The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress: With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed. Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon, the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. CATAWBA WINE. To be sung by the glowing embers When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. Of the Scuppernong, And the Muscadel Of whose purple blood For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its Is the Verzenay, way Or the Sillery soft and creamy; Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. By Danube or Guadalquivir, As grows by the Beautiful River. When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, That have driven the Old World frantic. And after them tumble the mixer; Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, The winds and the birds shall deliver On the banks of the Beautiful River. Ah! how cold are their caresses! Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! O my songs! whose winsome measures Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, Not with steeper fall nor faster, From the sun's serene dominions, Not through brighter realms nor vaster, In swift ruin and disaster Icarus fell with shattered pinions! Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! Why did mighty Jove create thee Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, Beautiful as young Aurora, If to win thee is to hate thee? No, not hate thee! for this feeling O'er the chords of our existence. Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted Lives, like days in summer, lengthened. Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl! my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces; Let us turn and wander thither. THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857. IT was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild And the rush of mountain streams And my boy does not return!" MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1841-1846-1858. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And hear the bellows roar, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow When, sleeping in the grove, Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, It comes, the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if with unseen wings "Where hast thou stayed so long?" IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new; the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight? And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May! Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest! GOD'S-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just ; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life-alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, no garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippo crene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, It gave new strength and fearless mood; A wreath of fennel wore. New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe With which its brim may overflow, He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman's face. One half the human race. Patient, though sorely tried! U |