, 'tis a merry world;
In sport, that every moss
With my grave cut across.
City! I am true son of thine;
Around the bleating pens;
The silence of the glens.
I hear the ebb and flow of streets.
Black Labor draws his weary waves
But. with the morning light,
Again to faint in night.
I dwelt within a gloomy court,
Yet there my heart was stirred — My very blood did dance and thrill. When on my narrow window-sill
Spring lighted like a bird. Poor flowers! I watched them pine
for weeks, With leaves as pale as human cheeks.
Afar, one summer, I was borne;
I heard the hills of sheep:
And on a ruined keep I sat, and watched an endless plain Blacken beneath the gloom of rain.
Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste, O'er which a laughing shower has raced!
Oh, fair the April shoots! Oh, fair the woods on summer days, While a blue hyacinthine haze
Is dreaming round the roots! In thee, O city! I discern Another beauty, sad and stern.
Drawthy fiereestreamsof blindingore, Smite on a thousand anvils, roar
Down to the harbor-bars;
Lie empty to the stars.
When sunset bathes thee in his gold.
rolled, Thy smoke is dusky fire; And, from the glory round thee
A sunbeam like an angel's sword
Shivers upon a spire. Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream!
While the blue night crept up the stream.
The wild train plunges in the hills, He shrieks across the midnight rills;
Streams through the shifting glare, The roar and flap of foundry fires. That shake with light the sleeping shires;
And on the moorlands bare
At midnight, when thy suburbs lie
When larks with heat are mute,
Disturbed but by my foot;
And through thy heart as through a dream,
Flows on that black disdainful
0 long, dark river of the dead!
Afar, the banner of the year
'Tis only when I greet
Athwart the noisy street.
I know the happy Summer smiles Around thy suburbs, miles on miles.
'Twere neither pa>an now, nor dirge,
On flat sands wide and bare;
Or in the starry air.
While o'erthy walls the darknesssails, I lean against the churchyard rails;
Up in the midnight towers The belfried spire, the street is dead, I hear in silence overhead
The clang of iron hours:
All raptures of this mortal breath,
Dwell in thy noise alone:
Lives in thy streets of stone; For we have been familiar more Than galley-slave and weary oar.
The beech is dipped in wine; the shower
Is burnished; on the swinging flower
The latest bee doth sit The low sun stares through dust of gold.
And o'er the darkening heath and wold
The large ghost-moth doth flit. In every Orchard Autumn stands, With apples in his golden hands.
But all these sights and sounds are strange;
Then wherefore from thee should I range?
Thou hast my kith and kin; My childhood, youth, and manhood brave;
Thou hast that unforgotten grave
Within thy central din. A sacredness of love and death Dwells in thy noise and smoky breath.
Little inmate, full of mirth.
Though in voice and shape they be
Neither night nor dawn of day
THE CLOSE OF SPRING.
The garlands fade that spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew. Anemones that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell.
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair,
Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care
Bid all thy fairy colors fade away! Another May new buds and flowers
shall bring; Ah! why has Happiness no second
Purple, the passionate color!
Purple, the color of pain!
I count the suffering gain!
The sea lies gleaming before me,
No shadow — all golden and azure —
Throbbing and yearning forever, With longing unsatisfied, sweet —
Flushed with the pain and the rapture, Warm at the sun-god's feet —
In the glow and gloom of the evening The glory is reached — and o'erpast;
Joy's rose-bloom has ripened to purple—
'Twill fade, but the stars shine at last!
Purple, the passionate color!
Robing the martyr, the king — Regal in joy and in anguish,
Life's blossom; with, ah! its sting —
Give me the sovereign color—
The poet's moment of rapture
[From Rainbow-Songs.] THE YELLOW OF THE MISER.
The beautiful color—the color of gold!
How it sparkles and burns in the
piled-up dust! The poets! they know not, they never
have told Of the fadeless color, the color of
Of my god in whom I trust! Deep down in the earth it winds and it creeps —
In her sluggish old veins 'tis the warm rich blood —
The old mother-monster! how soundly she sleeps!
Come! nearest her heart, where the strong life leaps — We drink, we bathe in the flood!
Ah, the far-off days! was I ever a child?
—My brain is so dark, and my heart
has grown cold. Those fields where the golden-eyed
buttercups smiled Long ago—did I love them with
heart undefiled? Did I seek the flowers for the
Be still! O thou traitor Remorse, at my heart, Whining without in the dark at the door—
I know thee, the beggar and thief
that thou art, Lying low at my threshold—I bid
thee depart! Thou shalt dog my footsteps no
Wilt thou bring me the faded flowers of my youth —
With hands full of dead leaves, and lips full of lies —
For these shall I yield thee my treasure, in sooth?
Are the buttercup's petals pure gold, say truth! Wilt thou coin me the daisy's eyes?
I hate them! the smiling flowers in the sun,
And the yellow, smooth rays that they feed on at noon —
Tis the hard cold gold I will have or none!
Come, pluck me the stars down, one by one,
Plant me the pale rich moon!