And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of birds and beasts alone, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, And with childlike, credulous affection THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far Uprose the glorious morning-star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, No other challenge breaks the air, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, D Down the broad Vale of Tears afar MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! The leaves are falling, falling, Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, Through woods and mountain-passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, A king,-a king! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! Oh, the old man grey Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,- Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,- Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one that crieth In the wilderness alone, "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, Howl! howl! and from the forest For there shall come a mightier blast, EARLIER POEMS. -00 These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion, "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb." AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun that brings I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, The coming-on of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws And when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far Inverted in the tide, Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And see themselves below. 52 22 |