The Lost Poem.
LONG ago beside my window, with an open manuscript,
I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped,
Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees,
When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze.
Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept,
And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept:
“Stop!” I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street,
“I will give you thirty shillings if you’ll bring me back that sheet.”
But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite,
And I watched it sally upward, fading faster from my sight;
Then I said unto a swallow that flew by on rapid wing,
“Open wide I’ll throw the granary if my poem back you’ll bring.”
But he only flew the faster, and was soon beyond my sight;
And the daylight vanished from me, and to mock me sent the night.
O! there’s naught can daunt a spirit when the inner heart’s afire,
And the darkness sent upon me only did my aim inspire.
So I sought an humble dwelling, to a fortune-teller went,
And I tarried with the gipsy till the night was almost spent,
But I left her door disheartened; for she only said to me:
“Take this, search, and when you’ve found it, send or fetch again the key.”
“But,” said I, “’tis lost in nature, in the sky or hills among,”
And the key back in her shanty with an angry word I flung;
For prophetic seemed her language, and my purposes were mocked,
If henceforth the heart of nature, Fate against my own had locked.
“Take it, search,” again she muttered, as I started to depart;
“And be careful how you use it; for it fits the human heart.”
In her hand I dropped a coin, and before the eye of day
Peeped from out the morning’s cradle I was far upon my way.
Like the breath of early roses, like the whisper of a bird,
From a little maiden passing, a sweet laugh methought I heard.
“She has found it,” I repeated, “there’s no use for any key.”
Said the pretty little damsel, “My heart’s open, don’t you see?”
Yes, I saw, and there were treasures such as kings would love to own,
Who would sacrifice to gain them e’en a jeweled crown and throne—
Buds and blossoms, song and laughter, humming-birds and butterflies,
Singing brooks and sparkling fountains there, and peaceful were the skies.
But the poem it was missing; so I journeyed slow along,
Till I heard a mother singing to her babe a cradle song;
And I tried to get permission in her heart to fit the key,
But the lullaby continued: “Do not interrupt,” said she.
Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond’rous fair,
And I searched long through his heart’s book, but the poem was not there;
“It is lost!” I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup,
And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up.
* * * * * * *
Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed,
Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread;
Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death’s new disguise,
But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes.
Then a thought—“The key,” I whispered, lest I should be overheard,
And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem—every word.
Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame;
And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name.
O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim,
I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame;
But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead,
So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head.
Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name,
Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame.
A Maple Leaf.
TO M. B. S.
GLANCING o’er a childish volume where sweet thoughts like blossoms lay,
There between two oft read pages, a pressed wreath I found to-day.
Golden-rod and aster flowers lay with bloom all crushed and dead,
But a maple leaf among them still retained its gold and red.
In my hand I took the treasure, held it up before my face,
And the sunlight, then declining, solved its geometric grace.
Many a road and by-path meeting proved the interwoven veins;
And a forest rose before me, flaming like my window panes.
As a vision that is pictured by an angel in the night,
Soon a figure, sometime vanished, rose to my exultant sight.
Like a goddess of enchantment, there she stood beneath the trees,
And her face was like a lily, and her eyes like summer seas.
Then I thought, “For me she’s waiting”—so I glanced off to the right,
For I feared it all a fancy, but I found my home in sight;
Heard the town-clock slowly striking, and the same familiar bells,
Saw the court-house and the churches, and “The Summit,” where she dwells.
So I then no longer doubted, down a meadow path I strolled,
Leading off into the woodland that had stole the sunset’s gold.
Overhead the birds were flying, but a black winged happy throng
Paused; for we had been old comrades and they sang a farewell song.
But the thoughts that followed after, though the birds away had flown,
Were so happy, for she met me, linked her arm within my own.
Up and down the path we wandered, gathering leaves and grasses gray,
Until darkness drove the twilight o’er the hill where fled the day.
Darkness! and her face had vanished, all alone I seemed to stand,
But I heard her step departing, and I grasped again her hand.
Held it tight, and tighter pressing, in a happy strange belief,
Till I ’woke, and found that dreaming I had crushed my treasured leaf.
