I saw the stately planets sail
On that blue ocean wide;
I saw blown by some mystic gale,
Like silver ship in elfin tale,
That bore some damsel rare and pale,
The moon's slim crescent glide.
And ev'ry throb of spring
The rust'ling boughs among,
That filled the silver vein of brook,
That lit with bloom the mossy nook,
Cried to my boyish bosom: "Look!
How fresh the earth and young!"
The winds were fresh, the days as clear
As crystals set in gold.
No shape, with prophet-mantle drear,
Thro' those old woods came drifting near,
To whisper in my wond'ring ear,
"The green earth waxeth old."
"THE WISHING STAR."
Day floated down the sky; a perfect day,
Leaving a footprint of pale primrose gold
Along the west, that when her lover, Night,
Fled with his starry lances in pursuit,
Across the sky, the way she went might shew.
From the faint ting'd ridges of the sea, the Moon
Sprang up like Aphrodite from the wave,
Which as she climb'd the sky still held
Her golden tresses to its swelling breast,
Where wide dispread their quiv'ring glories lay,
(Or as the shield of night, full disk'd and red,
As flowers that look forever towards the Sun),
A terrace with a fountain and an oak
Look'd out upon the sea: The fountain danced
Beside the huge old tree as some slim nymph,
Rob'd in light silver might her frolics shew
Before some hoary king, while high above,
He shook his wild, long locks upon the breeze—
And sigh'd deep sighs of "All is vanity!"
Behind, a wall of Norman William's time
Rose mellow, hung with ivy, here and there
Torn wide apart to let a casement peer
Upon the terrace. On a carv'd sill I leant
(A fleur-de-lis bound with an English rose)
And look'd above me into two such eyes
As would have dazzl'd from that ancient page
That new old cry that hearts so often write
In their own ashes, "All is vanity!"
"Know'st thou—" she said, with tender eyes far-fix'd,
On the wide arch that domes our little earth,
"That when a star hurls on with shining wings,
"On some swift message from his throne of light,
"The ready heart may wish, and the ripe fruit—
"Fulfilment—drop into the eager palm?"
"Then let us watch for such a star," quoth I.
"Nay, love," she said, "'Tis but an idle tale."
But some swift feeling smote upon her brow
A rosy shadow. I turn'd and watch'd the sky—
Calmly the cohorts of the night swept on,
Led by the wide-wing'd vesper; and against the moon
Where low her globe trembl'd upon the edge
Of the wide amethyst that clearly paved
The dreamy sapphire of the night, there lay
The jetty spars of some tall ship, that look'd
The night's device upon his ripe-red shield.
And suddenly down towards the moon there ran—
From some high space deep-veil'd in solemn blue,
A little star, a point of trembling gold,
Gone swift as seen. "My wishing-star," quoth I,
"Shall tell my wish? Did'st note that little star?
"Its brightness died not, it but disappeared,
"To whirl undim'd thro' space. I wish'd our love
"Might blot the 'All is vanity' from this brief life,
"Burning brightly as that star and winging on
"Thro' unseen space of veil'd Eternity,
"Brightened by Immortality—not lost."
"Awful and sweet the wish!" she said, and so—
We rested in the silence of content.
HOW DEACON FRY BOUGHT A "DUCHESS."
It sorter skeer'd the neighbours round,
For of all the 'tarnal set thet clutches
Their dollars firm, he wus the boss;
An' yet he went and byed a "Duchess."
I never will forget the day
He druv her from the city market;
I guess thar warn't more'n two
Thet stayed to hum thet day in Clarket.
And one of them wus Gran'pa Finch,
Who's bed-rid up to Spense's attic:
The other Aunt Mehitabel,
Whose jints and temper is rheumatic.
She said she "guessed that Deacon Fry
Would some day see he'd done more fitter
To send his dollars savin' souls
Than waste 'em on a horn'd critter!"
We all turn'd out at Pewse's store,
The last one jest inside the village;
The Jedge he even chanc'd along,
And so did good old Elder Millage.
We sot around on kegs and planks,
And on the fence we loung'd precarious;
The Elder felt to speak a word,
And sed his thoughts wus very various.
He sed the Deacon call'd to mind
The blessed patriarchs and their cattle;
"To whose herds cum a great increase
When they in furrin parts did settle."
We nodded all our skulls at this,
But Argue Bill he rapped his crutches;
Sed he, "I guess they never paid
Five hundred dollars for a 'Duchess.'"