POOR bird! destined to lead thy life
Far in the adventurous west,
And here to be debarred to-night
From thy accustomed nest;
Must thou fall back upon old instinct now-
Well nigh extinct under man's fickle care?
Did heaven bestow its quenchless inner light
So long ago, for thy small want to-night?
Why stand'st upon thy toes to crow so late?
The moon is deaf to thy low feathered fate;
Or dost thou think so to possess the night,
And people the drear dark with thy brave sprite?
And now with anxious eye thou look'st about,
While the relentless shade draws on its veil,
For some sure shelter from approaching dews,
And the insidious steps of nightly foes.
I fear imprisonment has dulled thy wit,
Or ingrained servitude extinguished it.
But no- dim memory of the days of yore,
By Brahmapootra and the Jumna's shore,
Where thy proud race flew swiftly o'er the heath,
And sought its food the jungle's shade beneath,
Has taught thy wings to seek yon friendly trees,
As erst by Indus' banks and far Ganges.
LIGHT-Winged smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the Gods to pardon this clear flame.
Woof of the sun, etherial gauze,
Woven of nature's richest stuffs,
Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
Last conquest of the eye;
Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,
Etherial estuary, frith of light,
Breakers of air, billows of heat,
Fine summer spray on inland seas;
Bird of the sun, transparent-winged,
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,
From heath or stubble rising without song;
Establish thy serenity o'er the fields.
SWEET Love, I cannot show thee in this guise
Of earthly words, how dear to me thou art,
Nor once compare thy image in my eyes
With thy dear self reposed within my heart.
The love I bear to thee I truly prize
Above all joys that offer in the mart
Of the wide world, our wishes to suffice,
And yet I seek thy love; for no desert
That I can boast, but that my new love cries
For love that to its own excess is meet,
And searching widely through this dark world's space,
Hath found a love which hath its holy seat
Within thy bosom's blissfulest embrace,
And to awake this love is at thy feet,
Whence will it not arise till thou accord this grace.
Let not my love implore of thee in vain,
For in its loneliness it dooms to wo,
From whose deep depths I cannot rise again;
Let not thy love conspire to kill me so
With my love, which will only share its reign
With thine its sister; rather may both go
To that high altar, where no longer twain,
In sweetest concord both together grow,
Thence to ascend to the Eternal Love,
And be absorbed and spread through all the life
That breathes in purest holiest bliss above,
Or that incites all mortals to the strife
Of kindness, in this scene of mixed delight
And griefs of brightest day and darkest night.
We are centred deeper far
Than the eye of any star;
Nor can rays of long sunlight
Thread a pace of our delight.
In thy form, I see the day
Burning of a kingdom higher;
In thy silver network play
Thoughts that to the Gods aspire;
In thy cheek I see the flame
Of the studious taper burn;
And thy Grecian eye might tame
Natures ashed in antique urn.
Yet with this lofty element
Flows a stream of gentle kindness,
And thou to life thy strength hast lent,
And borne profoundest tenderness
In thy Promethean sinewy arm,
With mercy's love that would all angels charm.
So trembling meek, so proudly strong,
Thou dost to higher worlds belong
Than where I sing this empty song.
Yet I, a thing of mortal kind,
Can kneel before thy pathless mind,
And see in thee what my mates say
Sank o'er Judea's hills one crimson day.
Yet flames on high the keen Greek fire,
And later ages rarefies,
And even on my tuneless lyre
A faint wan beam of radiance dies.
And might I say what I have thought
Of thee and those I love to-day,
Then had the world an echo caught
Of that intense impassioned lay
Which sung in those thy being sings,
And from the deepest ages rings.
PLANETS bear thee in their hands,
Azure skies have folded o'er thee.
Thou art sung by angel bands,
And the deep, cold, throbbing sea,
Whispered in each sighing tree,
In each meadow's melody.
Where the sprites outwatch the moon,
And the ghostly night-breeze swells,
And the brook prolongs a tune,
Through the slumbering meadowed dells, -
There thou weavest unknown spells
To the ringing fairy bells.
In thy folded trance there hide
Ceaseless measures of content,
And thou art of form the bride-
Shapely picture's element.
would I could relate
To you all that I think of it, its trees,
Its trailing grass, the hanging stones that say,
This watch o'er human bones fatigues not us.
My boyhood's fear unsatisfied, for then
I thought a wandering wind some ghostly father,
While the sweet rustle of the locust leaves
Shot a thin crystal web of icy dread
O'er the swift current of my wild heart's blood.
One night the pastor's form among the tombs
Chased the big drops across my unseamed brow;
You smile, - believe me, lesser things than these
Can win a boy's emotions.
These graves-I see you mean, Their history who knows better than I? For in the busy street strikes on my ear Each sound, even inaudible voices Lengthen the long tale my memory tells. Now mark how reads th' inscription, "Here lie Two, who in life were parted, now together."
I should remember this brief record well,
In faith, I penned it, for I have strange notes,
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