PART III.

POEMS.

FREEDOM AND TRUTH.

TO A FRIEND.

The shrine is vowed to freedom, but, my friend, Freedom is but a means to gain an end. Freedom should build the temple, but the shrine Be consecrate to thought still more divine. The human bliss which angel hopes foresaw Is liberty to comprehend the law. Give, then, thy book a larger scope and frame, Comprising means and end in Truth's great name.

DESCRIPTION OF A PORTION OF THE JOURNEY TO TRENTON FALLS.

The long-anticipated morning dawns, Clear, hopeful, joyous-eyed, and pure of breath. The dogstar is exhausted of its rage, And copious showers have cooled the feverish air, The mighty engine pants--away, away!

And, see! they come! a motley, smiling group-- The stately matron with her tempered grace, Her earnest eye, and kind though meaning smile, Her words of wisdom and her words of mirth. Her counsel firm and generous sympathy; The happy pair whose hearts so full, yet ever Dilating to the scene, refuse that bliss Which excludes the whole or blunts the sense of beauty.

Next two fair maidens in gradation meet, The one of gentle mien and soft dove-eyes; Like water she, that yielding and combining, Yet most pure element in the social cup: The other with bright glance and damask cheek, You need not deem concealment there was preying To mar the healthful promise of the spring.

Another dame was there, of graver look, And heart of slower beat; yet in its depths Not irresponsive to the soul of things, Nor cold when charmed by those who knew its pass-word.

These ladies had a knight from foreign clime, Who from the banks of the dark-rolling Danube, Or somewhere thereabouts, had come, a pilgrim, To worship at the shrine of Liberty, And after, made his home in her loved realm, Content to call it fatherland where'er The streams bear freemen and the skies smile on them; A courteous knight he was, of merry mood, Expert to wing the lagging hour with jest, Or tale of strange romance or comic song.

And there was one I must not call a page, Although too young yet to have won his spurs; Yet there was promise in his laughing eye, That in due time he'd prove no carpet knight; Now, bright companion on a summer sea, With wingéd words of gay or tasteful thought, He was fit clasp to this our social chain.

And now, the swift car loosened on its way, O'er hill and dale we fly with rapid lightness, While each tongue celebrates the power of steam; O, how delightful 'tis to go so fast! No time to muse, no chance to gaze on nature! 'Tis bliss indeed if "to think be to groan!"

The genius of the time soon shifts the scene: No longer whirled over our kindred clods, We, with as strong an impulse, cleave the waters. Now doth our chain a while untwine its links, And some rebound from a three hours' communion To mingle with less favored fellow-men; One careless turns the leaves of some new volume; The leaves of Nature's book are too gigantic, Too vast the characters for patient study, Till sunset lures us with majestic power To cast one look of love on that bright eye, Which, for so many hours, has beamed on us. The silver lamp is lit in the blue dome, Nature begins her hymn of evening breezes, And myriad sparks, thronging to kiss the wave, Touch even the steamboat's clumsy hulk with beauty. Then, once more drawn together, cheerful talk Casts to the hours a store of gentle gifts, Which memory receives from these bright minds And careful garners them for duller days.

The morning greets us not with her late smile; Now chilling damp falls heavy on our hopes, And leaden hues tarnish each sighed-for scene. Yet not on coloring, majestic Hudson, Depends the genius of thy stream, whose wand Has piled thy banks on high, and given them forms Which have for taste an impulse yet unknown. Though Beauty dwells here, she reigns not a queen, An humble handmaid now to the Sublime. The mind dilates to receive the idea of strength, And tasks its elements for congenial forms To create anew within those mighty piles, Those "bulwarks of the world," which, time-defying And thunder-mocking, lift their lofty brows.

Now at the river's bend we pause a while, And sun and cloud combine their wealth to greet us. Oft shall the fair scenes of West Point return Upon the mind, in its still picture-hours, Its cloud-capped mountains with their varying hues, The soft seclusion of its wooded paths, And the alluring hopefulness of view Along the river from its crisis-point. Unlike the currents of our human lives When they approach their long-sought ocean-mother,-- This stream is noblest onward to its close, More tame and grave when near its inland founts. Now onward, onward, till the whole be known; The heart, though swollen with these new sensations, With no less vital throb beats on for more, And rather we'd shake hands with disappointment Than wait and lean on sober expectation.

The Highlands now are passed, and Hyde Park flies,-- Catskill salutes us--a far fairy-land. O mountains, how do ye delude our hearts! Let but the eye look down upon a valley, We feel our limitations, and are calm; But place blue mountains in the distant view, And the soul labors with the Titan hope To ascend the shrouded tops, and scale the heavens.

O, pause not in the murky, old Dutch city, But, hasting onward with a renewed steam power, Bestow your hours upon the beauteous Mohawk; And here we grieve to lose our courteous knight, Just at the opening of so rich a page.

How shall I praise thee, Mohawk? How portray The love, the joyousness, felt in thy presence? When each new step along the silvery tide Added new gems of beauty to our thought, And lapped the soul in an Elysium Of verdure and of grace, fed by thy sweetness. O, how gay Fancy smiled, and deemed it home! This is, thought she, the river of my garden; These are the graceful trees that form its bowers, And these the meads where I have sighed to roam. I now may fold my wearied wings in peace.

JOURNEY TO TRENTON FALLS.

I.

TO MY FRIENDS AND COMPANIONS.

If this faint reflex from those days so bright May aught of sympathy among you gain, I shall not think these verses penned in vain; Though they tell nothing of the fancies light, The kindly deeds, rich thoughts, and various grace With which you knew to make the hours so fair, That neither grief nor sickness could efface From memory's tablet what you printed there. Could I have breathed your spirit through these lines, They might have charms to win a critic's smile, Or the cold worldling of a sigh beguile. I could but from my being bring one tone; May it arouse the sweetness of your own.

II.

THE HIGHLANDS.

I saw ye first, arrayed in mist and cloud; No cheerful lights softened your aspect bold; A sullen gray, or green, more grave and cold, The varied beauties of the scene enshroud. Yet not the less, O Hudson! calm and proud, Did I receive the impress of that hour Which showed thee to me, emblem of that power Of high resolve, to which even rocks have bowed; Thou wouldst not deign thy course to turn aside, And seek some smiling valley's welcome warm, But through the mountain's very heart, thy pride Has been, thy channel and thy banks to form. Not even the "bulwarks of the world" could bar The inland fount from joining ocean's war!

III.

CATSKILL.

How fair at distance shone yon silvery blue, O stately mountain-tops, charming the mind To dream of pleasures which she there may find, Where from the eagle's height she earth can view! Nor are those disappointments which ensue; For though, while eyeing what beneath us lay, Almost we shunned to think of yesterday, As wonderingly our looks its course pursue. Dwarfed to a point the joys of many hours, The river on whose bosom we were borne Seems but a thread, of pride and beauty shorn; Its banks, its shadowy groves, like beds of flowers, Wave their diminished heads;--yet would we sigh, Since all this loss shows us more near the sky?

IV.

VALLEY OF THE MOHAWK.

Could I my words with gentlest grace imbue, Which the flute's breath, or harp's clear tones, can bless, I then might hope the feelings to express, And with new life the happy day endue, Thou gav'st, O vale, than Tempe's self more fair! With thy romantic stream and emerald isles, Touched by an April mood of tears and smiles Which stole on matron August unaware; The meads with all the spring's first freshness green, The trees with summer's thickest garlands crowned, And each so elegant, that fairy queen All day might wander ere she chose her round; No blemish on the sense of beauty broke, But the whole scene one ecstasy awoke.

V.

TRENTON FALLS, EARLY IN THE MORNING.

The sun, impatient, o'er the lofty trees Struggles to illume as fair a sight as lies Beneath the light of his joy-loving eyes, Which all the forms of energy must please; A solemn shadow falls in pillared form, Made by yon ledge, which noontide scarcely shows, Upon the amber radiance, soft and warm, Where through the cleft the eager torrent flows. Would you the genius of the place enjoy, In all the charms contrast and color give? Your eye and taste you now may best employ, For this the hour when minor beauties live; Scan ye the details as the sun rides high, For with the morn these sparkling glories fly.

VI.

TRENTON FALLS, (AFTERNOON.)

A calmer grace o'er these still hours presides; Now is the time to see the might of form; The heavy masses of the buttressed sides, The stately steps o'er which the waters storm; Where, 'neath the mill, the stream so gently glides, You feel the deep seclusion of the scene, And now begin to comprehend what mean The beauty and the power this chasm hides. From the green forest's depths the portent springs, But from those quiet shades bounding away, Lays bare its being to the light of day, Though on the rock's cold breast its love it flings. Yet can all sympathy such courage miss? Answer, ye trees! who bend the waves to kiss.

VII.

TRENTON FALLS BY MOONLIGHT.

I deemed the inmost sense my soul had blessed Which in the poem of thy being dwells, And gives such store for thought's most sacred cells; And yet a higher joy was now confessed. With what a holiness did night invest The eager impulse of impetuous life, And hymn-like meanings clothed the waters' strife! With what a solemn peace the moon did rest Upon the white crest of the waterfall; The haughty guardian banks, by the deep shade, In almost double height are now displayed. Depth, height, speak things which awe, but not appall. From elemental powers this voice has come, And God's love answers from the azure dome.

SUB ROSA, CRUX.

In times of old, as we are told, When men more child-like at the feet Of Jesus sat, than now, A chivalry was known more bold Than ours, and yet of stricter vow, Of worship more complete.

Knights of the Rosy Cross, they bore Its weight within the heart, but wore Without, devotion's sign in glistening ruby bright; The gall and vinegar they drank alone, But to the world at large would only own The wine of faith, sparkling with rosy light.

They knew the secret of the sacred oil Which, poured upon the prophet's head, Could keep him wise and pure for aye. Apart from all that might distract or soil, With this their lamps they fed. Which burn in their sepulchral shrines unfading night and day.

The pass-word now is lost, To that initiation full and free; Daily we pay the cost Of our slow schooling for divine degree. We know no means to feed an undying lamp; Our lights go out in every wind or damp.

We wear the cross of ebony and gold, Upon a dark background a form of light, A heavenly hope upon a bosom cold, A starry promise in a frequent night; The dying lamp must often trim again, For we are conscious, thoughtful, striving men.

Yet be we faithful to this present trust, Clasp to a heart resigned the fatal must; Though deepest dark our efforts should enfold, Unwearied mine to find the vein of gold; Forget not oft to lift the hope on high; The rosy dawn again shall fill the sky.

And by that lovely light, all truth-revealed, The cherished forms which sad distrust concealed, Transfigured, yet the same, will round us stand, The kindred angels of a faithful band; Ruby and ebon cross both cast aside, No lamp is needed, for the night has died.

Happy be those who seek that distant day, With feet that from the appointed way Could never stray; Yet happy too be those who more and more, As gleams the beacon of that only shore, Strive at the laboring oar.

Be to the best thou knowest ever true, Is all the creed; Then, be thy talisman of rosy hue, Or fenced with thorns that wearing thou must bleed, Or gentle pledge of Love's prophetic view, The faithful steps it will securely lead.

Happy are all who reach that shore, And bathe in heavenly day, Happiest are those who high the banner bore, To marshal others on the way; Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn, By burdens overborne.

THE DAHLIA, THE ROSE, AND THE HELIOTROPE.

In a fair garden of a distant land, Where autumn skies the softest blue outspread, A lovely crimson dahlia reared her head, To drink the lustre of the season's prime; And drink she did, until her cup o'erflowed With ruby redder than the sunset cloud.

Near to her root she saw the fairest rose That ever oped her soul to sun and wind. And still the more her sweets she did disclose, The more her queenly heart of sweets did find, Not only for her worshipper the wind, But for bee, nightingale, and butterfly, Who would with ceaseless wing about her ply, Nor ever cease to seek what found they still would find.

Upon the other side, nearer the ground, A paler floweret on a slender stem, That cast so exquisite a fragrance round, As seemed the minute blossom to contemn, Seeking an ampler urn to hold its sweetness, And in a statelier shape to find completeness.

Who could refuse to hear that keenest voice, Although it did not bid the heart rejoice, And though the nightingale had just begun His hymn; the evening breeze begun to woo, When through the charming of the evening dew, The floweret did its secret soul disclose? By that revealing touched, the queenly rose Forgot them both, a deeper joy to hope And heed the love-note of the heliotrope.

TO MY FRIENDS.

TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.

Beloved friends! Earth hath known brighter days Than ours; we vainly strive to hide this truth; Would history be silent in their praise, The very stones tell of man's glorious youth, In heavenly forms on which we crowd to gaze; But that high-favored race hath sunk in night; The day is ours--the living still have sight.

Friends of my youth! In happier climes than ours, As some far-wandering countrymen declare, The air is perfume; at each step spring flowers. Nature has not been bounteous to our prayer; But art dwells here, with her creative powers, Laurel and myrtle shun our winter snows, But with the cheerful vine we wreathe our brows.

Though of more pomp and wealth the Briton boast, Who holds four worlds in tribute to his pride,-- Although from farthest India's glowing coast Come gems of gold to burden Thames' dull tide, And _bring_ each luxury that Heaven denied,-- Not in the torrent, but the still, calm brook, Delights Apollo at himself to look.

More nobly lodged than we in northern halls, At Angelo's gate the Roman beggar dwells; Girt by the Eternal City's honored walls, Each column some soul-stiring story tells; While on the earth a second heaven dwells, Where Michael's spirit to St. Peter calls; Yet all this splendor only decks a tomb; For us fresh flowers from every green hour bloom

And while we live obscure, may others' names Through Rumor's trump be given to the wind; New forms of ancient glories, ancient shames, For nothing new the searching sun can find, As pass the motley groups of human kind; All other living things grow old and die-- Fancy alone has immortality.

STANZAS.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN.

I.

Come, breath of dawn! and o'er my temples play; Rouse to the draught of life the wearied sense; Fly, sleep! with thy sad phantoms, far away; Let the glad light scare those pale troublous shadows hence!

II.

I rise, and leaning from my casement high, Feel from the morning twilight a delight; Once more youth's portion, hope, lights up my eye, And for a moment I forget the sorrows of the night.

III.

O glorious morn! how great is yet thy power! Yet how unlike to that which once I knew, When, plumed with glittering thoughts, my soul would soar, And pleasures visited my heart like daily dew!

IV.

Gone is life's primal freshness all too soon; For me the dream is vanished ere my time; I feel the heat and weariness of noon, And long in night's cool shadows to recline.

FLAXMAN.

We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought, And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought Eternal beauty from the sculptured stone-- A higher charm than modern culture won, With all the wealth of metaphysic lore, Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore. A many-colored light flows from our sun; Art, 'neath its beams, a motley thread has spun; The prison modifies the perfect day; But thou hast known such mediums to shun, And cast once more on life a pure white ray. Absorbed in the creations of thy mind, Forgetting daily self, my truest self I find.

THOUGHTS

ON SUNDAY MORNING, WHEN PREVENTED BY A SNOW STORM FROM GOING TO CHURCH.

Hark! the church-going bell! But through the air The feathery missiles of old Winter hurled, Offend the brow of mild-approaching Spring; She shuts her soft blue eyes, and turns away. Sweet is the time passed in the house of prayer, When, met with many of this fire-fraught clay, We, on this day,--the tribe of ills forgot, Wherewith, ungentle, we afflict each other,-- Assemble in the temple of our God, And use our breath to worship Him who gave it. What though no gorgeous relics of old days, The gifts of humbled kings and suppliant warriors, Deck the fair shrine, or cluster round the pillars; No stately windows decked with various hues, No blazon of dead saints repel the sun; Though no cloud-courting dome or sculptured frieze Excite the fancy and allure the taste, No fragrant censor steep the sense in luxury, No lofty chant swell on the vanquished soul.

Ours is the faith of Reason; to the earth We leave the senses who interpret her; The heaven-born only should commune with Heaven, The immaterial with the infinite. Calmly we wait in solemn expectation. He rises in the desk--that earnest man; No priestly terrors flashing from his eye, No mitre towers above the throne of thought, No pomp and circumstance wait on his breath. He speaks--we hear; and man to man we judge. Has he the spell to touch the founts of feeling, To kindle in the mind a pure ambition, Or soothe the aching heart with heavenly balm, To guide the timid and refresh the weary, Appall the wicked and abash the proud? He is the man of God. Our hearts confess him. He needs no homage paid in servile forms, No worldly state, to give him dignity: To his own heart the blessing will return, And all his days blossom with love divine.

There is a blessing in the Sabbath woods, There is a holiness in the blue skies; The summer-murmurs to those calm blue skies Preach ceaselessly. The universe is love-- And this disjointed fragment of a world Must, by its spirit, man, be harmonized, Tuned to concordance with the spheral strain, Till thought be like those skies, deeds like those breezes, As clear, as bright, as pure, as musical, And all things have one text of truth and beauty.

There is a blessing in a day like this, When sky and earth are talking busily; The clouds give back the riches they received, And for their graceful shapes return they fulness; While in the inmost shrine, the life of life, The soul within the soul, the consciousness Whom I can only _name_, counting her wealth, Still makes it more, still fills the golden bowl Which never shall be broken, strengthens still The silver cord which binds the whole to Heaven.

O that such hours must pass away! yet oft Such will recur, and memories of this Come to enhance their sweetness. And again I say, great is the blessing of that hour When the soul, turning from without, begins To register her treasures, the bright thoughts, The lovely hopes, the ethereal desires, Which she has garnered in past Sabbath hours. Within her halls the preacher's voice still sounds, Though he be dead or distant far. The band Of friends who with us listened to his word, With throngs around of linked associations, Are there; the little stream, long left behind, Is murmuring still; the woods as musical; The skies how blue, the whole how eloquent With "life of life and life's most secret joy"!

TO A GOLDEN HEART WORN ROUND THE NECK.[44]

Remembrancer of joys long passed away, Relic from which, as yet, I cannot part, O, hast thou power to lengthen love's short day? Stronger thy chain than that which bound the heart?

Lili, I fly--yet still thy fetters press me In distant valley, or far lonely wood; Still will a struggling sigh of pain confess thee The mistress of my soul in every mood.

The bird may burst the silken chain which bound him, Flying to the green home, which fits him best; But, O, he bears the prisoner's badge around him, Still by the piece about his neck distressed. He ne'er can breathe his free, wild notes again; They're stifled by the pressure of his chain.

LINES

ACCOMPANYING A BOUQUET OF WILD COLUMBINE, WHICH BLOOMED LATE IN THE SEASON.

These pallid blossoms thou wilt not disdain, The harbingers of thy approach to me, Which grew and bloomed despite the cold and rain, To tell of summer and futurity.

It was not given them to tell the soul, And lure the nightingale by fragrant breath: These slender stems and roots brook no control, And in the garden life would find but death. The rock which is their cradle and their home Must also be their monument and tomb; Yet has my floweret's life a charm more rare Than those admiring crowds esteem so fair, Self-nurtured, self-sustaining, self-approved: Not even by the forest trees beloved, As are her sisters of the Spring, she dies,-- Nor to the guardian stars lifts up her eyes, But droops her graceful head upon her breast, Nor asks the wild bird's requiem for her rest, By her own heart upheld, by her own soul possessed.

Learn of the clematis domestic love, Religious beauty in the lily see; Learn from the rose how rapture's pulses move, Learn from the heliotrope fidelity. From autumn flowers let hope and faith be known; Learn from the columbine to live alone, To deck whatever spot the Fates provide With graces worthy of the garden's pride, And to deserve each gift that is denied.

These are the shades of the departed flowers, My lines faint shadows of some beauteous hours, Whereto the soul the highest thoughts have spoken, And brightest hopes from frequent twilight broken. Preserve them for my sake. In other years, When life has answered to your hopes or fears, When the web is well woven, and you try Your wings, whether as moth or butterfly, If, as I pray, the fairest lot be thine, Yet value still the faded columbine. But look not on her if thy earnest eye, Be filled by works of art or poesy; Bring not the hermit where, in long array, Triumphs of genius gild the purple day; Let her not hear the lyre's proud voice arise, To tell, "still lives the song though Regnor dies;" Let her not hear the lute's soft-rising swell Declare she never lived who lived so well; But from the anvil's clang, and joiner's screw, The busy streets where men dull crafts pursue, From weary cares and from tumultuous joys, From aimless bustle and from voiceless noise, If there thy plans should be, turn here thine eye,-- Open the casket of thy memory; Give to thy friend the gentlest, holiest sigh.

DISSATISFACTION.

TRANSLATED FROM THEODORE KÖRNER.

"Composed as I stood sentinel on the banks of the Elbe."

Fatherland! Thou call'st the singer In the blissful glow of day; He no more can musing linger, While thou dost mourn a tyrant's sway. Love and poesy forsaking, From friendship's magic circle breaking, The keenest pangs he could endure Thy peace to insure.

Yet sometimes tears must dim his eyes, As, on the melodious bridge of song, The shadows of past joys arise, And in mild beauty round him throng. In vain, o'er life, that early beam Such radiance shed;--the impetuous stream Of strife has seized him, onward borne, While left behind his loved ones mourn.

Here in the crowd must he complain, Nor find a fit employ? Give him poetic place again, Or the quick throb of warlike joy. The wonted inspiration give; Thus languidly he cannot live; Love's accents are no longer near; Let him the trumpet hear.

Where is the cannon's thunder? The clashing cymbals, where? While foreign foes our cities plunder, Can we not hasten there? I can no longer watch this stream; _In prose_ I die! O source of flame! O poesy! for which I glow,-- A nobler death thou shouldst bestow!

MY SEAL-RING.

Mercury has cast aside The signs of intellectual pride, Freely offers thee the soul: Art thou noble to receive? Canst thou give or take the whole, Nobly promise, and believe? Then thou wholly human art, A spotless, radiant, ruby heart, And the golden chain of love Has bound thee to the realm above. If there be one small, mean doubt, One serpent thought that fled not out, Take instead the serpent-rod; Thou art neither man nor God. Guard thee from the powers of evil; Who cannot trust, vows to the devil. Walk thy slow and spell-bound way; Keep on thy mask, or shun the day-- Let go my hand upon the way.

THE CONSOLERS.

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

"Why wilt thou not thy griefs forget? Why must thine eyes with tears be wet? When all things round thee sweetly smile, Canst thou not, too, be glad a while?"

"Hither I come to weep alone; The grief I feel is all mine own; Dearer than smiles these tears to me; Smile you--I ask no sympathy!"

"Repel not thus affection's voice! While thou art sad, can we rejoice? To friendly hearts impart thy woe; Perhaps we may some healing know."

"Too gay your hearts to feel like mine, Or such a sorrow to divine; Nought have I lost I e'er possessed; I mourn that I cannot be blessed."

"What idle, morbid feelings these! Can you not win what prize you please? Youth, with a genius rich as yours, All bliss the world can give insures."

"Ah, too high-placed is my desire! The star to which my hopes aspire Shines all too far--I sigh in vain, Yet cannot stoop to earth again."

"Waste not so foolishly thy prime; If to the stars thou canst not climb, Their gentle beams thy loving eye Every clear night will gratify."

"Do I not know it? Even now I wait the sun's departing glow, That I may watch them. Meanwhile ye Enjoy the day--'tis nought to me!"

ABSENCE OF LOVE.

Though many at my feet have bowed, And asked my love through pain and pleasure, Fate never yet the youth has showed Meet to receive so great a treasure.

Although sometimes my heart, deceived, Would love because it sighed _to feel_, Yet soon I changed, and sometimes grieved Because my fancied wound would heal.

MEDITATIONS.

SUNDAY, _May 12, 1833_.

The clouds are marshalling across the sky, Leaving their deepest tints upon yon range Of soul-alluring hills. The breeze comes softly, Laden with tribute that a hundred orchards Now in their fullest blossom send, in thanks For this refreshing shower. The birds pour forth In heightened melody the notes of praise They had suspended while God's voice was speaking, And his eye flashing down upon his world. I sigh, half-charmed, half-pained. My sense is living, And, taking in this freshened beauty, tells Its pleasure to the mind. The mind replies, And strives to wake the heart in turn, repeating Poetic sentiments from many a record Which other souls have left, when stirred and satisfied By scenes as fair, as fragrant. But the heart Sends back a hollow echo to the call Of outward things,--and its once bright companion, Who erst would have been answered by a stream Of life-fraught treasures, thankful to be summoned,-- Can now rouse nothing better than this echo; Unmeaning voice, which mocks their softened accents. Content thee, beautiful world! and hush, still busy mind! My heart hath sealed its fountains. To the things Of Time they shall be oped no more. Too long, Too often were they poured forth: part have sunk Into the desert; part profaned and swollen By bitter waters, mixed by those who feigned They asked them for refreshment, which, turned back, Have broken and o'erflowed their former urns.

So when ye talk of _pleasure_, lonely world, And busy mind, ye ne'er again shall move me To answer ye, though still your calls have power To jar me through, and cause dull aching _here_.

Not so the voice which hailed me from the depths Of yon dark-bosomed cloud, now vanishing Before the sun ye greet. It touched my centre, The voice of the Eternal, calling me To feel his other worlds; to feel that if I could deserve a home, I still might find it In other spheres,--and bade me not despair, Though "want of harmony" and "aching void" Are terms invented by the men of this, Which I may not forget.

In former times I loved to see the lightnings flash athwart The stooping heavens; I loved to hear the thunder Call to the seas and mountains; for I thought 'Tis thus man's flashing fancy doth enkindle The firmament of mind; 'tis thus his eloquence Calls unto the soul's depths and heights; and still I deified the creature, nor remembered The Creator in his works.

Ah now how different! The proud delight of that keen sympathy Is gone; no longer riding on the wave, But whelmed beneath it: my own plans and works, Or, as the Scriptures phrase it, my "_inventions_" No longer interpose 'twixt me and Heaven.

To-day, for the first time, I felt the Deity, And uttered prayer on hearing thunder. This Must be thy will,--for finer, higher spirits Have gone through this same process,--yet I think There was religion in that strong delight, Those sounds, those thoughts of power imparted. True, I did not say, "He is the Lord thy God," But I had feeling of his essence. But "'Twas pride by which the angels fell." So be it! But O, might I but see a little onward! Father, I cannot be a spirit of power; May I be active as a spirit of love, Since thou hast ta'en me from that path which Nature Seemed to appoint, O, deign to ope another, Where I may walk with thought and hope assured; "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief!" Had I but faith like that which fired Novalis, I too could bear that the heart "fall in ashes," While the freed spirit rises from beneath them, With heavenward-look, and Phoenix-plumes upsoaring!

RICHTER.

Poet of Nature, gentlest of the wise, Most airy of the fanciful, most keen Of satirists, thy thoughts, like butterflies, Still near the sweetest scented flowers have been: With Titian's colors, thou canst sunset paint; With Raphael's dignity, celestial love; With Hogarth's pencil, each deceit and feint Of meanness and hypocrisy reprove; Canst to Devotion's highest flight sublime Exalt the mind; by tenderest pathos' art Dissolve in purifying tears the heart, Or bid it, shuddering, recoil at crime; The fond illusions of the youth and maid, At which so many world-formed sages sneer, When by thy altar-lighted torch displayed, Our natural religion must appear. All things in thee tend to one polar star; Magnetic all thy influences are; A labyrinth; a flowery wilderness. Some in thy "slip-boxes" and honeymoons Complain of--want of order, I confess, But not of system in its highest sense. Who asks a guiding clew through this wide mind, In love of nature such will surely find, In tropic climes, live like the tropic bird, Whene'er a spice-fraught grove may tempt thy stray; Nor be by cares of colder climes disturbed: No frost the summer's bloom shall drive away; Nature's wide temple and the azure dome Have plan enough for the free spirit's home.

THE THANKFUL AND THE THANKLESS.

With equal sweetness the commissioned hours Shed light and dew upon both weeds and flowers. The weeds unthankful raise their vile heads high, Flaunting back insult to the gracious sky; While the dear flowers, with fond humility, Uplift the eyelids of a starry eye In speechless homage, and, from grateful hearts, Perfume that homage all around imparts.

PROPHECY AND FULFILMENT.

When leaves were falling thickly in the pale November day, A bird dropped here this feather upon her pensive way. Another bird has found it in the snow-chilled April day; It brings to him the music of all her summer's lay. Thus sweet birds, though unmated, do never sing in vain; The lonely notes they utter to free them from their pain, Caught up by the echoes, ring through the blue dome, And by good spirits guided pierce to some gentle home.

The pencil moved prophetic: together now men read In the fair book of nature, and find the hope they need. The wreath woven by the river is by the seaside worn, And one of fate's best arrows to its due mark is borne.

VERSES

GIVEN TO W. C. WITH A BLANK BOOK, MARCH, 1844.

Thy other book to fill, more than eight years Have paid chance tribute of their smiles and tears; Many bright strokes portray the varied scene-- Wild sports, sweet ties the days of toil between; And those related both in mind and blood, The wise, the true, the lovely, and the good, Have left their impress here; nor such alone, But those chance toys that lively feelings own Weave their gay flourishes 'mid lines sincere, As 'mid the shadowy thickets bound the deer Accept a volume where the coming time Will join, I hope, much reason with the rhyme, And that the stair his steady feet ascend May prove a Jacob's ladder to my friend, Peopled with angel-shapes of promise bright, And ending only in the realms of light.

May purity be stamped upon his brow, Yet leave the manly footsteps free as now; May generous love glow in his inmost heart, Truth to its utterance lend the only art; While more a man, may he be more the child; More thoughtful be, but the more sweet and mild; May growing wisdom, mixed with sprightly cheer, Bless his own breast and those which hold him dear; Each act be worthy of his worthiest aim, And love of goodness keep him free from blame, Without a need straight rules for life to frame.

Good Spirit, teach him what he ought to be, Best to fulfil his proper destiny, To serve himself, his fellow-men, and thee. These pages then will show how Nature wild Accepts her Master, cherishes her child; And many flowers, ere eight years more are done, Shall bless and blossom in the western sun.

EAGLES AND DOVES.

GOETHE.

A new-fledged eaglet spread his wings To seek for prey; Then flew the huntsman's dart and cut The right wing's sinewy strength away. Headlong he falls into a myrtle grove; There three days long devoured his grief, And writhed in pain Three long, long nights, three days as weary. At length he feels The all-healing power Of Nature's balsam. Forth from the shady bush he creeps, And tries his wing; but, ah! The power to soar is gone! He scarce can lift himself Along the ground In search of food to keep mere life awake; Then rests, deep mourning, On a low rock by the brook; He looks up to the oak tree's top, Far up to heaven, And a tear glistens in his haughty eye.

Just then come by a pair of fondling doves, Playfully rustling through the grove. Cooing and toying, they go tripping Over golden sand and brook; And, turning here and there, Their rose-tinged eyes descry The inly-mourning bird. The dove, with friendly curiosity, Flutters to the next bush, and looks With tender sweetness on the wounded king. "Ah, why so sad?" he cooes; "Be of good cheer, my friend! Hast thou not all the means of tranquil bliss Around thee here? Canst thou not meet with swelling breast The last rays of the setting sun On the brook's mossy brink? Canst wander 'mid the dewy flowers, And, from the superfluous wealth Of the wood-bushes, pluck at will Wholesome and delicate food, And at the silvery fountain quench thy thirst? O friend! the spirit of content Gives all that we can know of bliss; And this sweet spirit of content Finds every where its food." "O, wise one!" said the eagle, deeper still Into himself retiring; "O wisdom, thou speakest as a dove!"

TO A FRIEND, WITH HEARTSEASE.

Content in purple lustre clad, Kingly serene, and golden glad; No demi hues of sad contrition, No pallors of enforced submission; Give me such content as this, And keep a while the rosy bliss.

ASPIRATION.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE JOURNAL OF HER BROTHER R. F. F.

Foreseen, forespoken not foredone,-- Ere the race be well begun, The prescient soul is at the goal, One little moment binds the whole; Happy they themselves who call To risk much, and to conquer all; Happy are they who many losses, Sore defeat or frequent crosses, Though these may the heart dismay, Cannot the sure faith betray; Who in beauty bless the Giver; Seek ocean on the loveliest river; Or on desert island tossed, Seeing Heaven, think nought lost. May thy genius bring to thee Of this life experience free, And the earth vine's mysterious cup, Sweet and bitter yield thee up. But should the now sparkling bowl Chance to slip from thy control, And much of the enchanted wine Be spilt in sand, as 'twas with mine, Let blessings lost being consecration, Change the pledge to a libation. For the Power to whom we bow Has given his pledge, that, if not now, They of pure and steadfast mind, By faith exalted, truth refined, Shall hear all music, loud and clear, Whose first notes they ventured here. Then fear not thou to wind the horn Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn; Ask for the castle's king and queen, Though rabble rout may come between, Beat thee, senseless, to the ground, In the dark beset thee round; Persist to ask, and they will come. Seek not for rest a humbler home, And thou wilt see what few have seen, The palace home of king and queen.

THE ONE IN ALL.

There are who separate the eternal light In forms of man and woman, day and night; They cannot bear that God be essence quite.

Existence is as deep a verity: Without the dual, where is unity? And the "I am" cannot forbear to be;

But from its primal nature forced to frame Mysteries, destinies of various name, Is forced to give what it has taught to claim.

Thus love must answer to its own unrest; The bad commands us to expect the best, And hope of its own prospects is the test.

And dost thou seek to find the one in two? Only upon the old can build the new; The symbol which you seek is found in you.

The heart and mind, the wisdom and the will, The man and woman, must be severed still, And Christ must reconcile the good and ill.

There are to whom each symbol is a mask; The life of love is a mysterious task; They want no answer, for they would not ask.

A single thought transfuses every form; The sunny day is changed into the storm, For light is dark, hard soft, and cold is warm.

One presence fills and floods the whole serene; Nothing can be, nothing has ever been, Except the one truth that creates the scene.

Does the heart beat,--that is a seeming only; You cannot be alone, though you are lonely; The All is neutralized in the One only.

You ask _a_ faith,--they are content with faith; You ask to have,--but they reply, "IT hath." There is no end, and there need be no path.

The day wears heavily,--why, then, ignore it; Peace is the soul's desire,--such thoughts restore it; The truth thou art,--it needs not to implore it.

_The Presence_ all thy fancies supersedes, All that is done which thou wouldst seek in deeds, _The_ wealth obliterates all seeming needs.

Both these are true, and if they are at strife, The mystery bears the one name of _Life_, That, slowly spelled, will yet compose the strife.

The men of old say, "Live twelve thousand years, And see the end of all that here appears, And Moxen[45] shall absorb thy smiles and tears."

These later men say, "Live this little day. Believe that human nature is the way, And know both Son and Father while you pray;

And one in two, in three, and none alone, Letting you know even as you are known, Shall make the you and me eternal parts of one."

To me, our destinies seem flower and fruit Born of an ever-generating root; The other statement I cannot dispute.

But say that Love and Life eternal seem, And if eternal ties be but a dream, What is the meaning of that self-same _seem_?

Your nature craves Eternity for Truth; Eternity of Love is prayer of youth; How, without love, would have gone forth your truth?

I do not think we are deceived to grow, But that the crudest fancy, slightest show, Covers some separate truth that we may know.

In the one Truth, each separate fact is true; Eternally in one I many view, And destinies through destiny pursue.

This is _my_ tendency; but can I say That this my thought leads the true, only way? I only know it constant leads, and I obey.

I only know one prayer--"Give me the truth, Give me that colored whiteness, ancient youth, Complex and simple, seen in joy and ruth.

Let me not by vain wishes bar my claim, Nor soothe my hunger by an empty name, Nor crucify the Son of man by hasty blame.

But in the earth and fire, water and air, Live earnestly by turns without despair, Nor seek a home till home be every where!"

A GREETING.

Thoughts which come at a call Are no better than if they came not at all; Neither flower nor fruit, Yielding no root For plant, shrub, or tree. Thus I have not for thee One good word to say, To-day, Except that I prize thy gentle heart, Free from ambition, falsehood, or art, And thy good mind, Daily refined, By pure desire To fan the heaven-seeking fire: May it rise higher and higher; Till in thee Gentleness finds its dignity, Life flowing tranquil, pure and free, A mild, unbroken harmony.

LINES TO EDITH, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

If the same star our fates together bind, Why are we thus divided, mind from mind? If the same law one grief to both impart, How couldst thou grieve a trusting mother's heart?

Our aspiration seeks a common aim; Why were we tempered of such differing frame? But 'tis too late to turn this wrong to right; Too cold, too damp, too deep, has fallen the night.

And yet, the angel of my life replies, Upon that night a morning star shall rise, Fairer than that which ruled thy temporal birth, Undimmed by vapors of the dreamy earth.

It says, that, where a heart thy claim denies, Genius shall read its secret ere it flies; The earthly form may vanish from thy side, Pure love will make thee still the spirit's bride.

And thou, ungentle, yet much loving child, Whose heart still shows the "untamed haggard wild," A heart which justly makes the highest claim, Too easily is checked by transient blame.

Ere such an orb can ascertain its sphere, The ordeal must be various and severe; My prayer attend thee, though the feet may fly; I hear thy music in the silent sky.

LINES

WRITTEN IN HER BROTHER R. F. F.'S JOURNAL.

"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace."--_Psalms_ xxxvii. 37.

The man of heart and words sincere, Who truth and justice follows still, Pursues his way with conscience clear, Unharmed by earthly care and ill. His promises he never breaks, But sacredly to each adheres; Honor's straight path he ne'er forsakes, Though danger in the way appears. He never boasts, will ne'er deceive, For vanity nor yet for gain; All that he says you may believe; For worlds he would not conscience stain. If he desires what others do, And they deserve it more than he, He gives to them what is their due, Happy in his humility. Not to his friends alone he's kind, But his foes too with candor sees; Not to their good intentions blind, Though hopeless their dislike t' appease. His eyes are clear, his hands are pure, To God it is his constant prayer That, be he rich or be he poor, He never may wrong actions dare. If rich, he to the suffering gives All he can spare, and thinks it just, That, since he by God's bounty lives, He should as steward hold his trust. If poor, he envies not; he knows How covetousness corrupts the heart, Whatever a just God bestows Receiving as his proper part. O Father, such a man I'd be; Like him would act, like him would pray: Lead me in truth and purity To win thy peace and see thy day.

ON A PICTURE REPRESENTING THE DESCENT FROM THE CROSS.

BY RAPHAEL.

Virgin Mother, Mary mild! It was thine to see the child, Gift of the Messiah dove, Pure blossom of ideal love, Break, upon the "guilty cross," The seeming promise of his life; Of faith, of hope, of love, a loss, Deepened all thy, bosom's strife, Brow down-bent, and heart-strings torn, Fainting, by frail arms upborne.

All those startled figures show, That they did not apprehend The thought of Him who there lies low, On whom those sorrowing eyes they bend. They do not feel this holiest hour; Their hearts soar not to read the power, Which this deepest of distress Alone could give to save and bless.

Soul of that fair, now ruined form, Thou who hadst force to bide the storm, Must again descend to tell Of thy life the hidden spell; Though their hearts within them burned, The flame rose not till he returned.

Just so all our dead ones lie; Just so call our thoughts on high; Thus we linger on the earth, And dully miss death's heavenly birth.

THE CAPTURED WILD HORSE.[46]

On the boundless plain careering, By an unseen compass steering, Wildly flying, reappearing,-- With untamed fire their broad eyes glowing, In every step a grand pride showing, Of no servile moment knowing,--

Happy as the trees and flowers, In their instinct cradled hours, Happier in fuller powers,--

See the wild herd nobly ranging, Nature varying, not changing, Lawful in their lawless ranging.

But hark! what boding crouches near? On the horizon now appear Centaur-forms of force and fear.

On their enslaved brethren borne, With bit and whip of tyrant scorn, To make new captives, as forlorn.

Wildly snort the astonished throng, Stamp, and wheel, and fly along, Those centaur-powers they know are strong.

But the lasso, skilful cast, Holds one only captive fast, Youngest, weakest--left the last.

How thou trembledst then, Konick! Thy full breath came short and thick, Thy heart to bursting beat so quick;

Thy strange brethren peering round, By those tyrants held and bound, Tyrants fell,--whom falls confound!

With rage and pity fill thy heart; Death shall be thy chosen part, Ere such slavery tame thy heart.

But strange, unexpected joy! They seem to mean thee no annoy-- Gallop off both man and boy.

Let the wild horse freely go! Almost he shames it should be so; So lightly prized himself to know.

All deception 'tis, O steed! Ne'er again upon the mead Shalt thou a free wild horse feed.

The mark of man doth blot thy side, The fear of man doth dull thy pride, Thy master soon shall on thee ride.

Thy brethren of the free plain, Joyful speeding back again, With proud career and flowing mane,

Find thee branded, left alone, And their hearts are turned to stone-- They keep thee in their midst alone.

Cruel the intervening years, Seeming freedom stained by fears, Till the captor reappears;

Finds thee with thy broken pride. Amid thy peers still left aside, Unbeloved and unallied; Finds thee ready for thy fate; For joy and hope 'tis all too late-- Thou'rt wedded to thy sad estate.

* * * * *

Wouldst have the princely spirit bowed? Whisper only, speak not loud, Mark and leave him in the crowd.

Thou need'st not spies nor jailers have; The free will serve thee like the slave, Coward shrinking from the brave.

And thy cohorts, when they come To take the weary captive home, Need only beat the retreating drum.

EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF ESSEX.

SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF THE QUEEN.--TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

No Essex here!--unblest--they give no sign. And shall such live, while earth's best nobleness Departs and leaves her barren? Now too late Weakness and cunning both are exorcised. How could I trust thee whom I knew so well?

Am I not like the fool of fable? He Who in his bosom warmed the frozen viper, And fancied man might hope for gratitude From the betrayer's seed? Away! begone! No breath, no sound shall here insult my anguish. Essex is dumb, and they shall all be so; No human presence shall control my mood. Begone, I say! The queen would be alone!

(_They all go out._)

Alone and still! This day the cup of woe Is full; and while I drain its bitter dregs, Calm, queenlike, stern, I would review the past. Well it becomes the favorite of fortune, The royal arbitress of others' weal, The world's desire, and England's deity, Self-poised, self-governed, clear and firm to gaze Where others close their aching eyes, to _dream_.

Who feels imperial courage glow within Fears not the mines which lie beneath his throne; Bold he ascends, though knowing well his peril-- Majestical and fearless holds the sceptre. The golden circlet of enormous weight He wears with brow serene and smiling air, As though a myrtle chaplet graced his temples. And thus didst _thou_. The far removed thy power Attracted and subjected to thy will, The hates and fears which oft beset thy way Were seen, were met, and conquered by thy courage. Thy tyrant father's wrath, thy mother's hopeless fate, Thy sister's harshness,--all were cast behind; And to a soul like thine, bonds and harsh usage Taught fortitude, prudence, and self-command, To act, or to endure. Fate did the rest.

One brilliant day thou heard'st, "Long live the Queen!" A queen thou wert; and in the heart's despite, Despite the foes without, within, who ceaseless Have threatened war and death,--a queen thou _art_, And wilt be, while a spark of life remains. But this last deadly blow--I feel it here! Yet the low, prying world shall ne'er perceive it. "Actress" they call me,--'tis a queen's vocation! The people stare and whisper--what would they But acting, to amuse them? Is deceit Unknown, except in regal palaces? The child at play already is an actor.

Still to thyself, let weal or woe betide, Elizabeth! be true and steadfast ever! Maintain thy fixed reserve: 'tis just; what heart Can sympathize with a queen's agony? The false, false world,--it wooes me for my treasures, My favors, and the place my smile confers; And if for love I offer mutual love, My minion, not content, must have the crown. 'Twas thus with Essex; yet to thee, O heart! I dare to say it, thy all died with him!

Man must experience--be he who he may-- Of bliss a last, irrevocable day. Each owns this true, but cannot bear to live And feel the last has come, the last has gone; That never eye again in earnest tenderness Shall turn to him,--no heart shall thickly beat When his footfall is heard,--no speaking blush Tell the soul's wild delight at meeting,--never Rapture in presence, hope in absence more, Be his,--no sun of love illume his landscape! Yet thus it is with me. Throughout this heart Deep night, without a star! What all the host To me,--my Essex fallen from the heavens! To me he was the centre of the world, The ornament of time. Wood, lawn, or hall, The busy mart, the verdant solitude, To me were but the fame of one bright image; That face is dust,--those lustrous eyes are closed, And the frame mocks me with its empty centre.

How nobly free, how gallantly he bore him, The charms of youth combined with manhood's vigor! How sage his counsel, and how warm his valor,-- The glowing fire and the aspiring flame! Even in his presumption he was kingly!

But ah! does memory cheat me? What was all, Since Truth was wanting, and the man I loved Could court his death to vent his anger on me, And I must punish him, or live degraded. I chose the first; but in his death I died. Land, sea, church, people, throne,--all, all are nought, I live a living death, and call it royalty. Yet, wretched ruler o'er these empty gauds, A part remains to play, and I will play it. A purple mantle hides my empty heart, The kingly crown adorns my aching brow, And pride conceals my anguish from the world.

But in the still and ghostly midnight hour, From each intruding eye and ear set free, I still may shed the bitter, hopeless tear, Nor fear the babbling of the earless walls. I to myself may say, "I die! I die! Elizabeth, unfriended and alone, So die as thou hast lived,--alone, but queenlike!"

HYMN WRITTEN FOR A SUNDAY SCHOOL.

"And his mother said unto him, Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? Behold, thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing. "And he said unto them, How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business? "--_Luke_ ii. 48, 49

I.

Thus early was Christ's course begun, Thus radiant dawned celestial day; And those who such a race would run, As early should be on the way.

II.

His Father's business was his care, Yet in man's favor still he grew: O, might we learn, by thought and prayer, Like him a work of love to do!

III.

Wisdom and virtue still he sought, Nor ignorant nor vile despised: True was each action, pure each thought, And each pure hope he realized.

IV.

The empires of this world, in vain, Offered their sceptres to his hand; Fearless he trod the stormy main, Fearless 'mid throngs of foes could stand.

V.

Yet with his courage and his power Combined such sweetness and such love, He could revere the simplest flower, The vilest sinners firm reprove.

VI.

For all mankind he came, nor yet An infant's visit would deny; Nor friend nor mother did forget In his last hour of agony.

VII.

O, children, ask him to impart That spirit clear and temper mild, Which made the mother in her heart Keep all the sayings of her child.

VIII.

Bless him who said, of such as you His Father's kingdom is, and still, His yoke to bear, his work to do, Study his life to learn his will.

DESERTION.

TRANSLATION OF ONE OF GARCILASO'S ECLOGUES.

With my lamenting touched, the lofty trees Incline their graceful heads without a breeze; The listening birds forego their joyous song, For soft and mournful strains, which echoes faint prolong.

Lions and bears resign the charms of sleep To hear my lonely plaint, and see me weep; At my approaching death e'en stones relent. Yet though yourself the fatal cause you know, Not once on me those lovely eyes are bent: Flow freely, tears! 'tis meet that you should flow!

Although for my relief thou wilt not come, Leave not the place where once thou loved'st to roam! Here thou mayst rove secure from meeting me; With a torn heart forever hence I flee. Come, if 'twere this alone thy footsteps stayed, Here the soft meadow, the delightful shade, The roses now in flower, the waters clear, Invite thee to the valley once so dear.

Come, and bring with thee thy late-chosen love; Each object shall thy perfidy reprove; Since to another thou hast given thy heart, From this sweet scene forever I depart. And soon kind Death my sorrows shall remove, The bitter ending of my faithful love.

SONG WRITTEN FOR A MAY DAY FESTIVAL.

TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF "THE BONNY BOAT."

I.

O, blesséd be this sweet May day, The fairest of the year; The birds are heard from every spray, And the blue sky shines so clear! White blossoms deck the apple tree, Blue violets the plain; Their fragrance tells the wand'ring bee That Spring is come again. We'll cull the blossoms from the bough Where robins gayly sing, We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king.

II.

The winter wind is bleak and sad, And chill the winter rain; But these May gales blow warm and glad, And charm the heart from pain. The sick, the poor rejoice once more, Pale cheeks resume their glow, And those who thought their day was o'er New life to May suns owe. And we, in youth and health so gay, Sheltered by love and care, How should we joy in blooming May, And bless its balmy air!

III.

We are the children of the Spring; Our home is always green; Green be the garland of our king, The livery of our queen. The gardener's care the seed has strown, To deck our home with flowers; Our Father's love from high has shone, And sent the needed showers. Barren indeed the plants must be, If they should not disclose, Tended and cherished with such toil, The lily and the rose.

IV.

Meanwhile through the wild wood we'll rove, Where earliest flowerets grow, And greet each simple bud with love, Which tells us what to do-- That, though untended, we may bloom And smile on all around, And one day rise from earth's low tomb, To live where light is found. A modest violet be our queen, Still fragrant, though alone, Our king a laurel--evergreen-- To which no blight is known.

V.

So let us bless the sweet May day, And pray the coming year May see us walk the upward way-- Minds earnest, conscience clear; That fruit Spring's amplest hope may crown, And every wingéd day Make to our hearts more dear, more known, The hope, the peace of May! So cull the blossoms from the bough Where birds so gayly sing; We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king.

CARADORI SINGING.

Let not the heart o'erladen hither fly, Hoping in tears to vent its misery: She soars not like the lark with eager cry, Not hers the robin's notes of love and joy; Nor, like the nightingale's love-descant, tells Her song the truths of the heart's hidden wells. Come, if thy soul be tranquil, and her voice Shall bid the tranquil lake laugh and rejoice; Shall lightly warble, flutter, hover, dance, And charm thee by its sportive elegance. A finished style the highest art has given, And a fine organ she received from heaven: But genius casts not here one living ray; Thou shalt approve, admire, not weep, to-day.

LINES

IN ANSWER TO STANZAS CONTAINING SEVERAL PASSAGES OF DISTINGUISHED BEAUTY, ADDRESSED TO ME BY----.

As by the wayside the worn traveller lies, And finds no pillow for his aching brow, Except the pack beneath whose weight he dies,-- If loving breezes from the far west blow, Laden with perfume from those blissful bowers Where gentle youth and hope once gilded all his hours, As fans that loving breeze, tears spring again, And cool the fever of his wearied brain.

Even so to me the soft romantic dream Of one who still may sit at fancy's feet, Where love and beauty yet are all the theme, Where spheral concords find an echo meet. To the ideal my vexed spirit turns, But often for communion vainly burns. Blest is that hour when breeze of poesy From far the ancient fragrance wafts to me; _This time_ thrice blest, because it came unsought, "Sweet suppliance," and _dear_, because _unbought_.

INFLUENCE OF THE OUTWARD.

The sun, the moon, the waters, and the air, The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair; Flower-alphabets, love-letters from the wave, All mysteries which flutter, blow, skim, lave; All that is ever-speaking, never spoken, Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,-- Have played upon my soul, and every string Confessed the touch which once could make it sing Triumphal notes; and still, though changed the tone, Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known, It would, if fitly played, and all its deep notes wove Into one tissue of belief and love, Yield melodies for angel-audience meet, And pæans fit creative power to greet.

O, injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred; No garlands deck thee; no libations poured Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song; No princely halls echo thy strains along; But still the strings are there; and if at last they break, Even in death some melody will make. Mightst thou once more be strung, might yet the power be given, To tell in numbers all thou hast of heaven! But no! thy fragments scattered by the way, To children given, help the childish play. Be it thy pride to feel thy latest sigh Could not forget the law of harmony, Thou couldst not live for bliss--but thou for truth couldst die!

TO MISS R. B.[47]

A graceful fiction of the olden day Tells us that, by a mighty master's sway, A city rose, obedient to the lyre; That his sweet strains rude matter could inspire With zeal his harmony to emulate; Thus to the spot where that sweet singer sat The rocks advanced, in symmetry combined, To form the palace and the temple joined. The arts are sisters, and united all, So architecture answered music's call.

In modern days such feats no more we see, And matter dares 'gainst mind a rebel be; The faith is gone such miracles which wrought; Masons and carpenters must aid our thought; The harp and voice in vain would try their skill To raise a city on our hard-bound soil; The rocks have lain asleep so many a year, Nothing but gunpowder will make them stir; I doubt if even for your voice would come The smallest pebble from its sandy home; But, if the minstrel can no more create, For _building_, if he live a little late, He wields a power of not inferior kind, No longer rules o'er matter, but o'er mind. And when a voice like yours its song doth pour, If it can raise palace and tower no more, It can each ugly fabric melt away, Bidding the fancy fairer scenes portray; Its soft and brilliant tones our thoughts can wing To climes whence they congenial magic bring; As by the sweet Italian voice is given Dream of the radiance of Italia's heaven.

Whether in round, low notes the strain may swell, As if some tale of woe or wrong to tell, Or swift and light the upward notes are heard, With the full carolling clearness of a bird, The stream of sound untroubled flows along, And no obstruction mars your finished song. No stifled notes, no gasp, no ill-taught graces, No vulgar trills in worst-selected places, None of the miseries which haunt a land Where all would learn what so few understand, Afflict in hearing you; in you we find The finest organ, and informed by mind.

And as, in that same fable I have quoted, It is of that town-making artist noted, That, where he leaned his lyre upon a stone, The stone stole somewhat of that lovely tone, And afterwards each untaught passer-by, By touching it, could rouse the melody,-- Even thus a heart once by your music thrilled, An ear which your delightful voice has filled, In memory a talisman have found To repel many a dull, harsh, after-sound; And, as the music lingered in the stone, After the minstrel and the lyre were gone, Even so my thoughts and wishes, turned to sweetness, Lend to the heavy hours unwonted fleetness; And common objects, calling up the tone, I caught from you, wake beauty not their own.

SISTRUM.[48]

Triune, shaping, restless power, Life-flow from life's natal hour, No music chords are in thy sound; By some thou'rt but a rattle found; Yet, without thy ceaseless motion, To ice would turn their dead devotion. Life-flow of my natal hour, I will not weary of thy power, Till in the changes of thy sound A chord's three parts distinct are found. I will faithful move with thee, God-ordered, self-fed energy. Nature in eternity.

IMPERFECT THOUGHTS.

The peasant boy watches the midnight sky; He sees the meteor dropping from on high; He hastens whither the bright guest hath flown, And finds--a mass of black, unseemly stone. Disdainful, disappointed, turns he home. If a philosopher that way had come, He would have seized the waif with great delight, And honored it as an aerolite. But truly it would need a Cuvier's mind High meaning in _my_ meteors to find. Well, in my museum there is room to spare-- I'll let them stay till Cuvier goes there!

SADNESS.

Lonely lady, tell me why That abandonment of eye? Life is full, and nature fair; How canst thou dream of dull despair?

Life is full and nature fair; A dull folly is despair; But the heart lies still and tame For want of what it may not claim.

Lady, chide that foolish heart, And bid it act a nobler part; The love thou couldst be bid resign Never could be worthy thine.

O, I know, and knew it well, How unworthy was the spell In its silken band to bind My heaven-born, heaven-seeking mind.

Thou lonely moon, thou knowest well Why I yielded to the spell; Just so thou didst condescend Thy own precept to offend.

When wondering nymphs thee questioned why That abandonment of eye, Crying, "Dian,[49] heaven's queen, What can that trembling eyelash mean?"

Waning, over ocean's breast, Thou didst strive to hide unrest From the question of their eyes, Unseeing in their dull surprise.

Thy Endymion had grown old; Thy only love was marred with cold; No longer to the secret cave Thy ray could pierce, and answer have.

No more to thee, no more, no more, Till thy circling life be o'er, A mutual heart shall be a home, Of weary wishes happy tomb.

No more, no more--O words which sever Hearts from their hopes, to part forever! They can believe it never!

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.[50]

Some names there are at sight of which will rise Visions of triumph to the dullest eyes; They breathe of garlands from a grateful race, They tell of victory o'er all that's base; To write them eagles might their plumage give, And granite rocks should yield, that they may live.

Others there are at sight of which will rise Visions of beauty to all loving eyes, Of radiant sweetness, or of gentle grace, The poesy of manner or of face, Spell of intense, if not of widest power; The strong the ages rule; the fair, the hour.

And there are names at sight of which will rise Visions of goodness to the mourner's eyes; They tell of generosity untired, Which gave to others all the heart desired; Of Virtue's _uncomplaining_ sacrifice, And holy hopes which sought their native skies.

If I could hope that at my name would rise Visions like these, before those gentle eyes, How gladly would I place it in the shrine Where many honored names are linked with thine, And know, if lone and far my pathway lies, My name is living 'mid the good and wise.

It must not be, for now I know too well That those to whom my name has aught to tell O'er baffled efforts would lament or blame. Who heeds a breaking reed?--a sinking flame? Best wishes and kind thoughts I give to thee, But mine, indeed, an _empty name_ would be.

TO S. C.

Our friend has likened thee to the sweet fern, Which with no flower salutes the ardent day, Yet, as the wanderer pursues his way, While the dews fall, and hues of sunset burn, Sheds forth a fragrance from the deep green brake, Sweeter than the rich scents that gardens make. Like thee, the fern loves well the hallowed shade Of trees that quietly aspire on high; Amid such groves was consecration made Of vestals, tranquil as the vestal sky.

Like thee, the fern doth better love to hide Beneath the leaf the treasure of its seed, Than to display it, with an idle pride, To any but the careful gatherer's heed-- A treasure known to philosophic ken, Garnered in nature, asking nought of men; Nay, can invisible the wearer make, Who would unnoted in life's game partake. But I will liken thee to the sweet bay, Which I first learned, in the Cohasset woods, To name upon a sweet and pensive day Passed in their ministering solitudes.

I had grown weary of the anthem high Of the full waves, cheering the patient rocks; I had grown weary of the sob and sigh Of the dull ebb, after emotion's shocks; My eye was weary of the glittering blue And the unbroken horizontal line; My mind was weary, tempted to pursue The circling waters in their wide design, Like snowy sea-gulls stooping to the wave, Or rising buoyant to the utmost air, To dart, to circle, airily to lave, Or wave-like float in foam-born lightness fair: I had swept onward like the wave so full, Like sea weed now left on the shore so dull.

I turned my steps to the retreating hills, Rejected sand from that great haughty sea, Watered by nature with consoling rills, And gradual dressed with grass, and shrub, and tree; They seemed to welcome me with timid smile, That said, "We'd like to soothe you for a while; You seem to have been treated by the sea In the same way that long ago were we."

They had not much to boast, those gentle slopes, For the wild gambols of the sea-sent breeze Had mocked at many of their quiet hopes, And bent and dwarfed their fondly cherished trees; Yet even in those marks of by-past wind, There was a tender stilling for my mind.

Hiding within a small but thick-set wood, I soon forgot the haughty, chiding flood. The sheep bell's tinkle on the drowsy ear, With the bird's chirp, so short, and light, and clear, Composed a melody that filled my heart With flower-like growths of childish, artless art, And of the tender, tranquil life I lived apart.

It was an hour of pure tranquillity, Like to the autumn sweetness of thine eye, Which pries not, seeks not, and yet clearly sees-- Which wooes not, beams not, yet is sure to please. Hours passed, and sunset called me to return Where its sad glories on the cold wave burn.

Rising from my kind bed of thick-strewn leaves, A fragrance the astonished sense receives, Ambrosial, searching, yet retiring, mild: Of that soft scene the soul was it? or child? 'Twas the sweet bay I had unwitting spread, A pillow for my senseless, throbbing head, And which, like all the sweetest things, demands, To make it speak, the grasp of alien hands.

All that this scene did in that moment tell, I since have read, O wise, mild friend! in thee. Pardon the rude grasp, its sincerity, And feel that I, at least, have known thee well. Grudge not the green leaves ravished from thy stem, Their music, should I live, muse-like to tell; Thou wilt, in fresher green forgetting them, Send others to console me for farewell. Thou wilt see why the dim word of regret Was made the one to rhyme with Margaret.

But to the Oriental parent tongue, Sunrise of Nature, does my chosen name, My name of Leila, as a spell, belong, Teaching the meaning of each temporal blame; I chose it by the sound, not knowing why; But since I know that Leila stands for night, I own that sable mantle of the sky, Through which pierce, gem-like, points of distant light; As sorrow truths, so night brings out her stars; O, add not, bard! that those stars shine too late! While earth grows green amid the ocean jars, And trumpets yet shall wake the slain of her long century-wars.

LINES WRITTEN IN BOSTON ON A BEAUTIFUL AUTUMNAL DAY.

As late we lived upon the gentle stream, Nature refused us smiles and kindly airs; The sun but rarely deigned a pallid gleam; Then clouds came instantly, like glooms and tears, Upon the timid flickerings of our hope; The moon, amid the thick mists of the night, Had scarcely power her gentle eye to ope, And climb the heavenly steeps. A moment bright Shimmered the hectic leaves, then rudely torn By winds that sobbed to see the wreck they made, Upon the amber waves were thickly borne Adonis' gardens for the realms of shade, While thoughts of beauty past all wish for livelier life forbade.

So sped the many days of tranquil life, And on the stream, or by the mill's bright fire, The wailing winds had told of distant strife, Still bade us for the moment yield desire To think, to feel, the moment gave,--we needed not aspire!

Returning here, no harvest fields I see, Nor russet beauty of the thoughtful year. Where is the honey of the city bee? No leaves upon this muddy stream appear. The housekeeper is getting in his coal, The lecturer his showiest thoughts is selling; I hear of Major Somebody, the Pole, And Mr. Lyell, how rocks grow, is telling; But not a breath of thoughtful poesy Does any social impulse bring to me; But many cares, sad thoughts of men unwise, Base yieldings, and unransomed destinies, Hopes uninstructed, and unhallowed ties.

Yet here the sun smiles sweet as heavenly love, Upon the eve of earthly severance; The youthfulest tender clouds float all above, And earth lies steeped in odors like a trance. The moon looks down as though she ne'er could leave us, And these last trembling leaves sigh, "Must they too deceive us?" Surely some life is living in this light, Truer than mine some soul received last night; I cannot freely greet this beauteous day, But does not _thy_ heart swell to hail the genial ray? I would not nature these last loving words in vain should say.

TO E. C.

WITH HERBERT'S POEMS.

Dost thou remember that fair summer's day, As, sick and weary on my couch I lay, Thou broughtst this little book, and didst diffuse O'er my dark hour the light of Herbert's muse? The "Elixir," and "True Hymn," were then thy choice, And the high strain gained sweetness from thy voice. The book, before that day to me unknown, I took to heart at once, and made my own.

Three winters and three summers since have passed, And bitter griefs the hearts of both have tried; Thy sympathy is lost to me at last; A dearer love has torn thee from my side; Scenes, friends, to me unknown, now claim thy care; No more thy joys or griefs I soothe or share; No more thy lovely form my eye shall bless; The gentle smile, the timid, mute caress, No more shall break the icy chains which may my heart oppress.

New duties claim us both; indulgent Heaven Ten years of mutual love to us had given; The plants from early youth together grew, Together all youth's sun and tempests knew. At age mature arrived, thou, graceful vine! Didst seek a sheltering tree round which to twine; While I, like northern fir, must be content To clasp the rock which gave my youth its scanty nourishment.

The world for which we sighed is with us now; No longer musing on the _why_ or _how_, _What_ really does exist we now must meet; Life's dusty highway is beneath our feet; Life's fainting pilgrims claim our ministry, And the whole scene speaks stern _reality_.

Say, in the tasks reality has brought, Keepst _thou_ the plan that pleased thy childish thought? Does Herbert's "Hymn" in thy heart echo now? Herbert's "Elixir" in thy bosom glow? In Herbert's "Temper" dost thou strive to be? Does Herbert's "Pearl" seem the true pearl to thee? O, if 'tis so, I have not prayed in vain!-- My friend, my sister, we shall meet again.

I dare not say that _I_ am always true To the vocation which my young thought knew; But the Great Spirit blesses me, and still, Though clouds may darken o'er the heavenly will, Upon the hidden sun my thoughts can rest, And oft the rainbow glitters in the west. This earth no more seems all the world to me; Before me shines a far eternity, Whose laws to me, when thought is calmly poised, Suffice, as they to angels have sufficed. I know the thunder has not ceased to roll, Not all the iron yet has pierced my soul; I know no earthly honors wait for me, No earthly love my heart shall satisfy. Tears, of these eyes still oft the guests must be, Long hours be borne, of chilling apathy; Still harder teachings come to make me wise, And life's best blood must seal the sacrifice.

But He who still seems nearer and more bright, Nor from my _seeking_ eye withholds his light, Will not forsake me, for his pledge is given; Virtue shall teach the soul its way to heaven.

O, pray for me, and I for thee will pray; And more than loving words we used to say Shall this avail. But little more we meet In life--ah, how the years begin to fleet! Ask--pray that I may seek beauty and truth, In their high sphere we shall renew our youth. On wings of _steadfast faith_ there mayst _thou_ soar, And _my_ soul fret at barriers no more!

* * * * *

MARGARET FULLER'S WORKS AND MEMOIRS.

WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, and kindred papers relating to the Sphere, Condition, and Duties of Woman. Edited by her brother, ARTHUR B. FULLER, with an Introduction by HORACE GREELEY. In 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.

ART, LITERATURE, AND THE DRAMA. 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.

LIFE WITHOUT AND LIFE WITHIN; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems. 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.

AT HOME AND ABROAD; or, Things and Thoughts in America and Europe. 1 vol. 16mo. $1.50.

MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON, WILLIAM HENRY CHANNING, and JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. With Portrait and Appendix. 2 vols. 16mo. $3.00. Cheap edition. Two vols. in one. $1.50.

MARGARET FULLER will be remembered as one of the "Great Conversers," the "Prophet of the Woman Movement" in this country, and her Memoirs will be read with delight as among the tenderest specimens of biographical writing in our language. She was never an extremist. She considered woman neither man's rival nor his foe, but his complement. As she herself said, she believed that the development of one could not be affected without that of the other. Her words, so noble in tone, so moderate in spirit, so eloquent in utterance, should not be forgotten by her sisters. Horace Greeley, in his introduction to her "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," says: "She was one of the earliest, as well as ablest, among American women to demand for her sex equality before the law with her titular lord and master. Her writings on this subject have the force that springs from the ripening of profound reflection into assured conviction. It is due to her memory, as well as to the great and living cause of which she was so eminent and so fearless an advocate, that what she thought and said with regard to the position of her sex and its limitations should be fully and fairly placed before the public." No woman who wishes to understand the full scope of what is called the woman's movement should fail to read these pages, and see in them how one woman proved her right to a position in literature hitherto occupied by men, by filling it nobly.

The Story of this rich, sad, striving, unsatisfied life, with its depths of emotion and its surface sparkling and glowing, is told tenderly and reverently by her biographers. Their praise is eulogy, and their words often seem extravagant, but they knew her well, they spoke as they felt. The character that could awaken such interest and love surely is a rare one.

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"Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's biography of _Margaret Fuller_, in the Famous Women Series of Messrs. Roberts Brothers, is a work which has been looked for with curiosity. It will not disappoint expectation. She has made a brilliant and an interesting book. Her study of Margaret Fuller's character is thoroughly sympathetic; her relation of her life is done in a graphic and at times a fascinating manner. It is the case of one woman of strong individuality depicting the points which made another one of the most marked characters of her day. It is always agreeable to follow Mrs. Howe in this; for while we see marks of her own mind constantly, there is no inartistic protrusion of her personality. The book is always readable, and the relation of the death-scene is thrillingly impressive."--_Saturday Gazette._

"Mrs. Julia Ward Howe has retold the story of Margaret Fuller's life and career in a very interesting manner. This remarkable woman was happy in having James Freeman Clarke, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and William Henry Channing, all of whom had been intimate with her and had felt the spell of her extraordinary personal influence, for her biographers. It is needless to say, of course, that nothing could be better than these reminiscences in their way."--_New York World._

"The selection of Mrs. Howe as the writer of this biography was a happy thought on the part of the editor of the series; for, aside from the natural appreciation she would have for Margaret Fuller, comes her knowledge of all the influences that had their effect on Margaret Fuller's life. She tells the story of Margaret Fuller's interesting life from all sources and from her own knowledge, not hesitating to use plenty of quotations when she felt that others, or even Margaret Fuller herself, had done the work better."--_Miss Gilder, in Philadelphia Press._

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

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"The present volume has already shared the fate of several of the recent biographies of the distinguished dead, and has been well advertised by the public contradiction of more or less important points in the relation by the living friends of the dead genius. One of Mrs. Miller's chief concerns in writing this life seems to have been to redeem the character of Harriet Martineau from the appearance of hardness and unamiability with which her own autobiography impresses the reader.... Mrs Miller, however, succeeds in this volume in showing us an altogether different side to her character,--a home-loving, neighborly, bright-natured, tender-hearted, witty, lovable, and altogether womanly woman, as well as the clear thinker, the philosophical reasoner, and comprehensive writer whom we already knew."--_The Index._

"Already ten volumes in this library are published; namely, George Eliot, Emily Brontë, George Sand, Mary Lamb, Margaret Fuller, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Fry, The Countess of Albany, Mary Wollstonecraft, and the present volume. Surely a galaxy of wit and wealth of no mean order! Miss M. will rank with any of them in womanliness or gifts or grace. At home or abroad, in public or private. She was noble and true, and her life stands confessed a success. True, she was literary, but she was a home lover and home builder. She never lost the higher aims and ends of life, no matter how flattering her success. This whole series ought to be read by the young ladies of to-day. More of such biography would prove highly beneficial."--_Troy Telegram._

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"A biography of Mary Lamb must inevitably be also, almost more, a biography of Charles Lamb, so completely was the life of the sister encompassed by that of her brother; and it must be allowed that Mrs. Anne Gilchrist has performed a difficult biographical task with taste and ability.... The reader is at least likely to lay down the book with the feeling that if Mary Lamb is not famous she certainly deserves to be, and that a debt of gratitude is due Mrs. Gilchrist for this well-considered record of her life."--_Boston Courier._

"Mary Lamb, who was the embodiment of everything that is tenderest in woman, combined with this a heroism which bore her on for a while through the terrors of insanity. Think of a highly intellectual woman struggling year after year with madness, triumphant over it for a season, and then at last succumbing to it. The saddest lines that ever were written are those descriptive of this brother and sister just before Mary, on some return of insanity, was to leave Charles Lamb. 'On one occasion Mr. Charles Lloyd met them slowly pacing together a little foot-path in Hoxton Fields, both weeping bitterly, and found, on joining them, that they were taking their solemn way to the accustomed asylum.' What pathos is there not here?"--_New York Times._

"This life was worth writing, for all records of weakness conquered, of pain patiently borne, of success won from difficulty, of cheerfulness in sorrow and affliction, make the world better. Mrs. Gilchrist's biography is unaffected and simple. She has told the sweet and melancholy story with judicious sympathy, showing always the light shining through darkness."--_Philadelphia Press._

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* * * * *

The following typographical errors were corrected by the etext transcriber:

No less pedantic is the style in which the grown-up, in stature at least, undertake to become acquainted with Dante.=> No less pedantic is the style in which the grown-up, in stature at least, undertakes to become acquainted with Dante.

Even the proem shows how large is his nature=>Even the poem shows how large is his nature

There is a little poem in the Schnellpost, by Mority Hartmann=>There is a little poem in the Schnellpost, by Moritz Hartmann

If a character be uncorrrpted=>If a character be uncorrupted

of a noble dscription=>of a noble description

law with her titluar lord and master=>law with her titular lord and master

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "He who would do great things must quickly draw together his forces. The master can only show himself such through limitation, and the law alone can give us freedom."

[2] Except in "La belle France."

[3] Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, translated from the German by my sister, form one volume of the "Specimens of Foreign Literature," edited by Rev. George Ripley, and published in 1839. This volume has been republished by James Munroe & Co., Boston, within a few years.--ED.

[4] The name of Macaria is one of noblest association. It is that of the daughter of Hercules, who devoted herself a voluntary sacrifice for her country. She was adored by the Greeks as the true Felicity.

[5] "By the Author of Essays of Summer Hours."

[6] The Life of Beethoven, including his Correspondence with his Friends, numerous characteristic Traits, and Remarks on his Musical Works. Edited by Ignace Moscheles, Pianist to His Royal Highness Prince Albert.

[7] See article on Beethoven, in Margaret's volume, entitled "Art, Literature, and the Drama."--ED.

[8] Ormond, or the Secret Witness; Wieland, or the Transformation; by Charles Brockden Brown.

[9] The Raven and other Poems, by Edgar A. Poe, 1845.

[10] The Autobiography of Alfieri, translated by C. E. Lester. Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, translated by Roscoe.

[11] Although the errors here specially referred to by my sister have been corrected in this volume, I let her statement remain as explanation of any other errors which may possibly have crept into type, in this volume, through the illegibility of some of her manuscripts from which I have been compelled to copy for this work.--ED.

[12] Napoleon and his Marshals, by J. T. Headley.

[13] Physical Education and the Preservation of Health, by John C. Warren.

[14] Physiological and Moral Management of Infancy, by Andrew Combe, M. D.

[15] Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, written by himself.

[16] Philip van Artevelde, A Dramatic Romance, by Henry Taylor.

[17] For a translation by my sister of this Drama, see Part III. of her "Art, Literature, and the Drama," where it is now, for the first time, published, simultaneously with the appearance of this volume.--ED.

[18] The Poetical Works of Percy Bysche Shelley. First American edition (complete.) With a Biographical and Critical Notice, by G. G. Foster.

[19] Festus: A Poem, by Philip James Bailey. First American edition, Boston.

[20] Balzac, Eugene Sue, De Vigny.

[21] Etherology, or the Philosophy of Mesmerism and Phrenology: Including a New Philosophy of Sleep and of Consciousness, with a Review of the Pretensions of Neurology and Phreno-Magnetism. By J. Stanley Grimes.

[22] A German newspaper.

[23] Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell, by Thomas Carlyle.

[24] I conclude the poor boy Oliver has already fallen in these wars; none of us knows where, though his father well knew.

[25] Sir Philip Warwick's Memoirs, (London, 1701,) p. 249.

[26] Essays, Second Series, by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

[27] A Defence of Capital Punishment, and an Essay on the Ground and Reason of Punishment, with Special Reference to the Penalty of Death New York, 1846.

[28] [In refusing to repeal what are technically and significantly termed her "Black Laws," relating to the settlement of colored men, and their rights within that state.--ED.]

[29] John Quincy Adams.

[30] For her treatment of a sister republic in our late war with Mexico.

[31] Miss Delia Webster.

[32] Hon. Samuel Hoar, sent to Charleston, S. C., to test in the courts her laws, and driven thence with his daughter by a mob.

[33] It is well known that in this sketch my sister gives an account of an incident in the history of her own school-girl life. I need scarcely say that only so far as this incident is concerned is the story of Mariana in any sense autobiographical.--ED.

[34][Agis, king of Sparta, the fourth of that name. "One of the most beautiful characters of antiquity."--ED.]

[35] [In New York.--ED.]

[36] Meta, the wife of Klopstock, one of Germany's most celebrated poets, is doubtless well known to many of our readers through the beautiful letters to Samuel Richardson, the novelist, or through Mrs. Jameson's work, entitled the Loves of the Poets. It is said that Klopstock wrote continually to her even after her death.

[37] Fact, that this is affirmed.

[38] Facts.

[39] Facts.

[40] Facts.

[41] The destruction of Mr. Clay's press by a mob.--ED.

[42] _Margaret_ means _Pearl_.--ED.

[43] Published in the New York Tribune, Aug. 1, 1846, just previous to sailing for Europe.--ED.

[44] Goethe says, "A little golden heart, which I had received from Lili in those fairy hours, still hung by the same little chain to which she had fastened it, love-warmed, about my neck. I seized hold of it--kissed it." This was the occasion of these lines. The poet now was separated from Lili, and striving to forget her in journeying about.--ED.

[45] Buddhist term for absorption into the divine mind.

[46] This horse, Konick, was caught early, marked, and then let loose again, for a time, among the herd. He still retains a wild freedom and beauty in his movements.

[47] A sweet and beautiful singer.--ED.

[48] A musical instrument of the ancients, employed by the Egyptians in the worship of Isis. It was to be kept in constant motion, and, according to Plutarch, was intended to indicate the necessity of constant motion on the part of men--the need of being often shaken by fierce trials and agitations when they become morbid or indolent.--ED.

[49] Diana is represented as driving the chariot of the moon, as Apollo that of the sun. Mythology states that while enlightening the earth as Luna, the moon, she beheld the hunter Endymion sleeping in the forest. With her rays she kissed the lips of the hunter--a favor she had never before bestowed on god or man.--ED.

[50] These lines were written without her signature attached.--ED.

End of Project Gutenberg's Life Without and Life Within, by Margaret Fuller