Chapter 2

And I should love to go up to the sky, And course the heaven like stars, and float away Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay In their swift journey--and 'twould be a joy To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know The tribes of its unfathomable depths-- Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea! And I should love to issue with the wind On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth, With its broad continents and islands green, Like to the passing of a presence on!-- And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!

ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D.D.

A servant of the living God is dead! His errand hath been well and early done, And early hath he gone to his reward. He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.

Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst, Nor hunger, but forever in the eye, Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look, Unchided, and untempted, and unstained. Would ye bewail our brother? He hath gone To sit down with the prophets by the clear And crystal waters; he hath gone to list Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow At Gabriel's Hallelujah, and unfold The scroll of the Apocalypse with John, And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back To the last supper, and the garden prayer With the belov'd disciple. He shall hear The story of the Incarnation told By Simeon, and the Triune mystery Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul. He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar To the remoter firmaments, and read The order and the harmony of stars; And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow In the deep pauses of Archangel harps, And humble as the Seraphim, shall cry-- _Who by his searching, finds thee out, Oh God!_

There shall he meet his children who have gone Before him, and as other years roll on, And his loved flock go up to him, his hand Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb, And bring them to the living waters there.

Is it so good to die! and shall we mourn That he is taken early to his rest? Tell me! Oh mourner for the man of God! Shall we bewail our brother that he died?

THE TRI-PORTRAIT.

'Twas a rich night in June. The air was all Fragrance and balm, and the wet leaves were stirred By the soft fingers of the southern wind, And caught the light capriciously, like wings Haunting the greenwood with a silvery sheen. The stars might not be numbered, and the moon Exceeding beautiful, went up in heaven, And took her place in silence, and a hush, Like the deep Sabbath of the night, came down And rested upon nature. I was out With three sweet sisters wandering, and my thoughts Took color of the moonlight, and of them, And I was calm and happy. Their deep tones, Low in the stillness, and by that soft air Melted to reediness, bore out, like song, The language of high feelings, and I felt How excellent is woman when she gives To the fine pulses of her spirit way. One was a noble being, with a brow Ample and pure, and on it her black hair Was parted, like a raven's wing on snow. Her tone was low and sweet, and in her smile You read intense affections. Her moist eye Had a most rare benignity; her mouth, Bland and unshadowed sweetness; and her face Was full of that mild dignity that gives A holiness to woman. She was one Whose virtues blossom daily, and pour out A fragrance upon all who in her path Have a blest fellowship. I longed to be Her brother, that her hand might lie upon My forehead, and her gentle voice allay The fever that is at my heart sometimes.

There was a second sister who might witch An angel from his hymn. I cannot tell The secret of her beauty. It is more Than her slight penciled lip, and her arch eye Laughing beneath its lashes, as if life Were nothing but a merry mask; 'tis more Than motion, though she moveth like a fay; Or music, though her voice is like a reed Blown by a low south wind; or cunning grace, Though all she does is beautiful; or thought, Or fancy, or a delicate sense, though mind Is her best gift, and poetry her world, And she will see strange beauty in a flower As by a subtle vision. I care not To know how she bewitches; 'tis enough For me that I can listen to her voice And dream rare dreams of music, or converse Upon unwrit philosophy, till I Am wildered beneath thoughts I cannot bound And the red lip that breathes them. On my arm Leaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yet Had numbered fourteen summers. I know not How I shall draw her picture--the young heart Has such a restlessness of change, and each Of its wild moods so lovely! I can see Her figure in its rounded beauty now, With her half-flying step, her clustering hair Bathing a neck like Hebe's, and her face By a glad heart made radiant. She was full Of the romance of girlhood. The fair world Was like an unmarred Eden to her eye, And every sound was music, and the tint Of every cloud a silent poetry. Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charm Thy being if I could, that it should be Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on Thus innocent and beautiful to heaven! We walked beneath the full and mellow moon Till the late stars had risen. It was not In silence, though we did not seem to break The hush with our low voices; but our thoughts Stirred deeply at their sources; and when night Divided us, I slumbered with a peace Floating about my heart, which only comes From high communion. I shall never see That silver moon again without a crowd Of gentle memories, and a silent prayer, That when the night of life shall oversteal Your sky, ye lovely sisters! there may be A light as beautiful to lead you on.

JANUARY 1, 1828.

Fleetly hath past the year. The seasons came Duly as they are wont--the gentle Spring, And the delicious Summer, and the cool, Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain, And Winter, like an old and hoary man, Frosty and stiff--and so are chronicled. We have read gladness in the new green leaf, And in the first blown violets; we have drunk Cool water from the rock, and in the shade Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;--we have eat The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, And girded to our pleasant wanderings When the cool wind came freshly from the hills; And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves Had faded from its glory, we have sat By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf. "God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep The fountains in their secret places cool; And it is He who leadeth up the sun, And ordereth the starry influences, And tempereth the keenness of the frost-- And therefore, in the plenty of the feast, And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM Have praises for the well-completed year.

JANUARY 1, 1829.

Winter is come again. The sweet south west Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth Has laid aside its mantle to be bound By the frost fetter. There is not a sound Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid An icy finger on the lip of streams, And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought. Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends Many sweet voices with its odors out, And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb! God made his ministry a silent one, And he has given him a foot of steel And an unlovely aspect, and a breath Sharp to the senses--and we know that He Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid Under the shadow of his hand. Look up! And it shall be interpreted--Your home Hath a temptation now. There is no voice Of waters with beguiling for your ear, And the cool forest and the meadows green Witch not your feet away; and in the dells There are no violets, and upon the hills There are no sunny places to lie down. You must go in, and by your cheerful fire Wait for the offices of love, and hear Accents of human tenderness, and feast Your eye upon the beauty of the young. It is a season for the quiet thought, And the still reckoning with thyself. The year Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time Whispers the history of its vanished hours; And the heart, calling its affections up, Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still And settles like a fountain, and the eye Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all That stirred its troubled waters. It is well That Winter with the dying year should come!

PSYCHE,

BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS.

Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she That those soft fringes timidly should fall Before her, and thy spiritual brow Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud? A loftier gift is thine than she can give-- That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow To perfectness, and give unto the form A beautiful proportion; she may stain The eye with a celestial blue--the cheek With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe Grace into every motion, like the play Of the least visible tissue of a cloud; She may give all that is within her own Bright cestus--and one silent look of thine, Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.

Ay, for the soul is better than its frame, The spirit than its temple. What's the brow, Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air, Or color, but the beautiful links that chain The mind from its rare element? There lies A talisman in intellect which yields Celestial music, when the master hand Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath The outward semblance, and to common sight Is an invisible and hidden thing; But when the lip is faded, and the cheek Robbed of its daintiness, and when the form Witches the sense no more, and human love Falters in its idolatry, this spell Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on Stealing anew the affections. Marvel not That Love leans sadly on his bended bow. He hath found out the loveliness of mind, And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be Ever--the glory of the human form Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind Perisheth not, and when the outward charm Hath had its brief existence, it awakes, And is the lovelier that it slept so long-- Like wells that by the wasting of their flow Have had their deeper fountains broken up.

ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY.

Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls From his white shoulders by the winds were swept, And the clear color of his sunny cheek Was bright with motion. Through his open lips Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl, Like a white vein within a rosy shell, And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly As starlight from the edging of a cloud. I never saw a boy so beautiful. His step was like the stooping of a bird, And his limbs melted into grace like things Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like A painter's fine conception--such an one As he would have of Ganymede, and weep Upon his pallet that he could not win The vision to his easel. Who could paint The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain The visible gladness of a heart that lives, Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light, With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream, And the new leaves of June, and the young lark That flees away into the depths of heaven, Lost in his own wild music, and the breath Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept Over sweet-toned affections--but the joy That enters to the spirit of a child Is deep as his young heart: his very breath, The simple sense of being, is enough To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch He feels each moment of his life go by.

Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy That like a robe is palpable, and flung Out by your every motion! delicate bud Of the immortal flower that will unfold And come to its maturity in heaven! I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light Lent to the new born spirit that goes out With the first idle wind. It is the leaf Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, Then sink of its own heaviness. The face Of the delightful earth will to your eye Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice Of nature in her gentleness will be To manhood's senseless ear inaudible. I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!

A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.

She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively-- "Father! dear Father! God has made a star!"

DEDICATION HYMN.

The perfect world by Adam trod, Was the first temple--built by God-- His fiat laid the corner stone, And heav'd its pillars, one by one.

He hung its starry roof on high-- The broad illimitable sky; He spread its pavement, green and bright, And curtain'd it with morning light.

The mountains in their places stood-- The sea--the sky--and "all was good;" And, when its first pure praises rang, The "morning stars together sang."

Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for thee; But in thy sight our off'ring stands-- A humbler temple, "made with hands."

THE BAPTISM.

She stood up in the meekness of a heart Resting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone To whisper the baptismal vow in Heaven. The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glowed fervently with faith That it would be, even as he had pray'd, And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft With the baptismal water. Then I thought That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears Would be a deeper covenant, which sin And the temptations of the world, and death Would leave unbroken, and that she would know In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been In leading its young spirit up to God.

THE TABLE OF EMERALD.

Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of Alchemy that gives gold at will. _Epicurean._

That 'Emerald Green of the Pyramid'-- Were I where it is laid, I'd ask no king for his heavy crown, As its hidden words were said. The pomp and the glitter of worldly pride Should fetter my moments not, And the natural thought of an open mind, Should govern alone my lot.

Would I feast all day? revel all night? Laugh with a weary heart? Would I sleep away the breezy morn? And wake till the stars depart? Would I gain no knowledge, and search no deep For the wisdom that sages knew? Would I run to waste with a human mind-- To its noble trust untrue?

Oh! knew I the depth of that 'Emerald Green,' And knew I the spell of gold, I would never poison a fresh young heart With the taint of customs old. I would bind no wreath to my forehead free In whose shadow a thought would die, Nor drink from the cup of revelry, The ruin my gold would buy.

But I'd break the fetters of care worn things, And be spirit and fancy free, My mind should go up where it longs to go, And the limitless wind outflee. I'd climb to the eyries of eagle men Till the stars became a scroll; And pour right on, like the even sea, In the strength of a governed soul.

Ambition! Ambition! I've laughed to scorn Thy robe and thy gleaming sword; I would follow sooner a woman's eye, Or the spell of a gentle word; But come with the glory of human mind, And the light of the scholar's brow, And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness, And alone at thy altar bow.

There was one dark eye--it hath passed away! There was one deep tone--'tis not! Could I see it now--could I hear it now, Ye were all too well forgot. My heart brought up, from its chambers deep, The sum of its earthly love; But it might not--could not--buy like Heaven, And she stole to her rest above.

That first deep love I have taken back, In my rayless heart to hide; With the tear it brought for a burning seal, 'Twill there forever bide. I may stretch on now to a nobler ken, I may live in my thoughts of flame-- The tie is broken that kept me back, And my spirit is on, for fame!

But alas! I am dreaming as if I knew The spell of the tablet green; I forgot how like to a broken reed, Is the lot on which I lean. There is nothing true of my idle dream, But the wreck of my early love; And my mind is coined for my daily bread, And how can it soar above?

THE ANNOYER.

Sogna il guerriér le schiere, Le sel ve il cacciatór; E sogna il pescatór; Le reti, e l' amo. _Metastatio._

Love knoweth every form of air, And every shape of earth, And comes, unbidden, everywhere, Like thought's mysterious birth. The moonlight sea and the sunset sky Are written with Love's words, And you hear his voice unceasingly, Like song in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream; And he'll float to his eye in morning light Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And rides on the echo back, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, The cloud, and the open sky-- He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For Love is under the surface hid, And a spell of thought has he. He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, And speaks in the ripple low, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book, And intrudes in the maiden's prayer. And profanes the cell of the holy man, In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In earth, and sea, and sky, In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh.

STARLIGHT.

The evening star will twinkle presently. The last small bird is silent, and the bee Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers Are bending as if sleeping on the stem, And all sweet living things are slumbering In the deep hush of nature's resting time. The faded West looks deep, as if its blue Were searchable, and even as I look, The twilight hath stole over it, and made Its liquid eye apparent, and above To the far-stretching zenith, and around, As if they waited on her like a queen, Have stole out the innumerable stars To twinkle like intelligence in heaven. Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel? Fit for the young affections to come out And bathe in like an element! How well The night is made for tenderness--so still That the low whisper, scarcely audible, Is heard like music, and so deeply pure That the fond thought is chastened as it springs And on the lip made holy. I have won Thy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath been When that soft eye was on me, and the love I told beneath the evening influence Shall be as constant as its gentle star.

LASSITUDE.

I will throw by my book. The weariness Of too much study presses on my brain, And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow Like a distraction, and I must give o'er. Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve; And midnight with its deep and solemn hush Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn, With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath Has driven me to rest--and I can bear The burden of such weariness no more. I have foregone society, and fled From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all A home's alluring blandishments, and now When I am thirsting for them, and my heart Would leap at the approaches of their kind And gentle offices, they are not here, And I must feel that I am all alone. Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world How much we suffer! Were it _all_ for this-- Were nothing but the empty praise of men The guerdon of this sedentary toil-- Were this world's perishable honors _all_-- I'd bound from its confinement as a hart Leaps from its hunters--but I know, that when My name shall be forgotten, and my frame Rests from its labors, I shall find above A work for the capacities I win, And, as I discipline my spirit here, My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.

"ROARING BROOK:"--CHESHIRE, CON.