Part 2

Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades: Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air Decays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, where O'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile. Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen Shalt be--a lonely land where stilted men Stalking across the surface waters go, Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow Canal-barge, laden with its marshy hay, Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day. Thou hast thy crocodiles: on rotten logs Afloat, the turtles swarm and bask: the frogs, When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring, Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring. The school-boy comes on holidays to take The musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake, Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night. The hog-snout's swollen corpse, with belly white, I find upon the footway through the sedge, Trodden by tramps along the water's edge. Not thine the breath of the salt marsh below Where, when the tide is out, the mowers go Shearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brine More tonic than the incense of the pine. Thou art the sink of all uncleanliness, A drain for slaughter-pens, a wilderness Of trenches, pockets, quagmires, bogs where rank The poison sumach grows, and in the tank The water standeth ever black and deep Greened o'er with scum: foul pottages, that steep And brew in that dark broth, at night distil Malarious fogs bringing the fever chill. Yet grislier horrors thy recesses hold: The murdered peddler's body five days old Among the yellow lily-pads was found In yonder pond: the new-born babe lay drowned And throttled on the bottom of this moat, Near where the negro hermit keeps his boat; Whose wigwam stands beside the swamp; whose meals It furnishes, fat pouts and mud-spawned eels. Even so thou hast a kind of beauty, wild, Unwholesome--thou the suburb's outcast child, Behind whose grimy skin and matted hair Warm nature works and makes her creature fair. Summer has wrought a blue and silver border Of iris flags and flowers in triple order Of the white arrowhead round Beaver Pond, And o'er the milkweeds in the swamp beyond Tangled the dodder's amber-colored threads. In every fosse the bladderwort's bright heads Like orange helmets on the surface show. Richer surprises still thou hast: I know The ways that to thy penetralia lead, Where in black bogs the sundew's sticky bead Ensnares young insects, and that rosy lass, Sweet Arethusa, blushes in the grass. Once on a Sunday when the bells were still, Following the path under the sandy hill Through the old orchard and across the plank That bridges the dead stream, past many a rank Of cat-tails, midway in the swamp I found A small green mead of dry but spongy ground, Entrenched about on every side with sluices Full to the brim of thick lethean juices, The filterings of the marsh. With line and hook Two little French boys from the trenches took Frogs for their Sunday meal and gathered messes Of pungent salad from the water-cresses. A little isle of foreign soil it seemed, And listening to their outland talk, I dreamed That yonder spire above the elm-tops calm Rose from the village chestnuts of La Balme. Yes, many a pretty secret hast thou shown To me, O Beaver Pond, walking alone On summer afternoons, while yet the swallow Skimmed o'er each flaggy plash and gravelly shallow; Or when September turned the swamps to gold And purple. But the year is growing old: The golden-rod is rusted, and the red That streaked October's frosty cheek is dead; Only the sumach's garnet pompons make Procession through the melancholy brake. Lo! even now the autumnal wind blows cool Over the rippled waters of thy pool, And red autumnal sunset colors brood Where I alone and all too late intrude.

HIGH ISLAND

Pleasant it was at shut of day, When wind and wave had sunk away, To hear, as on the rocks we lay, The fog bell toll; And grimly through the gathering night The horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light, Snuffed out by ghostly fingers white That round it stole.

Somewhere behind its curtain, soon The mist grew conscious of a moon: No more we heard the diving loon Scream from the spray; But seated round our drift-wood fire Watched the red sparks rise high and higher, Then, wandering into night, expire And pass away.

Down the dark wood, the pines among, A lurid glare the firelight flung; So for a while we talked and sung, And then to sleep; And heard in dreams the light-house bell, As all night long in solemn swell The tidal waters rose and fell With soundings deep.

LOTUS EATING

Come up once more before mine eyes, Sweet halcyon days, warm summer sea, Faint orange of the morning skies And dark-lined shores upon the lee! Touched with the sunrise, sea and sky All still on Memory's canvas lie: The scattered isles with India ink Dot the wide back-ground's gold and pink: Unstirring in the Sunday calm, Their profile cedars, sharply drawn, Bold black against the flushing dawn, Take shape like clumps of tropic palm. Night shadows still the distance dim (Ultra-marine) where ocean's brim Upholdeth the horizon-rim.

Once more in thought we seem to creep By lonely reefs where sea-birds scream, Ulysses-like, along the deep Borne onward in the ocean-stream. The sea-floor spreadeth glassy still; No breath the idle sail doth fill; Our oar-blades smite the heavy seas; Under the world the morning breeze Treads with the sun the unknown ways. Thus steer we o'er the solemn main Eating the Lotus-fruit again, Dreaming that time forever stays, Singing "Where, Absence, is thy sting?" Listening to hear our echoes ring Through the far rocks where Sirens sing.

THE MERMAID'S GLASS

'T was down among the Thimble Isles That strew for many "liquid miles" The waters of Long Island Sound: Our yacht lay in a cove; around The rocky isles with cedars green And channels winding in between: And here a low, black reef was spread, And there a sunken "nigger-head" Dimpled the surface of the tide. From one tall island's cliffy side We heard the shaggy goats that fed: The gulls wheeled screaming overhead Or settled in a snowy flock Far out upon the lonely rock Which, like a pillar, seemed to show Some drowned acropolis below. Meanwhile, in the warm sea about, With many a plunge and jolly shout, Our crew enjoyed their morning bath. The hairy skipper in his wrath Lay cursing on the gunwale's rim: He loved a dip but could not swim; So, now and then with plank afloat He'd struggle feebly round the boat And o'er the side climb puffing in, Scraping wide areas off his skin, Then lie and sun each hirsute limb Once more upon the gunwale's rim And shout, with curses unavailing, "Come out! There's wind: let's do some sailing."

A palm-leaf hat, that here and there Bobbed on the water, showed him where Some venturous swimmer outward bound Escaped beyond his voice's sound. All heedless of their skipper's call, One group fought for the upset yawl. The conqueror sat astride the keel And deftly pounded with his heel The hands that clutched his citadel, Which showed--at distance--like the shell Round which, unseen, the Naiad train Sport naked on the middle main. Myself had drifted far away, Meanwhile, from where the sail-boat lay, Till all unbroken I could hear The wave's low whisper in my ear, And at the level of mine eye The blue vibration met the sky. Sometimes upon my back I lay And watched the clouds, while I and they Were wafted effortless along.-- Sudden I seemed to hear a song: Yet not a song, but some weird strain As though the inarticulate main Had found a voice whose human tone Interpreted its own dull moan; Its foamy hiss; its surfy roar; Its gentle lapping on the shore; Its noise of subterranean waves That grumble in the sea-cliff caves; Its whish among the drifting miles Of gulf-weed from the Indian Isles:-- All--all the harmonies were there Which ocean makes with earth or air. Turning I saw a sunken ledge Bared by the ebb, along whose edge The matted sea-weed dripped: thereon, Betwixt the dazzle of the sun And the blue shimmer of the sea, I saw--or else I seemed to see A mermaid, crooning a wild song, Combing with arm uplifted long The hair that shed its meshes black Down the slope whiteness of her back. She held a mirror in her hand, Wherein she viewed sky, sea, and land, Her beauty's background and its frame. But now, as toward the rock I came, All suddenly across the glass Some startling image seemed to pass; For her song rose into a scream, Over her shoulders one swift gleam Of eyes unearthly fell on me, And, 'twixt the flashing of the sea And the blind dazzle of the sun, I saw the rock, but thereupon She sat no longer 'gainst the blue; Only across the reef there flew One snow-white tern and vanished too. But, coasting that lone island round, Among the slippery kelp I found A little oval glass that lay Upturned and flashing in the ray Of the down-looking sun. Thereto With scarce believing eyes I drew And took it captive A while there I rested in the mermaid's lair, And felt the merry breeze that blew, And watched the sharpies as they flew, And snuffed the sea's breath thick with brine, And basked me in the sun's warm shine; Then with my prize I made my way Once more to where the sail-boat lay. I kept the secret--and the glass; By day across its surface pass The transient shapes of common things Which chance within its oval brings. But when at night I strive to sound The darkness of its face profound, Again I seem to hear the breeze That curls the waves on summer seas; I see the isles with cedars green; The channels winding in between; The coves with beaches of white sand; The reefs where warning spindles stand; And, through the multitudinous shimmer Of waves and sun, again the glimmer Of eyes unearthly falls on me, Deep with the mystery of the sea.

A HOLIDAY ECLOGUE

ABOVE

_First Mason:_

Tink-a-link! Tink-a-link! Hear the trowels ring; Feel the merry breezes make the scaffold swing; See the skimming swallow brush us with her wing:-- Go it with your hammers, boys; time us while we sing.

BELOW.

_First Student:_

See the yellow sparkle of the Neckar in the glass, And through the cedar branches sparkles blue the sea; Hear the sweet piano--hear the German lass Sing Freut" euch des Lebens--Oh! "I love I love the free!"

_Second Student:_

I like the canary better; Look, how he swells his throttle! He gurgles like musical water That dances and sings in a bottle.

ABOVE.

_Second Mason:_

D'ye mind the students down in the grove Drinking their wine and beer? That's an easy life they lead.

_First Mason:_

So do we up here When the weathercock points west And the look-off's clear.

_Third Mason:_

House-top Jim's the boy for work!

_First Mason:_

True for you, my dear. (_Whistles "The Girl I Left Behind me."_)

BELOW.

_First Student:_

See the Dutchmen on those settees: Isn't it like the Rhine? And the old church-tower up over the trees-- Kellner! Noch ein Stein!

_Third Student:_

I'd like to work with those masons there Half way up the sky. The air is sweet where the pigeons build, And the world is all in their eye.

_Second Student:_

But "Love is of the valley:" the Gretchen and the Kellner Haunt the cheerful levels of the lower story. Glory in the garret--comfort in the cellar: I will keep the comfort--you may take the glory.

ABOVE.

_First Mason:_

Look up at the pointers: they 're drawing close together; 'T is here we get the earliest news of sun, and moon, and weather; We can hear time's pulse a-ticking, with the whistling weathercock. Drop your mortar-boards, my lads, it's coming twelve o'clock.

_Third Mason:_

Oh! it's hungry that I am with working in the wind, But there's a shawl and bonnet--below there: do you mind? It's Molly with the dinner-pail: she's coming in the door. Faith, my belly thinks my throat is cut this half an hour and more.

(_The church clock strikes the noon._)

A MEMORY

I came across the marsh to-night, And though the wind was cold, I stayed a moment on the bridge To note the paly gold

That lingered on the darkening bay; The creek which ran below Was frozen dumb; the dreary flats Were overspread with snow.

The college bell began to ring, And as the north wind blew Its distant janglings out to sea, I thought, dear Friend, of you;

And how one warm September day, While yet the woods were green, We strayed across the happy hills And this wide marsh between.

The hay-stacks dotted here and there The water-meadows wide: The even lines of sluices black Were filling with the tide.

Then this salt stream, now winter bound, Fled softly through the sedge, Retreating from the sparkling Sound; And there along its edge

We strolled, and marked the far-off sloops, And watched the cattle graze. O'erhead the swallows rushed in troops, While bright with purple haze,

West Rock looked down the winding plain-- Ah! this was long ago; The summer's gone, and you are gone, As everything must go.

AMOURS PASSAGERES

Light loves and soon forgotten hates, Heat-lightnings of the brooding summer sky-- Ye too bred of the summer's heat, Ye too, like summer, fleet-- Ye have gone by. Walks in the woods and whispers over gates, Gay rivalries of tennis and croquet-- Gone with the summer sweet, Gone with the swallow fleet Southward away!

Breath of the rose, laughter of maids Kissed into silence by the setting moon; Wind of the morn that wakes and blows, And hastening night that goes Too soon--too soon! Meetings and partings, tokens, serenades, Tears--idle tears--and coy denials vain; Flower of the summer's rose, Say, will your leaves unclose Ever again?

ON A MINIATURE

Thine old-world eyes--each one a violet Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth-- Set me a dreaming. Have our eyes not met In childhood--in a garden of the South?

Thy lips are trembling with a song of France, My cousin, and thine eyes are dimly sweet; 'Wildered with reading in an old romance All afternoon upon the garden seat.

The summer wind read with thee, and the bees That on the sunny pages loved to crawl: A skipping reader was the impatient breeze, And turned the leaves, but the slow bees read all.

And now thy foot descends the terrace stair: I hear the rustle of thy silk attire; I breathe the musky odors of thy hair And airs that from thy painted fan respire.

Idly thou pausest in the shady walk, Thine ear attentive to the fountain's fall: Thou mark'st the flower-de-luce sway on her stalk, The speckled vergalieus ripening on the wall.

Thou hast the feature of my mother's race, The gilded comb she wore, her smile, her eye: The blood that flushes softly in thy face Crawls through my veins beneath this northern sky.

As one disherited, though next of kin, Who lingers at the barred ancestral gate, And sadly sees the happy heir within Stroll careless through his forfeited estate;

Even so I watch thy southern eyes, Lisette, Lady of my lost paradise and heir Of summer days there were my birthright. Yet Beauty like thine makes usurpation fair.

IM SCHWARZWALD

The winter sunset, red upon the snow, Lights up the narrow way that I should go; Winding o'er bare white hilltops, whereon lie Dark churches and the holy evening sky. That path would lead me deep into the west, Even to the feet of her I love the best.

But this scarce broken track in which I stand Runs east, up through the tan-wood's midnight land; Where now the newly risen moon doth throw The shadows of long stems across the snow. This path would take me to the Jaeger's Tree Where stands the Swabian girl and waits for me.

Her eyes are blacker than the woods at night And witching as the moon's uncertain light; And there are tones in that low voice of hers Caught from the wind among the Schwarzwald firs, And from the Gutach's echoing waters, when Still evening listens in the Forsthaus glen.

I must--I must! Thou wilt forgive me, sweet; My heart flies west but eastward move my feet; The mad moon brightens as the sunset dies, And yonder hexie draws me with her eyes. _Ruck, ruck an meine gruene Seit!_ she sings And with her arms the frozen trunk enrings,

And lays upon its bark her little face. How canst thou be so dead in her embrace-- So cold against her kisses, happy tree? Thou hast no love beyond the western sea. Methinks that at the lightest touch of her Thy wooden trunk should tremble, thy boughs stir:

But at the pressure of her tender form Thy inmost pith should feel her and grow warm: The torpid sap should race along the vein; The resinous buds should swell, and once again Fresh needles shoot, as though the breeze of spring Already through the woods came whispering.

WAITING FOR WINTER

What honey in the year's last flowers can hide, These little yellow butterflies may know: With falling leaves they waver to and fro, Or on the swinging tops of asters ride. But I am weary of the summer's pride And sick September's simulated show: Why do the colder winds delay to blow And bring the pleasant hours that we abide; To curtained alcove and sweet household talks, Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars, Returning late from autumn evening walks Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars Hangs low between the withered mullein stalks, And upward throngs the host of winter stars?

[Greek: To Pan]

The little creek which yesterday I saw Ooze through the sedges, and each brackish vein That sluiced the marsh, now filled and then again Sucked dry to glut the sea's unsated maw, All ebb and flow by the same rhythmic law That times the beat of the Atlantic main-- They also fastened to the swift moon's train By unseen cords that no less strongly draw. So, poet, may thy life's small tributary Threading some bitter marsh, obscure, alone, Feel yet one pulse with the broad estuary That bears an emperor's fleets through half a zone: May wait upon the same high luminary And pitch its voice to the same ocean's tone.

THE SINGER OF ONE SONG

He sang one song and died--no more but that: A single song and carelessly complete. He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown wheat, Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat, Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet. A few slow beads, blood-red and honey sweet, Oozed from the grape, which burst and spilled its fat. But Time, who soonest drops the heaviest things That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long. So through the poet's orchestra, which weaves One music from a thousand stops and strings, Pierces the note of that immortal song:-- "High over all the lonely bugle grieves."

POSTHUMOUS

Put them in print? Make one more dint In the ages' furrowed rock? No, no! Let his name and his verses go. These idle scraps, they would but wrong His memory, whom we honored long; And men would ask: "Is this the best-- Is this the whole his life expressed?" Haply he had no care to tell To all the thoughts which flung their spell Around us when the night grew deep, Making it seem a loss to sleep, Exalting the low, dingy room To some high auditorium. And when we parted homeward, still They followed us beyond the hill. The heaven had brought new stars to sight, Opening the map of later night; And the wide silence of the snow, And the dark whispers of the pines, And those keen fires that glittered slow Along the zodiac's wintry signs, Seemed witnesses and near of kin To the high dreams we held within.

Yet what is left To us bereft, Save these remains, Which now the moth Will fret, or swifter fire consume? These inky stains On his table-cloth; These prints that decked his room; His throne, this ragged easy-chair; This battered pipe, his councillor. This is the sum and inventory. No son he left to tell his story, No gold, no lands, no fame, no book. Yet one of us, his heirs, who took The impress of his brain and heart May gain from Heaven the lucky art His untold meanings to impart In words that will not soon decay. Then gratefully will such one say: "This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine; The breath that gave it life was thine."

HUGH LATIMER

His lips amid the flame outsent A music strong and sweet, Like some unearthly instrument That's played upon by heat.

As spice-wood tough, laid on the coal, Sets all its perfume free, The incense of his hardy soul Rose up exceedingly.

To open that great flower, too cold Were sun and vernal rain; But fire has forced it to unfold, Nor will it shut again.

CARCAMON

His steed was old, his armor worn, And he was old and worn and gray: The light that lit his patient eyes It shone from very far away.

Through gay Provence he journeyed on; To one high quest his life was true, And so they called him _Carcamon_-- The knight who seeketh the world through.

A pansy blossomed on his shield; "A token 'tis," the people say, "That still across the world's wide field He seeks _la dame de ses pensees_."

For somewhere on a painted wall, Or in the city's shifting crowd, Or looking from a casement tall, Or shaped of dream or evening cloud--

Forgotten when, forgotten where-- Her face had filled his careless eye A moment ere he turned and passed, Nor knew it was his destiny.

But ever in his dreams it came Divine and passionless and strong, A smile upon the imperial lips No lover's kiss had dared to wrong.

He took his armor from the wall-- Ah! gone since then was many a day-- He led his steed from out the stall And sought _la dame de ses pensees_.

The ladies of the Troubadours Came riding through the chestnut grove "Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours And sing us a gay song of love."

"O ladies of the Troubadours, My lute has but a single string; Sirventes fit for paramours, My heart is not in tune to sing.

"The flower that blooms upon my shield It has another soil and spring Than that wherein the gaudy rose Of light Provence is blossoming.

"The lady of my dreams doth hold Such royal state within my mind, No thought that comes unclad in gold To that high court may entrance find."

So through the chestnut groves he passed, And through the land and far away; Nor know I whether in the world He found _la dame de ses pensees_.

Only I know that in the South Long to the harp his tale was told; Sweet as new wine within the mouth The small, choice words and music old.

To scorn the promise of the real; To seek and seek and not to find; Yet cherish still the fair ideal-- It is thy fate, O restless Mind!

ECCE IN DESERTO

The wilderness a secret keeps Upon whose guess I go: Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard; And yet I know, I know,

Some day the viewless latch will lift, The airy door swing wide To one lost chamber of the wood Where those shy mysteries hide,--