That in my leaves the highest winds might sigh,
Or carol, and make sweetest melody,
Which o'er surrounding flowers might carried be ;-
And lo! it seems that Thou hast heard my cry,
And taken me at my presumptuous will,
And made of me a palm, full high indeed,
But with this fate, my arms may never fill
With warm caress of weaker, fairer tree.
God, change my fate! Yea, make of me a weed,
If only some sweet flower may grow by me.
HOPES FULFILLED.
(PUBLISHED AUGUST, 1857.)
REST, rest, dear heart, and fold thy weary wings,
Fluttering so long in the inclement air,
Beaten about by winds amid the bare
Inhospitable crags. Thy murmurings
May now be changed for praise of better things:
A tree, with shadiest boughs, and flowerets fair,
Bends over thee, for ever nestling there.
Sing, sing, O heart! as the sweet skylark sings,
Flooding the air with joy, dividing song
Between his home and the o'erhanging sky;
So shall fair leaves move with thy melody;
Thy carol with the fragrance float along,
A sacrifice of praise to Him on high,
An emblem of the love that cannot die.
A GOLDEN cross enshrining thy dark hair,
Thou scarce could'st find, my love, a dearer gift;
Type of two loves that shall our souls uplift
Out of this earthly into heavenly air.
For as the ivy only from the bare
Dark earth can rise by clinging to the tree,
E'en so thy love for me and mine for thee
Rises to heights serene, and prospects fair,
By being mingled with our love to heaven.
Each is more lovely in the light of each;
And earthly love is holy revelation
Of the divinity unto us given;
And the high destiny whereto we reach ;
And on this mount is our transfiguration.
OVER the cathedral grey,
Over turrets crumbling, hoary,
Sacred stars go on their way,
Earnests of th' exceeding glory :
Till they fade into the day.
Night by night, and year by year,
Do they glimmer over mortals;
We are longing to draw near,
For of bliss they seem the portals.
But in vain, but in vain!
Never we those heights attain.
For the love the most divine
Here can ne'er know full possession;
And the still stars, as they shine,
Tenderly hear man's confession,-
"Never yet, never yet,
We our highest good can get."
Он, say not that the piteous cross
Alone can raise the soul!
Or we, by paths of pain and loss
Only, can reach the goal.
For there are mounts of constant calm That raise us to the skies;
And paths that have not ruth or harm, Yet lead to paradise;
And in a rocky edge, the flower
Its blooming crown may gain,
That only knows the sunny hour,
And never felt the rain.
Fair skies may teach as well as rain,
Bright day as sombre night;
And joy has lessons, like to pain,
If we would learn them right.
(PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1857.)
THIS is love's birthday since the day
When Lucy pledged her love to me,
Twenty slow years have gone their way
To silentness; yet now I see
Her face as bright and sweet as while
She sat beside me day by day,
Her eyes lit up with tenderest smile,
Or downcast in her own grave way;
Her arching brow as pure and fair
As all the thoughts that nestled there;
The rosy flush upon her cheek ;
The lips that seemed themselves to speak ;
The pale blue light within her eyes,
That told me of the even skies;
Her tiny, agile form, that seemed
All spirit,- -so at least I deemed
Such was she on the pleasant day
When first within her home I stood;
Such was she when she passed away,
And took love's crown, but left the rood. The west was all a-blaze with gold,
With scents of May the fields were sweet, When my fond love and hope I told, And threw my life down at her feet. I see it now,-how far below
The meed of her high womanhood,
The gifts of grace that I could show
E're tasting sacramental food.
Wearied, I sought in her a rest;
Hopeless, I sought in her a hope;
And in the present, sore distressed,
Looked for a glorious future scope.
A wanderer, I sought a star
To cheer the way, and lead me home ;
And, haunted more than others are,
I sought a saint to cheer the gloom.
It is not thus true men draw near
True women, but in gentle awe
Of those to heaven kept so dear ;
So ruled by high intuitive law :
Whose instincts have a finer sense
Than reason and experience;
With outward form more fair than ours,
To symbolize their rarer powers;
And such a tender mystery thrown
About them, as is not our own.
With lowly worship he should come,
Who seeks an angel for his home;
Not by light things can she be won
To yield her virgin liberty;
Her maiden power, and musings free
Transcend most joys beneath the sun.
A full, free life must he return
Who seeks to have this life of hers; The lamp of love must singly burn,
And free from light to other cares.
He must come weeping at the sense
Of lack of worth, of indigence
Of guerdon that is fit for her
Who grants a gift so high and fair,—
Her whole of love, her life, her soul,
Her inexpressible tenderness,
The daily bliss of her caress,
Her sharing of the woes that roll
Upon him, and the happiness
God grants unto her perfectness.
I did not see this then, nor she
Perceive my great deficiency;
Or if she did, so well she loved,
By my unworthiness unmoved,
She deemed that as I learnt her right,
And woman's glory shone the more,
My love would reach a nobler height
Than had been possible before;
That love would have its perfect work,
Till not a thought of self should lurk
About my soul, and both would rove
Pure, in the sacred walks of love.
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