Chapter 3

It was a mountain stream that with the leap Of its impatient waters had worn out A channel in the rock, and wash'd away The earth that had upheld the tall old trees, Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool That circled round demurely, and anon Sprung violently over where the rock Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on, Till they were broken by the hanging moss, As anger with a gentle word grows calm. In spring-time, when the snows were coming down, And in the flooding of the Autumn rains, No foot might enter there--but in the hot And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept, You could go its channel in the shade, To the far sources, with a brow as cool As in the grotto of the anchorite. Here when an idle student have I come, And in a hollow of the rock lain down And mus'd until the eventide, or read Some fine old Poet till my nook became A haunt of faery, or the busy flow Of water to my spell-bewilder'd ear Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament. Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wise Have said that I was indolent, and they Who taught me have reprov'd me that I play'd The truant in the leafy month of June, I deem it true philosophy in him Whose spirit must be temper'd of the world, To loiter with these wayside comforters.

THE DECLARATION.

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air, And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had staid To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss Upon it unforbidden--and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting place, and looked Earnestly on me--She had been asleep!

ISABEL.

They said that I was strange. I could not bear Confinement, and I lov'd to feel the wind Blowing upon my forehead, and when morn Came like an inspiration from the East, And the cool earth, awaking like a star In a new element, sent out its voice, And tempted me with music, and the breath Of a delicious perfume, and the dye Of the rich forests and the pastures green, To come out and be glad--I would not stay To bind my gushing spirit with a book.

Fourteen bright summers--and my heart had grown Impatient in its loneliness, and yearn'd For something that was like itself, to love. She came--the stately Isabel--as proud And beautiful, and gentle as my dream; And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her. Older by years, and wiser of the world, She was in thought my equal, and we rang'd The pleasant wood together, and sat down Impassion'd with the same delicious sweep Of water, and I pour'd into her ear My passion and my hoarded thoughts like one, Till I forgot that there was any world But Isabel and nature. She was pleas'd And flatter'd with my wild and earnest love, And suffer'd my delirious words to burn Upon my lip unchided. It was new To be so worshipped like a deity By a pure heart from nature, and she gave Her tenderness its way, and when I kiss'd Her fingers till I thought I was in Heaven, She gaz'd upon me silently, and wept.

* * * * *

I have seen eighteen summers--and the child Of stately Isabel hath learn'd to come And win me from my sadness. I have school'd My feelings to affection for that child, And I can see his father fondle him, And give him to his mother with a kiss Upon her holy forehead--and be calm!

MERE ACCIDENT.

It was a shady nook that I had found Deep in the greenwood. A delicious stream Ran softly by it on a bed of grass, And to the border leant a sloping bank Of moss as delicate as Tempe e'er Spread for the sleep of Io. Overhead The spreading larch was woven with the fir, And as the summer wind stole listlessly, And dallied with the tree tops, they would part And let in sprinklings of the sunny light, Studding the moss like silver; and again Returning to their places, there would come A murmur from the touched and stirring leaves, That like a far-off instrument, beguiled Your mood into the idleness of sleep.

Here did I win thee, Viola! We came-- Thou knowest how carelessly--and never thought Love lived in such a wilderness; and thou-- I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip, And in the meshes of thy chesnut hair I loved to hide my fingers--that was all! And when I saw thy figure on the grass, And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thought A fairy would be pretty, painted so Upon a ground of green--but that was all!

And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot, And the clear water of the stream ran off And left the white skin polished, why, I thought It looked like ivory--but that was all! And when thou wouldst be serious, and I Was serious too, and thy mere fairy's hand Lay carelessly in mine, and just for thought I mused upon thy innocence and gaz'd Upon the pure transparence of thy brow-- I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously, And fell in love. Was _that_ all, Viola?

THE EARL'S MINSTREL.

I had a passion when I was a child For a most pleasant idleness. In June, When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'd With a just audible murmur, and the streams Fainted in their cool places to a low Unnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hung Their sickles in the trees and went to sleep, Then might you find me in an antique chair Cushion'd with cunning luxury, which stood In the old study corner, by a nook Crowded with volumes of the old romance; And there, the long and quiet summer day, Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'er Leaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'd Their singular and time-stain'd characters. 'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blent With dreams that in my fitful slumber came, And is remember'd faintly. But to-day With the strange waywardness of human thought, A story has come back to me which I Had long forgotten, and I tell it now Because it hath a savour that I find But seldom in the temper of the world.

Angelo turn'd away. He was a poor Unhonor'd minstrel, and he might not breathe Love to the daughter of an Earl. She rais'd Proudly her beautiful head, and shook away From her clear temples the luxuriant hair, And told him it would ever please her well To listen to his minstrelsy, but love Was for a loftier lip--and then the tear Stole to her flashing eye, for as she spoke There rose up a remembrance of his keen, Unstooping spirit, and his noble heart Given her like a sacrifice, and she held Her hand for him to kiss, and said, "Farewell! Think of me, Angelo!" and so pass'd on.

The color to his forehead mounted high, And his thin lip curl'd haughtily, and then As if his mood had chang'd, he bow'd his head Low on his bosom, and remain'd awhile Lost in his bitter thoughts--and then again He lifted to its height his slender form, And his moist eye grew clear, and his hand pass'd Rapidly o'er his instrument while thus He gave his spirit voice:--

It did not need that alter'd look, Nor that uplifted brow-- I had not ask'd thy haughty love, Were I as proud as now. My love was like a beating heart-- Unbidden and unstayed; And had I known but half its power, It had not been betray'd.

I did not seek thy titled hand; I thought not of thy name; I only granted utterance To one wild thought of flame. I did not dream thou couldst be mine, Or I a thought to thee-- I only knew my lip must let Some burning thought go free.

I lov'd thee for thy high born grace, Thy deep and lustrous eye, For the sweet meaning of thy brow, And for thy bearing high; I lov'd thee for thy stainless truth, Thy thirst for higher things; For all that to our common lot A better temper brings--

And are they not all thine? still thine? Is not thy heart as true? Holds not thy step its noble grace-- Thy cheek its dainty hue? And have I not an ear to hear-- A cloudless eye to see-- And a thirst for beautiful human thought, That first was stirr'd with thee?

Then why should I turn from thee now? Why should not I love on-- Dreaming of thee by night, by day, As I have ever done? My service shall be still as leal, My love as quenchless burn It shames me of my selfish thought That dream'd of a return!

He married her! Perhaps it spoils the tale-- But she had listen'd to his song, unseen, And kept it in her heart, and, by and by, When Angelo did service for his king, And was prefer'd to honor, she betray'd Her secret in some delicate way that I Do not remember, and so ends the tale.

THE SERENADE.

Innocent dreams be thine! The silver night Is a fit curtain for thy lovely sleep. The stars keep watch above thee, and the moon Sits like a brooding spirit up in Heaven, Ruling the night's deep influences, and life Hath a hushed pulse, and the suspended leaves Sleep with their whisperings as if the dew Were a soft finger on the lip of sound. Innocent dreams be thine! thy heart sends up Its thoughts of purity like pearly bells Rising in crystal fountains, and the sin That thou hast seen by day, will, like a shade, Pass from thy memory, as if the pure Had an unconscious ministry by night.

Midnight--and now for music! Would I were A sound that I might steal upon thy dreams, And, like the breathing of my flute, distil Sweetly upon thy senses. Softly, boy! Breathe the low cadences as if the words Fainted upon thy lip--I would not break Her slumber quite--but only, as she dreams, Witch the lull'd sense till she believes she hears Celestial melody:--

SONG.

"Sleep, like a lover, woo thee, Isabel! And golden dreams come to thee, Like a spell By some sweet angel drawn! Noiseless hands shall seal thy slumber, Setting stars its moments number, So, sleep thou on!

The night above thee broodeth, Hushed and deep; But no dark thought intrudeth On the sleep Which folds thy senses now. Gentle spirits float around thee, Gentle rest hath softly bound thee, For pure art thou!

And now thy spirit fleeth On rare wings, And fancy's vision seeth Holy things In its high atmosphere. Music strange thy sense unsealeth, And a voice to thee revealeth What angels hear.

Thou'lt wake when morning breaketh, Pure and calm; As one who mourns, awaketh When the balm Of peace hath on him fell. Purer thoughts shall stir within thee, Softer cords to virtue win thee-- Farewell! Farewell!"

HERO.

_Claudio_. Know you any Hero? _Hero_. None my lord! _As You Like it._

Gentle and modest Hero! I can see Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye, Like a warm vision--lovely as she stood, Veiled in the presence of young Claudio. Modesty bows her head, and that young heart That would endure all suffering for the love It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung Her all upon the venture of her vow, And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower By the still river tempted from its stem, And on its bosom floating. Once again I see her, and she standeth in her pride, With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice That was her music utter it, and still To her affection faithful, she hath turned And questioned in her innocent unbelief, "Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?"-- How did they look upon that open brow, And not read purity? Alas for truth! It hath so many counterfeits. The words, That to a child were written legibly, Are by the wise mistaken, and when light Hath made the brow transparent, and the face Is like an angel's--virtue is so fair-- They read it like an over-blotted leaf, And break the heart that wrote it.

APRIL.

A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye, Fair as a star, when only one, Is shining in the sky. _Wordsworth_

I have found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful bright neck, and from the hills, A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea Tells the release of waters, and the earth Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass--and so I know That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. Smell of my violets! I found them where The liquid South stole o'er them, on a bank That lean'd to running water. There's to me A daintiness about these early flowers That touches me like poetry. They blow With such a simple loveliness among The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. I love to go in the capricious days Of April and hunt violets; when the rain Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod So gracefully to the kisses of the wind. It may be deem'd unmanly, but the wise Read nature like the manuscript of heaven And call the flowers its poetry. Go out! Ye spirits of habitual unrest, And read it when the "fever of the world" Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be Like a beguiling music to its flow, And you will no more wonder that I love To hunt for violets in the April time.

TO A BRIDE.

Pass thou on! for the vow is said That is never broken; The hand of blessing hath, trembling, laid On snowy forehead and simple braid, And the word is spoken By lips that never their words betray'd.

Pass thou on! for thy human all Is richly given, And the voice that claim'd its holy thrall Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, And, this side Heaven, Thy lip may never that trust recal.

Pass thou on! yet many an eye Will droop and glisten; And the hushing heart in vain will try To still its pulse as thy step goes by And we "vainly listen For thy voice of witching melody."

Pass thou on! yet a sister's tone In its sweetness lingers, Like some twin echo sent back alone, Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown, And a sister's fingers Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown.

And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair, And our hearts awaken Whenever we come where their voices are-- But oh, we shall think how musical were, Ere of thee forsaken, The mingled voices we listed there.

Pass on! there is not of our blessings one That may not perish-- Like visiting angels whose errand is done, They are never at rest till their home is won, And we may not cherish The beautiful gift of _thy_ light--Pass on!

TWENTY-TWO.

I'm twenty-two--I'm twenty-two-- They gaily give me joy, As if I should be glad to hear That I was less a boy. They do not know how carelessly Their words have given pain, To one whose heart would leap to be A happy boy again.

I had a light and careless heart When this brief year began, And then I pray'd that I might be A grave and perfect man. The world was like a blessed dream Of joyous coming years-- I did not know its manliness Was but to wake in tears.

A change has on my spirit come, I am forever sad; The light has all departed now My early feelings had; I used to love the morning grey, The twilight's quiet deep, But now like shadows on the sea, Upon my thoughts they creep.

And love was like a holy star, When this brief year was young, And my whole worship of the sky On one sweet ray was flung; But worldly things have come between, And shut it from my sight, And though the star shines purely yet, I mourn its hidden light.

And fame! I bent to it the knee, And bow'd to it my brow, And it is like a coal upon My living spirit now-- But when I pray'd for burning fire To touch the soul I bow'd, I did not know the lightning flash Would come in such a cloud.

Ye give me joy! Is it because Another year has fled?-- That I am farther from my youth, And nearer to the dead? Is it because my cares have come?-- My happy boyhood o'er?-- Because the visions I have lov'd Will visit me no more?

Oh, tell me not that ye are glad! I cannot smile it back; I've found no flower, and seen no light On manhood's weary track. My love is deep--ambition deep-- And heart and mind _will_ on-- But love is fainting by the way, And fame consumes ere won.

ON A PICTURE OF CHILDREN PLAYING.

BY FISHER.

I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old; That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true--it is very true-- I'm old, and 'I bide my time'-- But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go; For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay.

TO A SLEEPING BOY.

Sleep on! Sleep on! beguiling The hours with happy rest. Sleep!--by that dreamy smiling, I know that thou art blest. Thy mother over thee hath leant To guard thee from annoy, And the angel of the innocent Was in that dream, my boy!

The tinting of the summer rose Is on that pillowed cheek, And the quietness of summer thought Has made thy forehead meek. And yet that little ample brow, And arching lip, are fraught With pledges of high manliness, And promises of thought.

Thy polished limbs are rounded out As is the Autumn fruit, And full and reedy is the voice That slumber hath made mute. And, looking on thy perfect form-- Hearing thy pleasant tone-- I almost weep for joy, my son, To know thee for my own.

Sleep on! thine eye seems looking thro' The half transparent lid, As if its free and radiant glance Impatiently were hid; But ever as I kneel to pray, And in my fulness weep, I thank the Giver of my child For that pure gift of sleep-- I half believe they take thee, then, Back to a better world again.

And so, sleep on! If thou hast worn An angel's shining wing, The watch that I have loved to keep Hath been a blessed thing. And if thy spirit hath been here, With spotless thoughts alone-- A mother's silent ministry Is still a holy one; And I will pray that there may be A shining wing in wait for thee.

SONNET. WINTER.

The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall Softly and lie upon it. The hushed flow Of the ice-covered waters, and the call Of the cold driver to his oxen slow, And the complaining of the gust, are all That I can hear of music--would that I With the green summer like a leaf might die? So will a man grow gray, and on his head The snow of years lie visibly, and so Will come a frost when his green years have fled, And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow, And his deep voice be shaken--would that I In the green summer of my youth might die!

SONNET.

Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn As if a sleep upon the hours had crept; And the dark clouds that gather'd at the morn In dull, impenetrable masses slept, And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and all Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. Suddenly on the horizon's edge, a blue And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay, And, as it wider and intenser grew, The darkness removed silently away, And, with the splendor of a God, broke through The perfect glory of departing day-- So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er, Will light upon the dying Christian pour.

SONNET.

Elegance floats about thee like a dress, Melting the airy motion of thy form Into one swaying grace, and loveliness, Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, Is lurking in the chesnut of thy tress, Enriching it, as moonlight after storm Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. A beauty that bewilders like a spell Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow So pure in vein'd transparency doth tell How spiritually beautiful art thou-- A temple where angelic love might dwell. Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.

SONNET.