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Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
O.ver the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild
Decembers, From these brown hills, have melted
into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that
remembers [fering! After such years of change and self-
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I
forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me
Other desires and other hopes beset
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, [there All my life's bliss is in the grave with
But, when the days of golden dreams
had perished, And even Despair was powerless to
Then did I learn how existence could
be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the
aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion —
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten [mine.
Down to that tomb already more than
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
Maria Gowen Brooks.
Day, in melting purple dying;
Ye but waken my distress;
I am sick of loneliness!
Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling, — Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; Gifts and gold are naught to me, I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy, but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;
Yet but torture, if comprest
Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee.
Once in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee.
THE MARRIAGE OF DESPAIR.
The bard has sung, God never formed a soul I meet
Without its own peculiar mate, to Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete! But thousand evil things there are that hate I impede,
To look on happiness; these hurt, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate. Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed.
And as the dove to far Palmyra flying,
From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,
Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream, — So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquatfed, Suffers, recoils,— then, thirsty and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.
Upon the white sea sand There sat a pilgrim band. Telling the losses that their lives had known; While evening waned away From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tide went out with weary moan.
One spake, with quivering lip,
Of a fair freighted ship, With all his household to the deep gone down;
But one had wilder woe —
For a fair face, long ago [ town. Lost in the darker depths of a great
There were who mourned their youth
With a most loving truth, for its brave hopes and memories
ever green; . And one upon the west Turned an eye that would not
For far-off hills whereon its joy had been.
Some talked of vanished gold, Some of proud honors told, Some spake of friends that were their trust no more; And one of a green grave Beside a foreign wave, That made him sit so lonely on the shore.
But when their tales were done, There spake among them one, A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free:
"Sad losses have ye met, But mine is heavier yet; For a believing heart hath gone from me."
"Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead — For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross,
For the wrecks of land and sea!
But, howe'er it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."
Henry Howard Brownell.
THE RETURN OF KANE.
Toll, tower and minster, toll
Roll, muffled drum, still roll
A brave and a splendid soul
Dimmer, in gloom and dark,
And a nation watched the spark,
Was its flame so strong and calm
To die 'mid the orange and the palm
Over that simple bier
While the haughty Spaniard bows, Grief may join in the generous tear,
And Vengeance forget her vows.
Ay. honor the wasted form
Lightly it presses on the warm
Hunger and darkness, cold and storm
No more of travel and toil,
Of tropical or arctic wild: Gently, O Mother Soil,
Take thy worn and wearied child.
Lay him — the tender and true —
Each chief of the valiant crew
Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh,
And let grief be far remote, As we march from the place of death,
To the blithest note of the fife's clear throat.
And the bugle's cheeriest breath.
Roll, stirring drum, still roll!
Not a sigh — not a sound of woe, That a grand and glorious soul
Hath gone where the brave must go.
Old friends and dear! it were ungentle rhyme, If I should question of your true hearts, whether [time, Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant The good old time when we were all together.
Our limbs were lusty and our souls sublime; We never heeded cold and winter weather, [time, Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery The brave old time when we were all together.
Pleasant it was to tread the mountain thyme,
Sweet was the pure and piny mountain ether, And pleasant all; but this was in the time,
The good old time when we were all together.
Since then I've strayed through many a fitful clime, (Tossed on the wind of fortune like a feather,) And chanced with rare good fellows in my time — But ne'er the time that we have known together.
But none like those brave hearts (for
now I climb Gray hills alone, or thread the
lonely heather,) That walked beside me in the ancient
The good old time when we were all together.
Long since, we parted in our careless prime,
Like summer birds no June shall hasten hither; No more to meet as in that merry time,
The sweet spring-time that shone on all together.
Some, to the fevered city's toil and grime,
And some o'er distant seas, and some — ah! whither? Nay, we shall never meet as in the time,
The dear old time when we were all together.
And some — above their heads, in
wind and rime, Year after year, the grasses wave
and wither; Aye, we shall meet! — 'tis but a little
Aml all shall lie with folded hands
And if, beyond the sphere of doubt and crime, Lie purer lands — ah! let our steps be thither; That, done with earthly change and earthly time, In Clod's good time we may be all together.
MIDNIGHT— A LAMENT.
Do the dead carry their cares
The long, long night — is it theirs,
Ah, that I knew how it fares
I lie alone in the house.
I listen, and think of those
O'er whose heads the wet grass waves — Do they hear the wind that blows,
And the rain on theirlonely graves?
Heads that I helped to lay
It is but a little way
No bed but the cold, cold clay —
Cruel the thought and vain!
They've now nothing more to bear— Done with sickness and pain.
Done with trouble and care — But I hear the wind and the rain,
And still I think of them there.
Ah, couldst thou come to me,
That I knew it was well with thee —
Wail in chimney and tree —
Sweet Falsehoods, fare ye well! That may not longer dwell In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth! A cold, unloving bride Is ever at my side — Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?
Long hath she sought my side, And would not be denied, Till, all perforce, she won my spirit o'er —
And though her glances be But hard and stern to me. At every step I love her more and more.
A Sad old house by the sea.
Were we happy, I and thou, In the days that used to be?
There is nothing left me now
But to lie, and think of thee
And list to the weary sea
Low a AGO.
When at eve I sit alone,
And the embers, dimly burning,
One by one, I count them o'er,
And the gentle shadows glide
Thus, when I am all alone,
Midnight in drear New England,
How the casement clicks and rattles,
For a thousand leagues of coast-line, In fitful flurries and starts,
The wild North-Easter is knocking
Of a night like this, how many
Hearing the stormy weather.
Of the hearts chilled through with watching, The eyes that wearily blink,
Through the blinding gale and snowdrift,
For the Lights of Navesink!
How fares it, my friend, with you ? —
The brave old ship must be due
The fireside fades before me.
And I see the gleam of her lanterns
Like a dream, 'tis all around me —
And the crest of every roller
The sights and the sounds of Ocean
The shroud of snow and of spoondrift
Driving like mad a-lee —
The creak of cabin and bulkhead.
The roar of the shrouds as she rises
The sullen throb of the engine,
The swarthy faces that redden
The binnacle slowly swaying.
And the grizzled old quarter-master,
I can see it — the little cabin —
The chart on the old green table,
On the deck we have trod together,
To and fro, by the foremast,