PART I.
“O Spring, thou youthful beauty of the year, Mother of flowers, bringer of warbling quires, Of all sweet new green things, and new desires.” Guarini’s Pastor Fido.
I.
Auspicious morn, com’st opportune, unbought? Bring’st thou glad furtherance in thy rosy train? Speed then, my chariot, following fast my thought, And distance on thy track the lumbering wain, O’er plain and hillock nearing her abode, The goal of expectation, fortune’s road,— The maiden waits to greet with courtesy Her bashful guest, while stranger yet is he: From friendly circle at the city’s Court She’s come to cull the flowers, to toy and play With prattling childhood, love’s delightful sport; Its smile call forth, to scent the new-mown hay, Enjoy the wholesome laughter, simple mien, Of country people in this rural scene.
“So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return.” Shenstone.
II.
Ah! why so brief the visit, short his stay? The acquaintance so surprising, and so sweet, Stolen is my heart, ’tis journeying far away, With that shy stranger whom my voice did greet. That hour so fertile of entrancing thought, So rapt the conversation, and so free,— My heart lost soundings, tenderly upcaught, Driven by soft sails of love and ecstasy! Was I then? was I? clasped in Love’s embrace, And touched with ardors of divinity? Spake with my chosen lover face to face, Espoused then truly? such my destiny? I cannot tell; but own the pleasing theft, That when the stranger went, I was of Love bereft.
“Though the bias of her nature was not to thought but to sympathy, yet was she so perfect in her own nature, as to meet intellectual persons by the fulness of her heart, warming them by her sentiments; believing, as she did, that, by dealing nobly with all, all would show themselves noble.”
Not all the brilliant beauties I have seen, Mid the gay splendors of some Southern hall, In jewelled grandeur, or in plainest mien, Did so my fancy and my heart enthral, As doth this noble woman, Nature’s queen! Such hearty greeting from her lips did fall, And I ennobled was through her esteem; At once made sharer of her confidence, As by enchantment of some rapturous dream; With subtler vision gifted, finer sense, She loosed my tongue’s refraining diffidence, And softer accents lent our varying theme: So much my Lady others doth surpass, I read them all through her transparent glass.
“They love indeed who quake to say they love.” Sir Philip Sidney.
IV.
The April rains are past, the frosts austere,— The flowers are hungering for the genial sun, The snow’s dissolved, the merry birds are here, And rural labors now are well begun. Hither, from the disturbing, noisy Court I’ve flown to this sequestered, quiet scene, To meditate on Love and Love’s disport Mid these smooth pastures and the meadows green. Sure ’twere no fault of mine, no whispering sin, If these coy leaves he sends me seem to speak All that my heart, caressing, folds within; Nor if I sought to smother, my flushed cheek Would tell too plainly what I cannot hide, Fond fancy disenchant nor set aside.
“Love is the life of friendship, letters are The life of love, the loadstones that by rare Attraction make souls meet, and melt, and mix, As when by fire exalted gold we fix.” Howel.
V.
Most precious leaves the mail delights to bring, All loving parcels, neatly squared and sealed; Her buoyant fancy trims its glossy wing, And flits courageous o’er Love’s flowery field. Sure ’tis a tender and a sparkling flame That letters kindle and do sweetly feed; Wilt fly, schoolmaster, for such noble game? Maiden that doth all other maids exceed! She writes with passion, and a nimble wit, Void of all pedantry and vain pretence, With native genius forcible and fit, A flowing humor and surpassing sense: Who gains her heart will win a precious prize, And fortunate be in every lover’s eyes.
“This place may seem for lovers’ leisure made, So close those elms inweave their lofty shade. The twining woodbine, how it climbs to breathe Refreshing sweets around us; all beneath, The ground with grass of cheerful green bespread, Through which the springing flower uprears its head. Lo, here are kingcups of a golden hue, Medleyed with daisies white and endive blue, And honeysuckles of a purple dye: Confusion gay! bright waving to the eye.” Ambrose Phillips.
VI.
’Tis but a half-hour’s walk the Mill-Dam o’er, Past Punch Bowl Inn, where, by the turnpike’s side, The shaded pathway winding to the door, The mansion rises in ancestral pride:— Its shaven lawn, and blossoming orchard hoar, And trellised vines, and hedges trim and neat, Show plenty and refinement here abide,— The generous gentleman’s fair country-seat. Now, whilst the full moon glances soft and bright O’er Mall and Mill-Dam and suburban street, Turn hitherward thine unaccustomed feet, At afternoon, or evening, or late night; A change of scene oft rare attraction lends To new acquaintance, as to older friends.
“If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.” Shakespeare.
VII.
The morning’s clear, the sky without a frown, The dew-bespangled pastures wet the shoe; Sauntering full early toward the sleeping town, We’ll take the dry, well-trodden avenue; On these crisp pathways, and familiar grounds (Unless my flattering heart be over-bold), While lingering purposely amid our rounds, Some shady lane may love to hear all told. One name has captured his too partial ear,— (These kind, concealing bushes love invite No tell-tales are, nor neighbors impolite;) I’ll hear his suit devoid of blame or fear. Impatiently the moment I await; Who nothing ventures, stays disconsolate.
“Who knows thy destiny? when thou hast done, Perchance her cabinet may harbor thee, Whither all noble ambitious wits do run, A nest almost as full of good as she. Mark if to get thee she o’erskip the rest, Mark if she read thee thrice, and kiss the name, Mark if she do the same that they protest, Mark if she mark whither her woman came.” Donne.
VIII.
Mean are all titles of nobility, And kings poor spendthrifts, while I do compare The wealth she daily lavishes on me Of love, the noble kingdom that I share: Is it the jealous year, for emphasis, Sheds beauteous sunshine and refreshing dews? My maiden’s month doth softlier court and kiss, Tint springtime’s virgin cheek with rosier hues Fly faster o’er my page, impassioned quill, Signing this note of mine with tenderer touch! Say I no measure find to mete my will, Say that I love, but cannot tell how much; Let time and trouble the full story tell: I cannot love thee more, I know I love thee well.
“Let raptured fancy on that moment dwell When thy dear vows in trembling accents fell, When love acknowledged waked the tender sigh, Swelled thy full breast, and filled the melting eye.” Langhorne.
IX.
Now I no longer wait my love to tell, As ’twere a weakness love should not commit; E’en did avowal my fond hope dispel, My passion would of weakness me acquit. Enamoured thus and holden by its spell, Evasive words disloyal were, unfit To emphasize the exquisite happiness My boldest accents falteringly express; Here, take my hand, and, life-long wedded, lead Me by thy side; and, with my hand, my heart Given thee long since in thought, given now in deed; My life, my love, shall play no faithless part. Blest be that hour, when, meeting face to face, Our vows are plighted, ours the dear embrace!
“Venus, thy eternal sway All the race of men obey.” Euripides.
X.
Unconquerable and inviolate Is Love; servant and sov’reign of man’s wit: Though the light-wingèd fancy changeful flit, She rules unswervingly her fair estate, O’erbears mischance and error, envy and hate; High intellect, ambition, passion, pride, Endowments that capricious Fortune brings, By her disfranchisements are set aside; The mistress she alike of slaves and kings, Empress of Earth’s dominions, far and wide, Eldest of potentates, and latest born. Of all in Heaven above or Earth below, No being so illustrious or forlorn, That to Love’s sceptre doth not gladly bow.
“Ye tradeful merchants! that with weary toil Do seek most precious things to make your gain, And both the Indies of their treasure spoil, What needeth you to seek so far in vain? For, lo! my love doth in herself contain All this world’s riches that may far be found;
But that which fairest is, but few behold, Her mind adorned with virtues manifold.” Spenser.
XI.
Ancestral tendencies far down descend; They bless or blame for generations long; They prick us forward toward our destined end, Alike the weak, the sluggish, and the strong. When her grave ancestor, of Winthrop’s date, Did with the rich mint-master’s daughter join In wedlock, he, sagacious magistrate, Gained more in sterling worth than silver coin: So, when King’s Chapel saw, in gladsome May, The mild schoolmaster lead his willing bride, And the courtly warden give her hand away, Mintage of like worth had no land beside. True love alone nobility doth outvie, And character’s the sterling currency.
“How still the sea! behold, how calm the sky! And how, in sportive chase, the swallows fly! Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze Moves every leaf and trembles through the trees.” Phillips.
XII.
Hither, the gray and shapely church beside, At sandy Hingham, by the sounding sea, From the disturbing town escaped thus wide, I’m come, from all encumbering care set free, To raise the choral song, with friends discourse, Roam the wide fields for flowers, or seaward sail, Or to Cohasset’s strand repair, where hoarse Tumultuous surges chant their ceaseless tale; Or poesy entertain, grave Wordsworth’s lays, Melodious musing childhood’s glorious prime, Shakespeare’s warm sonnets or Venetian plays, Or that sad wizard Mariner’s marvellous Rime. Here in these haunts, this lovers’ company, Sweet Love’s symposium hold we happily.
“Books have always a secret influence on the understanding: we cannot at pleasure obliterate ideas; he that reads books of science, though without any desire for improvement, will grow more knowing; he that entertains himself with moral or religious treatises will imperceptibly advance to goodness; the ideas which are often offered to the mind will at last find a lucky moment when it is disposed to receive them.”
XIII.
My Lady reads, with judgment and good taste, Books not too many, but the wisest, best, Pregnant with sentiment sincere and chaste, Rightly conceived were they and aptly dressed: These wells of learning tastes she at the source,— Johnson’s poised periods, Fénelon’s deep sense, Taylor’s mellifluous and sage discourse, Majestic Milton’s epic eloquence,— Nor these alone her thoughts do all engage, But classic authors of the modern time, And the great masters of the ancient age, In prose alike and of the lofty rhyme: Montaigne and Cowper, Plutarch’s gallery, Blind Homer’s Iliad and his Odyssey.
“Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make: I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss I feel—I feel it all.” Wordsworth.
XIV.
Not Wordsworth’s genius, Pestalozzi’s love, The stream have sounded of clear infancy. Baptismal waters from the Head above These babes I foster daily are to me; I dip my pitcher in these living springs And draw, from depths below, sincerity; Unsealed, mine eyes behold all outward things Arrayed in splendors of divinity. What mount of vision can with mine compare? Not Roman Jove nor yet Olympian Zeus Darted from loftier ether through bright air One spark of holier fire for human use. Glad tidings thence these angels downward bring, As at their birth the heavenly choirs do sing.
“Fresh as the morning, earnest as the hour That calls the noisy world to grateful sleep, Our silent thought reveres the nameless power That high seclusion round thy life doth keep.” Sanborn.
XV.
Daughter, beloved of all, thy tender eye, Sweet disposition, and thy gentle voice, Make every heart, full soon thy close ally, Respect thy wishes, thine unspoken choice,— Hastening, unbidden, therewith to comply; They in thy cheerful countenance rejoice, Kindness unfailing, and quick sympathy. Peacemaker thou, with equanimity And aspirations far above thy care, Leavest no duty slighted or undone, Living for thy dear kindred, always there, Faithful as rising and as setting sun. Can I of lovelier mansion be possest, Than in thy heart to dwell a welcome guest?
“Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty, if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou who art victory and law, When empty terrors overawe; And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!” Wordsworth.
XVI.
When I remember with what buoyant heart, Midst war’s alarms and woes of civil strife, In youthful eagerness, thou didst depart, At peril of thy safety, peace, and life, To nurse the wounded soldier, swathe the dead— How piercèd soon by fever’s poisoned dart, And brought unconscious home, with wildered head— Thou, ever since, mid languor and dull pain, To conquer fortune, cherish kindred dear, Hast with grave studies vexed a sprightly brain, In myriad households kindled love and cheer; Ne’er from thyself by Fame’s loud trump beguiled, Sounding in this and the farther hemisphere:— I press thee to my heart, as Duty’s faithful child.
“In deepest passions of my grief-swoll’n breast, Sweet soul, this only comfort seizeth me, That so few years should make thee so much blest, And give such wings to reach eternity.” Brown’s Shepherd’s Pipe.
XVII.
’T was not permitted thee the Fates to please, And with survivors share our happier day; For smitten early wast thou by disease, Whilst with thy sisters thou didst smile and play. Wasted by pains and lingering decay, Life’s glowing currents at the source did freeze; Yet, ere the angel summoned thee away, Above thy cheerful couch affection’s ray Did brightly shine, and all thy sufferings ease. Dear child of grace! so patient and so strong, Bound to thy duty by quick sympathy, They did our hearts irreparable wrong To break the promise of thy infancy; Ah me! life is not life, deprived of thee.
“Will’t ne’er be morning? will that promised light Ne’er break, and clear these clouds of night? Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, Whose conquering ray May chase these fogs: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.” Quarles.
XVIII. LOVE’S MORROW. I.
It was but yesterday That all was bright and fair: Came over the sea, So merrily, News from my darling there. Now over the sea Comes hither to me Knell of despair,— “No more, no longer there!”
Ah! gentle May, Couldst thou not stay? Why hurriedst thou so swift away? No—not the same— Nor can it be— That lovely name— Ever again what once it was to me. It cannot, cannot be That lovely name to me.
III.
I cannot think her dead, So lately, sweetly wed; She who had tasted bliss, A mother’s virgin kiss, Rich gifts conferred to bless With costliest happiness, Nobility and grace To ornament her place.
Broken the golden band, Severed the silken strand, Ye sisters four! Still to me two remain, And two have gone before: Our loss, her gain,— And He who gave can all restore. And yet—Oh! why, My heart doth cry, Why take her thus away?
V.
I wake in tears and sorrow: Wearily I say, “Come, come, fair morrow, And chase my grief away!” Night-long I say, “Haste, haste, fair morrow, And bear my grief away!” All night long, My sad, sad song.
VI.
“Comes not the welcome morrow,” My boding heart doth say; Still grief from grief doth borrow; “My child is far away.” Still as I pray The deeper swells my sorrow. Break, break! The risen day Takes not my grief away.
VII.
Full well I know, Joy’s spring is fathomless,— Its fountains overflow To cheer and bless, And underneath our grief Well forth and give relief. Transported May! Thou couldst not stay; Who gave, took thee away. Come, child, and whisper peace to me, Say, must I wait, or come to thee? I list to hear Thy message clear.
VIII.
“Cease, cease, new grief to borrow!” Last night I heard her say; “For sorrow hath no morrow, ’T is born of yesterday. Translated thou shalt be, My cloudless daylight see, And bathe, as I, in fairest morrows endlessly.”
“Shall not from these remains, From this low mound, dear ashes of the dead, The violet spring?” Persius.
XIX.
O Death! thou utterest deeper speech, A tenderer, truer tone, Than all our languages can reach, Though all were voiced in one.
Thy glance is deep, and, far beyond All that our eyes do see, Assures to fairest hopes and fond Their immortality.
Sing, sing, the Immortals, The Ancients of days, Ever crowding the portals Of Time’s peopled ways; These Babes ever stealing Into Eden’s glad feeling, The fore-world revealing, God’s face ne’er concealing.
XX.
Voyager across the seas, In my arms thy form I press; Come, my Baby, me to please, Blue-eyed nurseling, motherless!
All is strange and beautiful, Every sense finds glad surprise, Life is lovely, wonderful, Faces fair, and beaming eyes.
Safe, ye angels, keep this child, Life-long guard her innocence, Winsome ways, and temper mild; Heaven, our home, be her defence!
“O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?” Shakespeare.
XXI.
Dear Heart! if aught to human love I’ve owed For noble furtherance of the good and fair; Climbed I, by bold emprise, the dizzying stair To excellence, and was by thee approved, In memory cherished and the more beloved; If fortune smiled, and late-won liberty,— ’T was thy kind favor all, thy generous legacy. Nor didst thou spare thy large munificence Me here to pleasure amply and maintain, But conjured from suspicion and mischance, Exile, misapprehension, cold disdain, For my loved cloud-rapt dream, supremacy; To bright reality transformed romance, Crowning with smiles the hard-earned victory.
“The hills were reared, the valleys scooped in vain, If Learning’s altars vanish from the plain.” Channing.
XXII.
Calm vale of comfort, peace, and industry, Well doth thy name thy homebred traits express!— Considerate people, neighborly and free, Proud of their monuments, their ancestry, Their circling river’s quiet loveliness, Their noble townsmen’s fame and history. Nor less I glory in each goodly trait, Child of another creed, a stricter State; I chose thee for my haunt in troublous time, My home in days of late prosperity, And laud thee now in this familiar rhyme; Here on thy bosom the last summons wait To scenes, if lovelier, still reflecting thee, Resplendent both in hope and memory.
PART II.
SONNETS.
“In sundry moods, ’t was pastime to be bound Within the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground.” Wordsworth.
“I like that friendship which, by soft gentle pauses, steals upon the affections and grows mellow with time, by reciprocal offices and trials of love; that friendship is like to last long, and never shrink in the wetting.”
I.
In Youth’s glad morning, when the rising East Glows golden with assurance of success, And life itself ’s a rare continual feast, Enjoyed the more if meditated less, ’T is then that friendship’s pleasures chiefly bless, As if without beginning,—ne’er to end,— So rich the season and so dear the friend, When thou and I went wandering hand in hand; Mine wert thou in our years of earliest prime, Studious at home, or to the southern land Adventuring bold; again in later time, Thy kindly service, always at command Of calm discretion, and abounding sense, Prompted and showed the path to excellence.
“Power above powers! O heavenly eloquence! That, with the strong rein of commanding words, Dost manage, guide, and master the eminence Of man’s affections more than all their swords; Shall we not offer to thy excellence The richest treasure that our wit affords? Or should we careless come behind the rest In power of words that go before in worth; When all that ever hotter spirits exprest Comes bettered by the patience of the North?” Daniel.
II.
My thought revives at utterance of thy name,— Doth high behavior, sweet discourse recall, Lit with emotion’s quick and quenchless flame, Imagination interfused through all; Then peals thy voice melodious on mine ear, As when grave anthems thou didst well recite,— Laodamia’s vision sad and dear, Or “Thanatopsis,” or “Hail, Holy Light!” Thou true Professor, gifted to dispense New pathos e’en to Channing’s eloquence; If mother tongue they fail to speak or write, Nor Greek nor Latin draw thy pupils thence; Such culture, taught by the far Northern sea, This scholar brings, New England, home to thee.
“Ascending soul, sing Pæan.” Oracle.
III.
Christian beloved! devoid of art and wile,— Who lovest thy Lord so well, with heart so true, That neither mist nor mote of worldly guile May clog thy vision, nor confuse the view Of that transcendent and commanding style Of god-like manhood; which had dazed long while Each purblind brother’s idol-loving eye. Sense overpowering doth the soul belie: Thou the soul’s errand and due place dost see, Its heavenly features to thy ken disclose, As when in Nazareth thy Lord uprose, The Father’s image in Humanity. A holy service thine, interpreter Of Lazarus rising from the sepulchre.
“The virtuous mind that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience.” Milton.
IV.
Channing! my Mentor whilst my thought was young, And I the votary of fair liberty,— How hung I then upon thy glowing tongue, And thought of love and truth as one with thee! Thou wast the inspirer of a nobler life, When I with error waged unequal strife, And from its coils thy teaching set me free. Be ye, his followers, to his leading true, Nor privilege covet, nor the wider sway; But hold right onward in his loftier way, As best becomes, and is his rightful due. If learning ’s yours,—gifts God doth least esteem,— Beyond all gifts was his transcendent view; O realize his Pentecostal dream!
“Without oblivion there is no remembrance possible. When both oblivion and memory are wise, then the general soul is clear, melodious, and true.”
V.
Daughter of Memory! who her watch doth keep O’er dark Oblivion’s land of shade and dream, Peers down into the realm of ancient Sleep, Where Thought uprises with a sudden gleam And lights the devious path ’twixt Be and Seem; Mythologist! that dost thy legend steep Plenteously with opiate and anodyne, Inweaving fact with fable, line with line, Entangling anecdote and episode, Mindful of all that all men meant or said,— We follow, pleased, thy labyrinthine road, By Ariadne’s skein and lesson led: For thou hast wrought so excellently well, Thou drop’st more casual truth than sages tell.
“Not on the store of sprightly wine, Nor plenty of delicious meats, Though gracious Nature did design To court us with perpetual treats; ’Tis not on these we for content depend, So much as on the shadow of a friend.” Menander.
VI.
Misfortune to have lived not knowing thee! ’T were not high living, nor to noblest end, Who, dwelling near, learned not sincerity, Rich friendship’s ornament that still doth lend To life its consequence and propriety. Thy fellowship was my culture, noble friend: By the hand thou took’st me, and did’st condescend To bring me straightway into thy fair guild; And life-long hath it been high compliment By that to have been known, and thy friend styled, Given to rare thought and to good learning bent; Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled. Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be A scholar in thy university.
“He shall not seek to weave, In weak, unhappy times, Efficacious rhymes; Wait his returning strength. Bird, that from the nadir’s floor To the zenith’s top can soar, The soaring orbit of the Muse exceeds that journey’s length.”
VII.
Hierophant, and lyrist of the soul! Clear insight thine of universal mind; While from its crypts the nascent Powers unrol, And represent to consciousness the Whole. Each in its order seeks its natural kind, These latent or apparent, stir or sleep, Watchful o’er widening fields of airy space, Or slumbering sightless in the briny deep;— Thou, far above their shows, servant of Grace, Tread’st the bright way from Spirit down to Sense, Interpreting all symbols to thy race,— Commanding vistas of the fair Immense, And glimpses upward far, where, sons of Heaven, Sit in Pantheon throned the Sacred Seven.
“The princely mind, that can Teach man to keep a God in man,— And when wise poets would search out to see Good men, behold them all in thee!”
VIII.
Pleased, I recall those hours, so fair and free, When all the long forenoons we two did toss From lip to lip, in lively colloquy, Plato, Plotinus, or famed schoolman’s gloss, Disporting in rapt thought and ecstasy. Then by the tilting rail Millbrook we cross, And sally through the fields to Walden wave, Plunging within the cove, or swimming o’er; Through woodpaths wending, he with gesture quick Rhymes deftly in mid-air with circling stick, Skims the smooth pebbles from the leafy shore, Or deeper ripples raises as we lave; Nor slumb’rous pillow touches at late night, Till converse with the stars his eyes invite.
“Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep; Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.
“Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever, Thou who mak’st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright.” Ben Jonson.
IX.
Dear Lady! oft I meditate on thee, Noblest companion and fit peer of him Whom envious years, in high prosperity, Could blemish least, nor aught the lustre dim Of that fair-fashioned native piety Embosomed in the soul that smiles on Fate, And held by him and thee inviolate,— Fountain of youth, still sparkling o’er the brim. Then I recall thy salient quick wit, Its arrowy quiver and its supple bow,— Huntress of wrong! right well thy arrows hit, Though from the wound thou see’st the red drops flow: I much admire that dexterous archery, And pray that sinners may thy target be.
“Upon the nineteenth day of the first month, they keep a solemn festival to Hermes, wherein they eat honey and figs, and withal, say these words, ‘Truth is a sweet thing;’ and that amulet or charm which they fable to hang about her is, when interpreted in our language,
‘A true voice.’”
X.
Thou, Sibyl rapt! whose sympathetic soul Infused the myst’ries thy tongue failed to tell; Though from thy lips the marvellous accents fell, And weird wise meanings o’er the senses stole, Through those rare cadences, with winsome spell; Yet, even in such refrainings of thy voice, There struggled up a wailing undertone, That spoke thee victim of the Sisters’ choice,— Charming all others, dwelling still alone. They left thee thus disconsolate to roam, And scorned thy dear, devoted life to spare. Around the storm-tost vessel sinking there The wild waves chant thy dirge and welcome home; Survives alone thy sex’s valiant plea, And the great heart that loved the brave and free.
“One knocked at the Beloved’s door, and a Voice asked from within, Who is there? And he answered, It is I. Then the Voice said, This house will not hold me and thee, and the door was not opened. Then went the Lover into the desert, and fasted and prayed in solitude. And after a year he returned, and knocked again at the door. And again the Voice asked, Who is there? and he said, It is Thyself. And the door was opened to him.”
XI.
Priest of the gladsome tidings, old and new, To whom by nature fell, as the most fit, The saintly Channing’s mantle; brave and true, Thou heedst thy calling, and dost well acquit Thyself of the high mission. Thy sage wit (O brother in the Lord, and well approved To lead men heavenward to the Father’s throne, And Son’s that sits at His right hand beloved!) Hath ministered to every clime and zone Washed by Pacific or Atlantic sea, With chainless flow ’neath Heaven’s unbounded cope. Son of the Church, saint of thy century! Undoubting faith is thine, and fadeless hope, And ardent, all-embracing charity.
“Philosophy does not look into pedigrees. She did not receive Plato as noble, but she made him such. ”
XII.
Interpreter of the Pure Reason’s laws, And all the obligations Thought doth owe These high ambassadors of her great cause; Philosopher! whose rare discernments show Apt mastery of her surpassing skill, And why each thought and thing is inly so Conceived and fashioned in the plastic Will; Thou Reason’s canons dost so well maintain, With such adhesive and sincere regard, That every deviator seeks in vain To escape thy apprehension; evil-starred, With Dante’s sophisters they writhe in pain. Then from thy judgment-seat, dismissed with ruth, Thou lead’st the stumblers in the way of truth.
“Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wild rose and left it on its stalk? At rich men’s tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay? Oh, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!” Emerson.
XIII.
Who nearer Nature’s life would truly come Must nearest come to him of whom I speak; He all kinds knew,—the vocal and the dumb; Masterful in genius was he, and unique, Patient, sagacious, tender, frolicsome. This Concord Pan would oft his whistle take, And forth from wood and fen, field, hill, and lake, Trooping around him, in their several guise, The shy inhabitants their haunts forsake: Then he, like Esop, man would satirize, Hold up the image wild to clearest view Of undiscerning manhood’s puzzled eyes, And mocking say, “Lo! mirrors here for you: Be true as these, if ye would be more wise.”
“The happy man who lived content With his own town and continent, Whose chiding stream its banks did curb As ocean circumscribes its orb, Round which, when he his walks did take, Thought he performed far more than Drake: For other lands he took less thought, Than this his Muse and landscape brought.” Evelyn.
XIV.
Much do they wrong our Henry, wise and kind, Morose who name thee, cynical to men, Forsaking manners civil and refined To build thyself in Walden woods a den,— Then flout society, flatter the rude hind. We better knew thee, loyal citizen! Thou, friendship’s all-adventuring pioneer, Civility itself didst civilize: Whilst braggart boors, wavering ’twixt rage and fear, Slave hearths lay waste, and Indian huts surprise, And swift the Martyr’s gibbet would uprear: Thou hail’dst him great whose valorous emprise Orion’s blazing belt dimmed in the sky,— Then bowed thy unrepining head to die.
“Happy art thou whom God doth bless With the full choice of thine own happiness; And happier yet, because thou’rt blest With prudence how to choose the best: In books and gardens thou hast placed aright— Things well which thou dost understand, And both dost make with thy laborious hand— Thy noble, innocent delight.
Methinks I see great Diocletian walk In the Salonian gardens noble shade, Which by his own imperial hands was made; I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk With the ambassadors, who come in vain To entice him to a throne again.” Cowley’s Ode to Evelyn.
XV.
Whilst from the cloistered schools rushed forth in view The eager Bachelors, on lucre bent, Or life voluptuous; even the studious few, Oblivious mostly, if they ever knew What Nature mirrored and fair learning meant; Thou, better taught, on worthier aims intent, Short distance from the Pilgrims’ sea-washed street Thine orchard planted; grove and garden there, And sheltering coppice hide thy mansion neat, By winding alley reached, and gay parterre; Where cordial welcome chosen friends shall meet, From courteous host and graceful lady fair; Then thy choice fruits we taste, thy wisdom hived, England’s rare Evelyn in thee revived.
“Thou art not gone, being gone,—where’er thou art, Thou leav’st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart.” Donne.
XVI.
Bright visions of my sprightlier youthful days, With sunny gleams of answering friendliness, Thou brought’st me, maiden, in delightful ways, In conversation, letters, frank address; And these attractions did me so possess, The moments all were thine, and thou in sight By day’s engagements, and in dreams by night. Wished I the spell dissolved, or ever less? Ne’er may advancing years remove one tint From memory’s tablet of that happy time; And if thus tamely that romance I hint, Forgive my poor endeavor in this rhyme, Nor warrant give me now, my cherished friend, To add the more, lest I the more offend.
Άστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ὲνὶ ζωοῒσιν ἑᾣος, Νὔν δἑ θαννὡ λἀνπεις Έσπερος έν φθιμένοις.
“Thou wert a morning star among the living Ere thy fair light had fled; Now, being gone, thou art as Hesperus, giving New lustre to the dead.” Plato.
XVII.
Sweet saint! whose rising dawned upon the sight Like fair Aurora chasing mists away; Our ocean billows, and thy western height Gave back reflections of the tender ray, Sparkling and smiling as night turned to day:— Ah! whither vanished that celestial light? Suns rise and set, Monadnoc’s amethyst Year-long above the sullen cloud appears, Daily the waves our summer strand have kissed, But thou returnest not with days and years: Or is it thine, yon clear and beckoning star, Seen o’er the hills that guarded once thy home? Dost guide thy friend’s free steps that widely roam Toward that far country where his wishes are?
“Thus sing I to cragg’d clifts and hills, To sighing winds, to murmuring rills, To wasteful woods, to empty groves, Such things as my dear mind most loves.” Henry More.
XVIII.
Adventurous mariner! in whose gray skiff, Dashing disastrous o’er the fretful wave, The steersman, subject to each breeze’s whiff, Or blast capricious that o’er seas doth rave, Scarce turns his rudder from the fatal cliff,— Scorning his craft or e’en himself to save. Ye Powers of air, that shift the seaman’s grave, Adjust the tackle of his right intent, And bring him safely to the port he meant! Long musing there on that divinity Who to his hazard had assistance lent, He verses cons, oft taken by surprise In diverse meanings, and shrewd subtlety, That pass quaint Donne, and even Shakespeare wise.
“But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial Syrens’ harmony That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, And sing to those that hold the vital shears, And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.” Milton.
XIX.
Romancer, far more coy than that coy sex! Perchance some stroke of magic thee befell, Ere thy baronial keep the Muse did vex, Nor grant deliverance from enchanted spell, But tease thee all the while and sore perplex, Till thou that wizard tale shouldst fairly tell, Better than poets in thy own clear prose. Painter of sin in its deep scarlet dyes, Thy doomsday pencil Justice doth expose, Hearing and judging at the dread assize; New England’s guilt blazoning before all eyes, No other chronicler than thee she chose. Magician deathless! dost thou vigil keep, Whilst ’neath our pines thou feignest deathlike sleep?
“There is a Roman splendor in her smile, A tenderness that owes its depth to toil; Well may she leave the soft voluptuous wile, That forms the woman of a softer soil; She does pour forth herself a fragrant oil, Upon the dark asperities of Fate, And make a garden else all desolate.” Ellery Channing.
XX.
Still held in sweet remembrance thou, my friend, As when I knew thee in thy maiden prime; Though later years to ripening graces lend The graver traits, whilst we together climb The pathway upward to those loftier heights, ’Bove clouded prospects and familiar sights. Thy gracious worth shines brightly in mine eyes, Thy warm heart’s labors, thy large liberal brain, Ennobling studies, and broad charities, Thou woman worthy of the coming age! Whilst household duties thou dost well sustain, Yet ampler service for thy sex presage; Can aught from Memory’s record e’er erase Thy cordial manners, and resplendent face?
“So have I seen in fair Castile, The youth in glittering squadrons start, Sudden the flying jennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart.” Scott.
XXI.
Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre Startles the churches from their slumbers late, Discoursing music, mixed with lofty ire, At wrangling factions in the restless state, Till tingles with thy note each listening ear,— Then household charities by the friendly fire Of home, soothe all to fellowship and good cheer. No sin escapes thy fervent eloquence, Yet, touching with compassion the true word, Thou leavest the trembling culprit’s dark offence To the mediation of his gracious Lord. To noble thought and deep dost thou dispense Due meed of praise, strict in thy just award. Can other pulpits with this preacher cope? I glory in thy genius, and take hope!
“Many are the friends of the golden tongue.” Welsh Triad.
XXII.
People’s Attorney, servant of the Right! Pleader for all shades of the solar ray, Complexions dusky, yellow, red, or white; Who, in thy country’s and thy time’s despite, Hast only questioned, What will Duty say? And followed swiftly in her narrow way: Tipped is thy tongue with golden eloquence, All honeyed accents fall from off thy lips,— Each eager listener his full measure sips, Yet runs to waste the sparkling opulence,— The scorn of bigots, and the worldling’s flout. If Time long held thy merit in suspense, Hastening repentant now, with pen devout, Impartial History dare not leave thee out.
“Who faithful in insane sedition keeps, With silver and with ruddy gold may vie.” Tyrtæus.
XXIII.
’Twas when the land was struggling to break free From Slavery’s fetter and provincial ban, Whilst a great people dreaded liberty,— That the dire conflict of thine age began. Thy voice rang clear o’er selfish sect and clan; Nor politician’s, priest’s, nor tradesman’s plea Did aught avail to quench, but more to fan The flame that must consume all slavery,— The serf then franchised and proclaimed a man. Long wast thou heard amid the scoff and scorn Of voices potent in thy city dear; Steadfast didst face the storm, with heart of cheer, And prove thyself the freeman nobly born, Preacher of righteousness, of saints the peer.
“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise or blame, nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.” Milton.
XXIV.
Bold Saint, thou firm believer in the Cross, Again made glorious by self-sacrifice,— Love’s free atonement given without love’s loss,— That martyrdom to thee was lighter pain, Since thus a race its liberties should gain; Flash its sure consequence in Slavery’s eyes When, ’scaping sabre’s clash and battle’s smoke, She felt the justice of thy master-stroke: Peaceful prosperity around us lies, Freedom with loyalty thy valor gave; Whilst thou, no felon doomed, for gallows fit, O Patriot true! O Christian meek and brave! Throned in the martyrs’ seat henceforth shalt sit; Prophet of God! Messias of the Slave!
“O my brethren! I have told Most bitter truth, but without bitterness, Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed; For never can true courage dwell with them Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look At their own vices.” Coleridge.
XXV.
Nobly censorious of our transient age, Hating oppressors in thy love of man, Thou didst stride forward on the public stage With the bold liberators to the van, Scourging delinquents with a lofty rage. Iconoclast, who ’gainst foul idols ran, Tumbling false gods from their wide-worshipped shrine, To throne therein the human and divine. Charged was thy soul with vehement eloquence, Strenuous with ample reason’s manly art; Thy prayers were fervent, void of all pretence, Wrath yielded place to pity in thy heart; Eagerly of all learning mad’st thou spoil, Before thy lamp, extinguished, spent its oil.
“There’s not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee: thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.” Wordsworth.
XXVI.
Freedom’s first champion in our fettered land! Nor politician nor base citizen Could gibbet thee, nor silence, nor withstand. Thy trenchant and emancipating pen The patriot Lincoln snatched with steady hand, Writing his name and thine on parchment white, Midst war’s resistless and ensanguined flood; Then held that proclamation high in sight Before his fratricidal countrymen,— “Freedom henceforth throughout the land for all,”— And sealed the instrument with his own blood, Bowing his mighty strength for slavery’s fall; Whilst thou, stanch friend of largest liberty, Survived,—its ruin and our peace to see.
“E venni dal martirio a questa pace.” Dante.
“Ah, me! how dark the discipline of pain, Were not the suffering followed by the sense Of infinite rest and infinite release! This is our consolation; and again A great soul cries to us in our suspense: ‘I came from martyrdom unto this peace.’” Longfellow.
XXVII.
I.
O thou, my country, ope thine eyes Toward what the Future holds for thee! See the brave stripling rise From lowliest hut and poverty, From stair to stair; Nor hardly fix his footsteps there, Ere he another round Doth upward bound; Still, step by step, to higher stair Forward he leaps, Broader his vision sweeps, Till he the loftiest summit gain,— A people’s hope to further and maintain.
II.
But lo! as oft befalls the great, The wise and good, There for a moment poised he stood,— Then passed beyond the gazing crowd Within the folded cloud. Wasted by weary pains, His pale remains Now lie in state, Swathed in his bloody shroud; Peoples and kingdoms bathed in tears. Hear’st thou the welcome greet his ears, As he his holier throne doth take? This brave of fifty manly years, Dies he not now for thy dear sake?
III.
O follow, thou, his leading far, Be thou thyself the morning star, Beaming thy glories round the world, His name emblazoned on thy flag unfurled! What speak the myriad bells, Tolling this day their mournful knells? “Ne’er may our weight be swung, Never our iron tongue Slavery’s base might extol In town or capitol; But o’er a people brave and free Ring out in happier symphony Garfield and Liberty!”