Part 9

A soft air fans the cloud apart: there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch--if I be he that watched-- The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not forever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground: Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

_Alfred Tennyson._

* * * * *

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.

(From the Irish.)

O woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let yourtongue thus rattle! O don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle! I've seen--and here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-- A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser, And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows; Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,-- 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning. Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

O think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted,-- See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse; Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story,-- Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory! Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!

The O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest; Yet who so great as they of yore, in battle or carouse? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbor's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, Because, forsooth, you've got three cows,--one more, I see, than she has; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows, But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

_James Clarence Mangan._

* * * * *

A FAREWELL.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand sweet song.

_Charles Kingsley._

* * * * *

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

Thou still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of silence and slow time! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme! What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,-- Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone! Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal; yet do not grieve,-- She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu: And happy melodist, unweariéd, Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, Forever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? Ah, little town, thy streets forevermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed! Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought, As doth eternity. Cold pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

_John Keats._

* * * * *

LINES ON A SKELETON.

Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full This narrow cell was Life's retreat, This space was Thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous visions filled this spot, What dreams of pleasure long forgot, Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, Have left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye, But start not at the dismal void,-- If social love that eye employed, If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; If Falsehood's honey it disdained, And when it could not praise was chained; If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke,-- This silent tongue shall plead for thee When Time unveils Eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine? Or with the envied rubies shine? To hew the rock or wear a gem Can little now avail to them. But if the page of Truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod These feet the paths of duty trod? If from the bowers of Ease they fled, To seek Affliction's humble shed; If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, And home to Virtue's cot returned,-- These feet with angel wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky!

_Anonymous._

* * * * *

VIRTUE.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows you have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But when the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives.

_George Herbert._

* * * * *

THE LIE.

Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant: Go, since I needs must die, And give them all the lie.

Go tell the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go tell the Church it shows What's good, but does no good: If Court and Church reply, Give Court and Church the lie.

Tell Potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions; Not loved, unless they give, Nor strong but by their factions: If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition; Their practice only hate: And if they do reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell those that brave it most They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lie.

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; Tell Love it is but lust; Tell Time it is but motion; Tell Flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Honor how it alters; Tell Beauty that it blasteth; Tell Favor that she falters: And as they do reply, Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit how much it wrangles In fickle points of niceness; Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness: And if they do reply, Then give them both the lie.

Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Skill it is pretension; Tell Charity of coldness; Tell Law it is contention: And if they yield reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell Fortune of her blindness; Tell Nature of decay; Tell Friendship of unkindness; Tell Justice of delay: And if they do reply, Then give them still the lie.

Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell Schools they lack profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie.

Tell Faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell, Manhood shakes off pity; Tell, Virtue least preferreth: And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing: Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill!

_Sir Walter Raleigh._

* * * * *

TWO WOMEN.

The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair,-- For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo,-- But honored well are charms to sell, If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,-- A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail,-- 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!-- But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

_Nathaniel Parker Willis._

* * * * *

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

Tread softly,--bow the head,-- In reverent silence bow,-- No passing-bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now.

Stranger, however great, With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shed-- One by that paltry bed-- Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state. Enter, no crowds attend; Enter, no guards defend _This_ palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,-- An infant wail alone; A sob suppressed,--again That short deep gasp, and then-- The parting groan.

O change! O wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars,-- This moment _there_ so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars.

O change! stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod; The sun eternal breaks, The new immortal wakes,-- Wakes with his God.

_Caroline Bowles Southey._

* * * * *

ON A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE IN A STORM.

I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air, So like, so very like was day to day, Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep, No mood which season takes away or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand To express what then I saw, and add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration and the poet's dream,--

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile, On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made, And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.

So once it would have been,--'tis so no more. I have submitted to a new control; A power has gone which nothing can restore, A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been; The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

Then, Beaumont, friend, who would have been the friend, If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend, This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

O, 'tis a passionate work! yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear.

And this huge castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream at distance from the kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind.

But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne, Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

_William Wordsworth._

* * * * *

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!-- Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain!-- Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more!--what wealth untold, Far down and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies!-- Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, the depths have more!--thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.-- Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play! Man yields them to decay.

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest.-- Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!--those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,-- But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown; Yet must thou hear a voice,--Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!-- Restore the dead, thou sea!

_Felicia Hemans._

* * * * *

THE CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on, O'er the still radiance of the lake below: Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, E'en in its very motion there was rest, While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

_John Wilson._

* * * * *

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purple wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell Where its dim-dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil: Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

* * * * *

ST. AGNES.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Through all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide,-- A light upon the shining sea,-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

_Alfred Tennyson._

* * * * *

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars,-- Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home; Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?

Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable-door Across his path. He passed,--for naught Told what was going on within; How keen the stars, his only thought,-- The air how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

O, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still,--but knew not why; The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever,-- In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!