Chapter 4

Not by the margent of the sea, But on the hilltop I would be, My little house a mossy den, Between me and the world of men. Beside me dips a wide ravine, Covered with a flowery screen; Far round me rise a band of hills, Whose voices reach me by their rills, Or deep susurrus of the wood, That stands in stately brotherhood, Upholding one vast web of green, Whereunder foot has never been-- The pine and elm, the birch and oak-- And thus their voices me invoke: "If you would on the hilltop be, We cannot share your misery; Cease, cease this moaning for the Past: The law of grief can never last." When springtime brings anemones, Upon the sod I take my ease, Or search for Arethusa's pink, Along the torrent's ragged brink; Or in the tinted April hours I watch the curtain of the showers That fall beneath a lurking cloud, Which for a moment throws a shroud On the sun's arrows in the west, Till it blaze up a golden crest. The young moon bends her crescent horn Against the lingering summer morn; Then, riding down the starry sky, She follows me till night goes by. And when the dawn breaks on yon town, I think the sleepers lying down Must rise to shoulder dismal care Methinks that once was but my fare. But I upon the hilltop yet Am free from every tangling fret; So ever thus, in peace of mind, I give my pity to my kind. For me this noble solitude! And as I face its varying mood, Reflected in its every show, Some higher self I come to know. See, autumn here, with color glad, Not like the poets--russet clad-- But scarlet, umber, green, and gold; Then in a breath I must behold The autumn winds tear down my screen, And leave me not a leaf to glean. The snow will cover glen and height, And all my hilltop glisten white; I see the crystal atoms fly Under the dome of this gray sky. Like gnomes are they, these spectral gleams? Or shall I guess them only dreams? Whatever is the truth, I say, If up and down the world I stray, Still on the hilltop I would be, Not by the margent of the sea!

THE MESSAGE.

To you, my comrades, whether far or near, I send this message. Let our past revive; Come, sound reveille to our hearts once more. Expecting, I shall wait till at my door I see you enter, each and every one Tumultuous, eager all, with clamorous speech, To hide my stammering welcome and my tears. I am no host carousing long and late, Enticing guests with epicurean hints; Nor am I Timon, sick of this sad world, Who, jesting, cries, "The sky is overhead, And underneath that famous rest, the earth: Show me the man who can have more at last."

Without, the thunder of the city rolls; Within, the quiet of the student reigns. There is a change. Time was a childish voice. Sweet as the lark's when from her nest she soars, Thrilled over all, and vanished into heaven. Music once triumphed here: the skilful hand Of him who rarely struck the keys, and woke My soul in harmony grand as his own, Is folded on his breast, my soldier love. Here hangs his portrait, under it his sword; He served his country, and his grave's afar. Dread not this place as one to relics given, Though I have decked with amaranth my wall, The testimony of a later loss-- His who long wandering in foreign lands, Then dying, crossed the sea to die with me. Behold the sunrise and the morning clouds On yonder canvas, misty mountain-peaks-- The simple grandeur of a perfect art! Behold these vivid woods, that gleam beside The happy vision of an autumn eve, When red leaves fall, and redder sunsets fade! The world grows pensive sinking into night, Whose melancholy space hides sighing winds: Can they reply to sadder human speech? What centuries are counted here--my books! Shadows of mighty men; the chorus, hark! The antique chant vibrates, and Fate compels!

Comrades, return; the midnight lamp shall gleam As in old nights; the chaplets woven then-- Withered, perhaps, by time--may grace us yet; The laurel faded is the laurel still, And some of us are heroes to ourselves. And amber wine shall flow; the blue smoke wreathe In droll disputes, with metaphysics mixed; Or float as lightly as the quick-spun verse, Threading the circle round from thought to thought, Sparkling and fresh as is the airy web Spread on the hedge at morn in silver dew. The scent of roses you remember well; In the green vases they shall bloom again. And me--do you remember? I remain Unchanged, I think; though one I saw like me Some years ago, with hair that was not white; And she was with you then, as brave a soul As souls can be whom Fate has not approached. But seek and find me now, unchanged or changed, Mirthful in tears, and in my laughter sad.

EXILE.

Blind in these stony streets, dumb in their crowds, What can I do but dream of other days? Whose is the love I had, and have not now? If it be Nature's, let her answer me. It wanders by the blue, monotonous sea, Where rushes grow, or follows all the sweep Of shallow summer brooks and umber pools. Or does it linger in those hidden paths Where starlike blossoms blow among dead leaves, And dark groves murmur over darker shrubs, Birds with their fledgelings sleep, and pale moths flit? With sunset's crimson flags perhaps it goes, And reappears with yellow Jupiter, Riding the West beside the crescent moon. Comes it with sunrise, when the sunrise floats From Night's bold towers, vast in the East, and gray Till tower and wall flash into fiery clouds, Moving along the verge, stately and slow, Ordered by the old music of the spheres? Perchance it trembles in October's oaks; Or, twining with the brilliant, berried vine, Would hide the tender, melancholy elm. Well might it rest within those solemn woods Where sunlight never falls--whose tops are green With airs from heaven,--its balmy mists and rains,-- While underneath black, mossy, mammoth rocks Keep silence with the waste of blighted boughs. If winter riots with the wreathing snow, And ocean, tossing all his threatening plumes, And winds, that tear the hollow, murky sky, Can this, my love, which dwells no more with me, Find dwelling there,--like some storm-driven bird, That knows not whence it flew, nor where to fly, Between the world of sea and world of cloud, At last drops dead in the remorseless deep?

A SEASIDE IDYL.

I wandered to the shore, nor knew I then What my desire,--whether for wild lament, Or sweet regret, to fill the idle pause Of twilight, melancholy in my house, And watch the flowing tide, the passing sails, Or to implore the air, and sea, and sky, For that eternal passion in their power Which souls like mine who ponder on their fate May feel, and be as they--gods to themselves. Thither I went, whatever was my mood. The sands, the rocks, and beds of bending sedge, I saw alone. Between the east and west, Along the beach no creature moved besides. High on the eastern point a lighthouse shone; Steered by its lamp a ship stood out to sea, And vanished from its rays towards the deep, While in the west, above a wooded isle, An island-cloud hung in the emerald sky, Hiding pale Venus in its sombre shade. I wandered up and down the sands, I loitered Among the rocks, and trampled through the sedge: But I grew weary of the stocks and stones. "I will go hence," I thought; "the Elements Have lost their charm; my soul is dead to-night. Oh passive, creeping Sea, and stagnant Air, Farewell! Dull sands, and rocks, and sedge, farewell." Homeward I turned my face, but stayed my feet. Should I go back but to revive again The ancient pain? Hark! suddenly there came From over sea, a sound like that of speech; And suddenly I felt my pulses leap As though some Presence were approaching me. Loud as the voice of Ocean's dark-haired king A breeze came down the sea,--the sea rose high; The surging waves sang round me--this their song: "Oh, yet your love will triumph! He shall come In love's wild tumult; he shall come once more,-- By tracks of ocean or by paths of earth; The wanderer will reach you and remain." The breakers dashed among the rocks, and they Seemed full of life; the foam dissolved the sands, And the sedge trembled in the swelling tide. Was this a promise of the vaunting Sea, Or the illusion of a last despair? Either, or both, still homeward I must go, And that way turned mine eyes, and thought they met A picture,--surely so,--or I was mad. The crimson harvest-moon was rising full Above my roof, and glimmered on my walls. Within the doorway stood a man I knew-- No picture this. I saw approaching me Him I had hoped for, grieved for, and despaired. "My ship is wrecked," he cried, "and I return Never to leave my love. You are my love?" "I too am wrecked," I sighed, "by lonely years; Returning, you but find another wreck." He bent his face to search my own, and spake: "What I have traversed sea and land to find, I find. For liberty I fought, and life, On savage shores and wastes of unknown seas, While waiting for this hour. Oh, think you not Immortal love mates with immortal love Always? And now, at last, we know this love." My soul was filling with a mighty joy I could not show--yet must I show my love. "From you whose will divided broke our hearts I now demand a different kiss than that Which then you said should be our parting kiss. Given, I vow the past shall be forgot. The kiss--and we are one! Give me the kiss." Like the dark rocks upon the sands he stood, When on his breast I fell, and kissed his lips. All the wild clangor of the sea was hushed; The rapid silver waves ran each to each, Lapsed in the deep with joyous, murmured sighs. Years of repentance mine, forgiveness his, To tell. Happy, we paced the tranquil shores, Till between sea and sky we saw the sun, And all our wiser, loving days began.

THE CHIMNEY-SWALLOW'S IDYL.

From where I built the nest for my first young, In the high chimney of this ancient house, I saw the household fires burn and go down, And know what was and is forever gone. My dusky, swift-winged fledgelings, flying far To seek their mates in clustered eaves or towers, Would linger not to learn what I have learned, Soaring through air or steering over sea-- These single, solitary walls must fade. But I return, inhabiting my nest, A little simple bird, which still survives The noble souls now vanished from this hearth; And none are here besides but she who shares My life, and pensive vigil holds with me. No longer does she mourn; she lives serene; I see her mother's beauty in her face, I see her father's quiet pride and power, The linked traits and traces of her race; Her brothers dying, like strong sapling trees Hewn down by violent blows prone in dense woods, Covered with aged boughs, decaying slow. She muses thus: "Beauty once more abides; The rude alarm of death, its wild amaze Is over now. The chance of change has passed; No doubtful hopes are mine, no restless dread, No last word to be spoken, kiss to give And take in passion's agony and end. They cannot come to me, but in good time I shall rejoin my silent company, And melt among them, as the sunset clouds Melt in gray spaces of the coming night." So she holds dear as I this tranquil spot, And all the flowers that blow, and maze of green, The meadows daisy-full, or brown and sere; The shore which bounds the waves I love to skim, And dash my purple wings against the breeze. When breaks the day I twitter loud and long, To make her rise and watch the vigorous sun Come from his sea-bed in the weltering deep, And smell the dewy grass, still rank with sleep. I hover through the twilight round her eaves, And dart above, before her, in her path, Till, with a smile, she gives me all her mind; And in the deep of night, lest she be sad In sleepless thought, I stir me in my nest, And murmur as I murmur to my young; She makes no answer, but I know she hears; And all the cherished pictures in her thoughts Grow bright because of _me_, her swallow friend!

LAST DAYS.

As one who follows a departing friend, Destined to cross the great, dividing sea, I watch and follow these departing days, That go so grandly, lifting up their crowns Still regal, though their victor Autumn comes. Gifts they bestow, which I accept, return, As gifts exchanged between a loving pair, Who may possess them as memorials Of pleasures ended by the shadow--Death. What matter which shall vanish hence, if both Are transitory--me, and these bright hours-- And of the future ignorant alike? From all our social thralls I would be free. Let care go down the wind--as hounds afar, Within their kennels baying unseen foes, Give to calm sleepers only calmer dreams. Here will I rest alone: the morning mist Conceals no form but mine; the evening dew Freshens but faded flowers and my worn face. When the noon basks among the wooded hills I too will bask, as silent as the air So thick with sun-motes, dyed like yellow gold, Or colored purple like an unplucked plum. The thrush, now lonesome, for her young have flown, May flutter her brown wings across my path; And creatures of the sod with brilliant eyes May leap beside me, and familiar grow. The moon shall rise among her floating clouds, Black, vaporous fans, and crinkled globes of pearl, And her sweet silver light be given to me. To watch and follow these departing days Must be my choice; and let me mated be With Solitude; may memory and hope Unite to give me faith that nothing dies; To show me always, what I pray to know, That man alone may speak the word--_Farewell_.