TO THE MUSE
Take from thy brow the laurel—cast it forth!
May it in dust lie 'neath thy feet;
The blood-flecked thorn crown hurl away—
As witness of thy pain alone 'tis meet!
NADSON.
A FRAGMENT
Hark! The storm petrel shrieks!
Reef the sail canvas fast!
See, the Spirit of Storm with wildest commotion
Has to heaven's arched vaulting his coronal pressed,
While his heels dam the flood gates of ocean!
Furious storm-cloud his undulent drapery,
Girded round with the lightning wide flashing;
O'er the sea's leaden billows from his threatening hand
The thunderbolts are sent crashing!
NADSON.
IN MAY
To you,—you beggars in the forests proud,—
To pastures free, my hasting foot returns!
The May is come! It smiles and laughs aloud—
For Love's desire, freedom's bliss, it yearns.
Erased the marks of city slavery,
Here where the sun gleams gold through azure hours—
Here wrests the spirit from all bondage free,
The fields grown green and the syringa flowers!
Storms only, brought my youthful morning red,
And night of soul and wilderness of pains—
All in my breast is hushed and numb and dead,
The pulsing fever stopped within my veins;
Yet here, where Nature winds a wreath for me,
The arms stretch forth,—the weary glance devours—
And the arrested soul exults and sings,
The fields grow green and the syringa flowers!