THE young sun rides the mists anew; his cohorts follow from the sea.
Let Aztec children shout and sue, the Persian lend a thankful knee:
Those glad auroral eyes shall beam not anywhere henceforth on me.
Up with the banners on the height, set every matin bell astir!
The tree-top choirs carouse in light; the dew’s on phlox and lavender:
Ah, mockery! for, worlds away, the heart of morning beats with her.
ON SOME OLD-MUSIC.
TO lie beside a stream, upon the sod
At ease, while weary shepherds homeward plod,
And feel benignly by, as daylight mellows,
The mountains in their weathering period;
Aye so, with silence shod
To lie in depth of grass with man’s meek fellows,
The cattle large and calm, aware of God,
And, keen as if to flesh the spirit sprang,
To hear,—O but to hear that silvern clang
Of young hale melody! and hither rally
The thrill, the aspiration, and the pang
Again, as once it rang
Sovereign and clear thro’ all the Saco valley,
Whose slaves were we that heard, and he that sang!
Happy the spot, the hour, the spanning strain
Precious and far, the rainbow of the rain,
The seal of patience, dark endeavor’s summing,
The heaven-bright close of Pergolese’s pain!
Sighs bid it back in vain,
Nor win its peer, till craftsmen aftercoming
Lost art, lost heart, from shipwrecked years regain.
How, like an angel, it effaced the crime,
The moil and heat of our tempestuous time,
And brought from dewier air, to us who waited,
The breath of peace, the healing breath sublime!
As falls, at midnight’s chime
To an old pilgrim, plodding on belated,
The thought of Love’s remote sunshining prime.
There flits upon the wind’s wing, as we gaze,
Our northern springtime, virgin-green three days;
The racy water shallowing, the glory
Of jonquils strewn, the wafted apple-sprays:
O let it be thy praise,
Child-song too lovely and too transitory!
Thou art as they; thy feet have gone their ways.