Poems

The day wears out, and the starry night Hushes the world to sleep, to sleep; The dew-shower falls in the still moonlight, And none wake now, save those who weep; But rustling on through the starry night, Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee, Cleaving the darkness above the sea, Swift and straight as an arrow's flight. Is the wind their guide through the trackless sky? For here there's no landmark to travel by.

The first faint streak of the morning glows, Like the feeble blush on the budding rose; And in long grey lines the clouds divide, And march away with retreating Night, Whilst the bright gleams of victorious Light, Follow them goldenly far and wide: And when the mists have all pass'd away, And left the heavens serene and clear, As an eye that has never shed a tear And the universe basks in the smile of Day, Dreamy and still, and the sleepy breeze, Lazily moves o'er the glassy seas, The Passage-birds flit o'er the disc of noon, Like shadows across a mirror's face, For now their journey wanes apace, And the realms of Summer they'll enter soon.

The land looms far through the waters blue, The Land of Promise, the Land of Rest; Through cloud and storm they have travell'd true, And joy thrills now in each throbbing breast Down they sink, with a wheeling flight, Whilst the song of birds comes floating high, And they pass the lark in the sunny sky; But down, without pausing, down they fly; Their travel is over, their Summer shines bright.

MEMNON.

Hot blows the wild simoom across the waste, The desert waste, amid the dreary sand, With fiery breath swift burning up the land, O'er the scared pilgrim, speeding on in haste, Hurling fierce death-drifts with broad-scorching hand.

O weary Wilderness! No shady tree To spread its arms around the fainting soul; No spring to sparkle in the parchèd bowl; No refuge in the drear immensity, Where lies the Past, wreck'd 'neath a sandy sea, Where o'er its glories blighting billows roll.

Ho! Sea, yield up thy buried dead again; Heave back thy waves, and let the Past arise; Restore Time's relics to the startled skies, Till giant shadows tremble on the plain, And awe the heart with old-world mysteries!

Old Menmon! Once again thy Poet-voice May sing sweet paeans to the golden Morn, Again may hail the saviour Light sun-born, And bid the wild and desert waste rejoice,-- Again with sighs the looming darkness mourn.

Thou Watchman, waiting weary for the dawn, Breathing low longings for its golden light, Through the dim silence of the drowsy night, What wistful sighs with thine are softly drawn, Till day-beams on the darken'd spirit smite!

The dawning light of Knowledge smites thee now, And forth from the dim Past come voices clear, Falling in solemn music on the ear, Which, as the haloes brighten on thy brow, Shall still in richer harmonies draw near.

The Past comes back in music soft and sweet, And lo! the Present like a strung harp stands Waiting the sweeping of prophetic hands, To send its living music, loud and fleet, Careering calmly through unnumber'd lands.

Then swift uprise, thou Sun, thou Music-Maker! Smiting the chords of Life with gladsome rays, Till from each Memnon burst the song of praise, From lips which thou hast freed, O silence-breaker! That over Earth the sound may swell always.

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NOTE--It will of course be remembered that the celebrated statue of Memnon was believed to utter lugubrious and mournful sounds at sunset, and during the hours of darkness, which changed to sounds of joy as the first rays of morning fell upon it.

A CONCEIT.

The Grey-beard Winter sat alone and still, Locking his treasures in the flinty earth; And like a miser comfortless and chill, Frown'd upon pleasure and rejected mirth;

But Spring came, gentle Spring, the young, the fair, And with her smiles subdued his frosty heart, So that for very joy to see her there, His soul, relenting, play'd the lover's part;

And nought could bring too lovely or too sweet, To lavish on the bright Evangel's head; No flowers too radiant for her tender feet; No joys too blissful o'er her life to shed.

And thus the land became a Paradise, A new-made Eden, redolent of joy, Where beauty blossom'd under sunny skies, And peaceful pleasure reign'd without alloy.

THE LAND'S END.

I stood on the Land's End, alone and still. Man might have been unmade, for no frail trace Of mortal labour startled the wild place, And only sea-mews with their wailing shrill, Circled beneath me over the dark sea, Flashing the waves with pinions snowy white, That glimmer'd faintly in the gloomy light Betwixt the foaming furrows constantly. It was a mighty cape, that proudly rose Above the world of waters, high and steep, With many a scar and fissure fathoms deep, Upon whose ledges lodged the endless snows; A noble brow to a firm-founded world, That at the limits of its empire stood, Fronting the ocean in its roughest mood, And all its fury calmly backward hurl'd. The Midnight Sun rose like an angry god, Girt round with clouds, through which a lurid glow Fev'rously trembled to the waves below, And smote the waters with a fiery rod; Above, the glory circled up the sky, Fainter and fainter to the sullen grey, Till the black under-drift of clouds away Went with the gathering wind, and let it die. A moaning sound swept o'er the heaving ocean, Toss'd hoarsely on from angry crest to crest, Like groans from a great soul in its unrest, Stirring the ranks of men to fierce commotion. My longing vision measured the wide waste, "This cannot be the end of things; that man Should see his path lead on so short a span, And then the unstable ocean mock his haste! Better have stay'd where I could still look on, And see a sturdy world to bear my feet, Than thus outstrip the multitude to cheat Earth of its knowledge, and here find it gone." A Shadow rose betwixt me and the sky, Out of the Ocean, as it seem'd, that set A perfect shape before mine eyes, and yet Hid not the sky that did behind it lie; But, through its misty substance, all things grew Faint, pale, and ghostly, and the risen sun Gleam'd like a fiery globe half quench'd and dun, Through the sere shadow which the spectre threw: It answer'd me, "Man! this is not the end; Progression ceaseth not until the goal Of all perfection stop the running soul, Whither through life its aspirations tend. Spring from thy height, then, for till thou art free From earth, thy course is narrow and restrain'd!" I said, "No! Spirit, nought were thus attain'd; Better pause here than perish in the sea; Man can but do his utmost--there's a length He cannot overleap." The spectre smiled, "Then trust to me; for though the sea be wild, It cannot shake the sinews of my strength,-- Within my breast the fearful fall asleep, And wake out of their terrors, calm and still, Having outstripp'd the speed of time and ill, And pass'd unconsciously the stormy deep." Quicker and quicker drew I in my breath, "If there be land beyond, receive me now; I'll trust in thee--but, Spirit, who art thou?" The winds bore on a murmur, "I am Death!"

THE OLDEN TIME.

O! well I mind the olden time, The sweet, sweet olden time; When I did long for eve all day, And watch'd upon the new-mown grass The shadows slowly eastward pass, And o'er the meadows glide away, Till I could steal, with heart elate, Unto the little cottage-gate, In the sweet, sweet olden time.

O! well I mind the olden time, The sweet, sweet olden time; How all the night I long'd for morn, And bless'd the thrush whose early note The silver chords of silence smote With greetings to the day new-born; For then again, with heart elate, I hoped to meet her at the gate, In the sweet, sweet olden time.

But now hath pass'd the olden time, That sweet, sweet olden time; And there is neither morn nor night That bears a freight of hopes and fears, To bless my soul in coming years With any harvest of delight; For never more, with heart elate, Can I behold her at the gate, As in the sweet, sweet olden time.

For the sake of that dear olden time, That sweet, sweet olden time, I look forth ever sadly still, And hope the time may come again, When Life hath borne its meed of pain, And stoutly struggled up the hill, When I once more, with heart elate, May meet her at _another_ gate, Beyond the blighting breath of fate, That chill'd the sweet, sweet olden time.

FATHER AND SON.

The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand, "Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:

A bold and stalwart nation, dauntless in the fight, Strong as an iron buckler to guard their monarch's right."

Then the trumpets sounded, and his vassals came, Gather'd round his banner, loudly rang his name;

Clash'd their burnish'd targets, waved their flashing steel A goodly gath'ring look'd they, arm'd from head to heel.

"Child! my heart beats proudly, now I feel a king, As I look around me on this martial ring;

There I see the sinews that support a state, There I see the strength that makes a monarch great.

Men whose life is glory--men whose death is fame, Living still in story past the reach of shame."

Many years pass'd over--the old King was dead, And his child, his first-born, reignèd in his stead.

Many years he reignèd, and upon his brow Now the frost of age lay like the winter's snow.

So he took his son forth, as his father had, "Come! and see thy people," said he to the lad.

And they rode together through the busy town: Many a peaceful merchant passing up and down;

Loud the workman's hammer sounded through the air Portly look'd the craftsmen, standing 'mid their ware;

And the sounds of labour, blent with cheerful song, Told of peace and plenty as they rode along.

Smith and craftsman pausing, youth and smiling lass, Trader, man and master, stood to see them pass,

With a bonnet lifted, and "God bless him!" said By many a gentle bosom, many a reverend head.

So the father turn'd him to his son and cried, "Are not these bold subjects worth a monarch's pride?

In their own free circles, by their quiet hearth, Rearing him a bulwark steady as the Earth:

On their mighty anvils, with a giant's skill, Bending stubborn iron to his lightest will:

Prosperous and happy, free in heart and soul, These send forth my glory to the furthest Pole.

Where is there in story any fame above That King's whose deeds are written in his people's love?"

ORION.

"A hunter of shadows, himself a shade."--HOMER.

Oh! weary sleeper by the lone sea-shore, Where billows toil for ever 'mid the rocks, Scourged on by winds in stormy equinox, Rise! rise in haste, or slumber evermore! The stern Earth calls thee, and the Ocean mocks; Roll thy poor sightless orbs about the sky, Through tears of blind and powerless agony; Rise! rise in haste, or slumber evermore!

Ay! blind I stand beside the lone sea-shore; Hearing the mighty murmur of the waves, Shaking with giant arms earth's architraves, Scaling the riven cloud-crags bald and boar, Surging hoarse secrets through the central caves; God! shall thine ocean undiscernèd roll, Night on mine eyes, and darkness on my soul, Groping for knowledge blindly evermore?

Wild laugh the winds, Ho! ho! about my face; Heaven! mock me not!--with night-struck eyes upraised, Still fronting full the dome where once I gazed, Yearns my unsighted soul through dimmest space-- Before it let these earth-mists sink abased; Let me behold the All before I die, Passing, swift-wing'd, into Eternity; Let me no more these shapeless shadows chase!

Is there not Phoebus in the golden East, Pouring forth floods of brilliancy divine, That fire the spirit more than Jove's own wine? Arise! and drain the droppings of the feast!-- Heaven! there's no East for these blind eyes of mine, Staring the sun down into black eclipse! What hand will raise the chalice to my lips? Give me a child to guide me--e'en the least.

Then on! thou giant, child-led, through the land, Tottering feebly with uncertain stride, With heavy moans along the mountain side, Groping the darkness wildly, staff in hand, Staying, deep-voiced, the quick steps of thy guide; On! with wild sightless sockets to the sun, Thirsting for the light-streams that around it run; Far on yon summit, turning eastward, stand!

God! let me rather die than thus, child-led, Totter about the world an infant's slave-- Ay! die, and darkly slumber in the grave!-- Peace! proud one, bow thine unsubmitting head; Peace! soon the light-streams shall thine eyelids lave, And wash this barren blindness from thy soul, Till these dark mystic vapours backward roll, And leave all nature in thy sight outspread.

We are upon the summit now. Ho! boy, Place me where I shall see the sun arise, When its great glory lightens up; mine eyes-- Oh! that I thus should be an infant's toy!-- See, now the morning streaks the Eastern skies! Ay! boy, I feel the light-spring bubbling up; My lips are parch'd, and thirsting for the cup That now brims up my everlasting joy.

There is a low thin cloud along the sky, That melts away apace to brightest gold! Ay! boy, so shall my clouds melt fold on fold, Till glory flood my vision utterly. The sun! the sun! I see it upward roll'd,-- Day for the world, but life, fire-life for me, Smiting asunder Death's night-mystery With lightning-blade of strength and ecstasy!

Now, on to work and action, seeing clear-- Blindness swift throwing to Time's charnel-place-- Eyeing, unscathed, the Sun-god face to face! Ho! light! more light! dissolving sphere on sphere! Would that my very life could lighten space, Shining out like some constellation bright, Back beating all the myrmidons of Night, With starry splendors flashing sword and spear!

THE GOLDEN WATER.

[It is scarcely necessary to say that the following fragment is founded upon the beautiful, and well-known tale in the "Arabian Nights," entitled, "The two Sisters who were jealous of their younger Sister;" and the reader need only be reminded that the two brothers of Perizade, Bahman and Perviz, had previously gone in search of the treasures described by the Devotee, and had perished in the attempt,--the fate of the latter having just been intimated to her at the commencement of this episode, by the fixture of the pearls in the magic chaplet, which Perviz had left her for that purpose.]

The days flow'd on, and each day Perizade At morn and eve told o'er the snowy pearls, That morn and eve ran swiftly through her hands; The days flow'd on--one morn the pearls ran not, And well she knew that Perviz too was lost. Tears doubled every bead; but, evermore, Through pain and sorrow, yearn'd her thirsting soul For that far Golden Water in the East, Whence one bright drop would fill her fountain full, With glistening jets still rising in the midst. She rose up straight, and donning man's attire, For that the road was hard and difficult, Took horse, and towards the sunrise swiftly rode, Saying, "Thus much life lacks of perfectness, In God's name on to gain it then, or die."

She sped right onward nineteen days in haste, Morning and noontide turning not aside; Then, as the next day dawn'd, afar she saw The aged Dervise 'neath his lonely tree. No other shape of man or beast in view, Dull grey the sky, and moaning low the wind. "O! holy man, now tell me, for God's grace, Where in the Land the Golden Water flows?" He, lifting slow his head with locks snow-white, And rheumy eyes, spake out with feeble voice, "Good youth! the place I know, yet ask me not; Bid not these aged lips the secret tell; That hath wooed on so many to their death. Thirst for Earth's honours, for her wealth, her joys, Thirst for the sweetest things beneath the sky, But O! thirst not for that far Golden Spring, By many sought, by none ere found till now." She, softly, with her open hand upraised, "Nay! Father, from afar I hither come. And all my heart is set upon the thing, So that there is no joy 'neath sun and moon, No rarest charm can move me, lacking it; Tell me then all the dangers of the quest, That I may measure well my strength, and know If mortal man may meet it and o'ercome." With sad dissenting mien, and solemn voice, That trembled 'neath its burden, thus spake he,-- "Full many of the good and bold have come From every land the pilgrim-sun looks on, All thirsting for this water golden bright; These darkening eyes have seen them all pass on, But ne'er a one return; and I am old. Hear then, poor youth, and turn while yet you may; A mid-day's journey hence a mountain stands, Rugged and bare as outcast poverty, With many a gap and chasm yawning wide, With many a rock to drive the climber back; And, far above, the summit hides in clouds,-- There springs the Golden Water through the rock Brighter than sunlight in a summer noon; But as the weary seeker toils aloft, Rude voices rush upon him, loud and shrill, Now far, now near, but all with anger fraught, Rough menace, insult, and hoarse mockery; Whereat the wondering climber, turning back, In fury, or in fear, to meet the foe Shouting loud threats e'en in his very ear, Stands face to face with Death, and sinks transform'd Into cold stone, 'mongst myriads more that lie, And all day fright him with their dreary stare. Ay! he that setteth forth upon this quest, And looketh ever back for friend or foe, For cruel laughter, or for mocking jeers, Turns straight to stone like all beside his path; But once upon the summit, at his feet Flows the pure Golden Water, bright and clear."

"This frights me not, O Father; for meseems He is unworthy who should turn aside For any mocking voice of man or maid; Then tell me quick the way, that I may on; Mine eyes look only forward, and mine ears Hear only the far flowing of the spring. Two brothers there lie lock'd in stony sleep,-- I go to wake them on the mountain's side." The Dervise laid his forehead in the dust, "Allah go with thee, since it must be so! Take thou this ebon bowl, and cast it down; The ball will roll before thee swift and sure, Until it stop beneath the mountain's side; There stop thou; and, dismounting, leave thy steed, And climb the fearful hill; but oh! beware Thy glance turn never backward on the way! Above, the golden fountain bubbles clear, Whose water, sprinkled o'er these dead black stones, Will wake the sleepers from their chilly sleep."

With lips compress'd she took the ebon bowl, And cast it on before the startled steed; Swiftly it roll'd, and swiftly follow'd she; The road all desolate--no shade of tree, No living thing about the dreary waste; No sound but of her courser's clanging hoofs, His shaking tassels, and his measured breath; Afar, the mountain black against the sky. Still onward roll'd the ball, until the sun Stood midway in the heavens, a fiery red, Looking through clouds with half his glory quench'd; And then it stopp'd close at the mountain's base. Perizade straightway leapt from off her steed, And threw the bridle on his arching neck With calm caress, and left him neighing low; One glance along the mountain, black and bare, With low mists creeping o'er its rocky sides; Mysterious exhalations veiling all the peak; Dead silence--O but for a passing wind To mimic Life beside her living soul! Then upward with quick footsteps firm and bold. Before her myriad dull black stones lay strewn, Fearful to see, and know that souls of men Lay prison'd in their cold and heavy frames.-- Sudden behind her sprang a mighty cry, "Ho! Traitress! turn, or die!" and evermore Voices leapt out to wound her, like sharp swords, With words of contumely, and mocking taunts, Scoffs at her woman's heart 'mid manhood's guise, Threats, rude defiances on every side. At first she clomb, nigh stunn'd with wrathful cries, Now at her side, whilst she would shrink in fear To feel the sword's point pierce her fluttering heart, Now from afar, below her and above, Till she scarce breath'd, awaiting o'erturn'd rocks To crush her in their fury as she went. Yet, minding well the Dervise, still she held Her pale face forward, with eyes ever bent Towards the misty summit far away.