SUB ROSA, CRUX.
In times of old, as we are told,
When men more child-like at the feet
Of Jesus sat, than now,
A chivalry was known more bold
Than ours, and yet of stricter vow,
Of worship more complete.
Knights of the Rosy Cross, they bore
Its weight within the heart, but wore
Without, devotion's sign in glistening ruby bright;
The gall and vinegar they drank alone,
But to the world at large would only own
The wine of faith, sparkling with rosy light.
They knew the secret of the sacred oil
Which, poured upon the prophet's head,
Could keep him wise and pure for aye.
Apart from all that might distract or soil,
With this their lamps they fed.
Which burn in their sepulchral shrines unfading night and day.
The pass-word now is lost,
To that initiation full and free;
Daily we pay the cost
Of our slow schooling for divine degree.
We know no means to feed an undying lamp;
Our lights go out in every wind or damp.
We wear the cross of ebony and gold,
Upon a dark background a form of light,
A heavenly hope upon a bosom cold,
A starry promise in a frequent night;
The dying lamp must often trim again,
For we are conscious, thoughtful, striving men.
Yet be we faithful to this present trust,
Clasp to a heart resigned the fatal must;
Though deepest dark our efforts should enfold,
Unwearied mine to find the vein of gold;
Forget not oft to lift the hope on high;
The rosy dawn again shall fill the sky.
And by that lovely light, all truth-revealed,
The cherished forms which sad distrust concealed,
Transfigured, yet the same, will round us stand,
The kindred angels of a faithful band;
Ruby and ebon cross both cast aside,
No lamp is needed, for the night has died.
Happy be those who seek that distant day,
With feet that from the appointed way
Could never stray;
Yet happy too be those who more and more,
As gleams the beacon of that only shore,
Strive at the laboring oar.
Be to the best thou knowest ever true,
Is all the creed;
Then, be thy talisman of rosy hue,
Or fenced with thorns that wearing thou must bleed,
Or gentle pledge of Love's prophetic view,
The faithful steps it will securely lead.
Happy are all who reach that shore,
And bathe in heavenly day,
Happiest are those who high the banner bore,
To marshal others on the way;
Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn,
By burdens overborne.
THE DAHLIA, THE ROSE, AND THE HELIOTROPE.
In a fair garden of a distant land,
Where autumn skies the softest blue outspread,
A lovely crimson dahlia reared her head,
To drink the lustre of the season's prime;
And drink she did, until her cup o'erflowed
With ruby redder than the sunset cloud.
Near to her root she saw the fairest rose
That ever oped her soul to sun and wind.
And still the more her sweets she did disclose,
The more her queenly heart of sweets did find,
Not only for her worshipper the wind,
But for bee, nightingale, and butterfly,
Who would with ceaseless wing about her ply,
Nor ever cease to seek what found they still would find.
Upon the other side, nearer the ground,
A paler floweret on a slender stem,
That cast so exquisite a fragrance round,
As seemed the minute blossom to contemn,
Seeking an ampler urn to hold its sweetness,
And in a statelier shape to find completeness.
Who could refuse to hear that keenest voice,
Although it did not bid the heart rejoice,
And though the nightingale had just begun
His hymn; the evening breeze begun to woo,
When through the charming of the evening dew,
The floweret did its secret soul disclose?
By that revealing touched, the queenly rose
Forgot them both, a deeper joy to hope
And heed the love-note of the heliotrope.
TO MY FRIENDS.
TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.
Beloved friends! Earth hath known brighter days
Than ours; we vainly strive to hide this truth;
Would history be silent in their praise,
The very stones tell of man's glorious youth,
In heavenly forms on which we crowd to gaze;
But that high-favored race hath sunk in night;
The day is ours—the living still have sight.
Friends of my youth! In happier climes than ours,
As some far-wandering countrymen declare,
The air is perfume; at each step spring flowers.
Nature has not been bounteous to our prayer;
But art dwells here, with her creative powers,
Laurel and myrtle shun our winter snows,
But with the cheerful vine we wreathe our brows.
Though of more pomp and wealth the Briton boast,
Who holds four worlds in tribute to his pride,—
Although from farthest India's glowing coast
Come gems of gold to burden Thames' dull tide,
And bring each luxury that Heaven denied,—
Not in the torrent, but the still, calm brook,
Delights Apollo at himself to look.
More nobly lodged than we in northern halls,
At Angelo's gate the Roman beggar dwells;
Girt by the Eternal City's honored walls,
Each column some soul-stiring story tells;
While on the earth a second heaven dwells,
Where Michael's spirit to St. Peter calls;
Yet all this splendor only decks a tomb;
For us fresh flowers from every green hour bloom
And while we live obscure, may others' names
Through Rumor's trump be given to the wind;
New forms of ancient glories, ancient shames,
For nothing new the searching sun can find,
As pass the motley groups of human kind;
All other living things grow old and die—
Fancy alone has immortality.
STANZAS.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN.
I.
Come, breath of dawn! and o'er my temples play;
Rouse to the draught of life the wearied sense;
Fly, sleep! with thy sad phantoms, far away;
Let the glad light scare those pale troublous shadows hence!
II.
I rise, and leaning from my casement high,
Feel from the morning twilight a delight;
Once more youth's portion, hope, lights up my eye,
And for a moment I forget the sorrows of the night.
III.
O glorious morn! how great is yet thy power!
Yet how unlike to that which once I knew,
When, plumed with glittering thoughts, my soul would soar,
And pleasures visited my heart like daily dew!
IV.
Gone is life's primal freshness all too soon;
For me the dream is vanished ere my time;
I feel the heat and weariness of noon,
And long in night's cool shadows to recline.