SONNET
TO L. AND M. D., THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC.
An angel breathed upon a budding flower,
And on that breath the bud went up to heaven,
Yet left a fragrance in the little bower,
To which its first warm blushes had been given;
And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew,
And so they both had being in the last,
And on this one distilled Heaven's choicest dew,
And rays of glorious light were on it cast,
Until the floweret claimed a higher birth,
And would not open on a scene so drear,
For it was more of paradise than earth,
And strains from thence came ever floating near;
And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour,
The bud of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower.
[WINTER.]
Stern tyrant of the year!
The circling hours bring thine ascendant day,
And hill and plain, sky, sea, and stream obey
Thy rule austere.
The conqueror's march is thine;
Each step thou mark'st with trophies of decay,
And with the fair earth's ruins thy proud way
Dost thickly line.
Deathful thy scowl of gloom;
And the soft green from tree and shrub doth pass,
And summer's delicate flowers and twinkling grass
Are spoiled of bloom.
Beneath thy chilling breath
The sweet-voiced brooks, that bounded on their way
Gleesome and frisk, as children at their play,
Lie stiff in death.
Thou speak'st, and the blithe hum
Of insect life, the choral measures sung
By tuneful birds the greenwood boughs among,
Are stricken dumb.
Earth's sceptre thou dost bear;
And the white badge of servitude to thee
Each crested mount, low valley, stream, and tree
Submissive wear.
Therefore, dread power! rejoice;
Bid the shrill winds pipe out thy triumph high,
And ocean's glad, accordant waves reply
With thunder-voice.
Yet, deem not, potent One!
Though subject earth lie prostrate at thy feet,
That, throned in universal empire's seat,
Thou reign'st alone.
The nobler Spirit-world
No trophies of thy prowess yields to thee;
No flaunting banner of thy sovereignty
Is there unfurled.
The gladsome stream of thought
Glides fertilizing on, untamed and free,
And tracks its bright way toward Thought's central sea,
Heeding thee nought.
The green growths of the soul
Their fragrance breathe, despite thy stormy air,
And not one delicate tint their blossoms wear
Owns thy control.
No winter blights and lours
Where sojourneth the faithful spirit clear,
Fruitage and bloom for it the teeming year
Conjointly showers.
Then hail, dread Power, to thee!
Intently gazing in thy rugged face,
E'en there, methinks, benignity I trace,
True kindness see.
Thou bidst me turn within
To what, untouched of time and change, doth live,
That, which not outward things can ever give,
Or from me win.
One universal tomb
May close on all earth's glorious, bright, and fair,
But to itself still true, the Soul shall wear
Unwithering bloom.
D. H. B.
[IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS.]
BY PETER VON GEIST.
Preliminary.—Sitting in the seat and looking on the scenes of youth; calling back its feelings and thinking over its thoughts; is, we may suppose, seldom pleasing to manhood. Fragments of plans; wrong but captivating views of life; dead hopes which once lived and bloomed; vast schemes dwindled like dry leaves; resolutions broken and re-broken; all covered and lost sight of, under the stream of events that is perpetually flowing into the memory, will come up, bringing a smile and a pang; and the youth of Twenty will stand in living colors before the man of Forty.
Forty. Your face is full of joy, young man; are you thinking of me?