And, World-heart, O, what hast thou won?
And, is the sad act past and done?
Or, does its score, sunk wide and deep,
In some blind hell fierce-copied keep,
For Days, which, tho’ their loath pace creep,
Oft span with strides each reckoned Far;
For such—for Broil’s rude, loud, and noted star
To trace once more upon the Light
Yon awful cypher of the Night?
A CONCORDANCE.
The Dawn that ’woke this train of songs—each simple lay—
The lowering, then, and stirring hours,
Have ’cross those dim fields passed away,
Where History, gathering ghostly flowers,
Erst flush with life, now chill and gray,
Would bind them fair, their story tell,
The silent bloom Death loves so well;
Nay, haply show, how from their seed,
What large effects may leveling breed.
That Dawn has sped—trite Day knows all;
The roistering winds that ravening blew
Have ceased their brawl,
Mad sport that drew
War’s winged hounds, and harpies flew,
Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath,
Each heave at bouts with throttling Death.
While from the din there rose, I thought,
Brave strains of man no fear might toss:
If, echoing these, a few I wrought
Into rude posies, strove to cross
Their wildness with the rose of art,—
Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart,
Grafts tongue on thought; here grew to breathe
Those clear-felt notes not theirs to choose.
Which, humbly, while their love did wreathe
A passioned chaplet for the Muse;
Did they, to match her large faith there,
To vie the crown she auguring bear,
Not weave as well, to extol her sooth,
A sister garland for the Truth?
