I.
O Holy Place, we know not where thou art! Though one by one our well-beloved dead From our close claspings to thy bliss have fled, They send no word back to the breaking heart; And if, perchance, their angels fly athwart The silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread, The swift white-wings we see not, but instead Only the dark void keeping us apart. Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place? Made he a new world in the heavens high hung, So far from this poor earth that even yet Its first glad rays have traversed not the space That lies between us, nor their glory flung On the old home its sons can ne’er forget?
II.
But what if on some fair, auspicious night, Like that on which the shepherds watched of old, Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled, Shall stream the radiance of a star more bright Than ever yet hath shone on mortal sight— Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold, Wave after wave of glory manifold, From zone to zenith flooding all the height? And what if, moved by some strange inner sense, Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far, Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space, All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense, “Behold, behold this new resplendent star— Our heaven at last revealed!—the Place! the Place!”
III.
Then shall the heavenly host with one accord Veil their bright faces in obeisance meet, While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet. Then shall Orion own at last his Lord, And from his belt unloose the blazing sword, While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet, Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet, And Lyra strikes her harp’s most rapturous chord. O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice! Break into singing, all ye silent hills; And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply! Let the remotest desert find a voice! The whole creation to its centre thrills, For the new light of Heaven is in the sky!
TO A GODDESS
Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair! Let its light stream across the waiting seas As banners float upon the yielding breeze From the king’s tent, his presence to declare. And as his heralds haste to do their share, Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees, So let the waves in loftiest symphonies Proclaim thy glory to the listening air! Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee, For thee the patient earth has waited long— To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands From the far hills and o’er the rolling sea. Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong, A beacon-light to earth’s remotest lands.
O. W. H.
(August 29, 1809.)
“How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried. “May wasted all her violets long ago; No longer on the hills June’s roses glow, Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide. My stately lilies one by one have died: The clematis is but a ghost—and lo! In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow; How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed. Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said, “On every hill my golden-rod shall flame, Token of all my prescient soul foretells. His shall be golden song and golden fame— Long golden years with love and honor wed— And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!”