And tears would slide from out her eye,
Silent, as they were doing wrong.
Oh stern word-Nevermore!

The tongue that scarce had learned to
claim

An entrance to a mother's heart
By that dear talisman, a mother's name,
Sleeps all forgetful of its art!
I loved to see the infant soul
(How mighty in the weakness
Of its untutored meekness !)
Peep timidly from out its nest,
His lips, the while,

Fluttering with half-fledged words,
Or hushing to a smile

That more than words expressed,
When his glad mother on him stole
And snatched him to her breast!

Oh, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strong-winged birds

Far, far into the skies,
Gladding the earth with song,
And gushing harmonies,

Had he but tarried with us long!
Oh stern word-Nevermore !

As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: Oh stern word-Nevermore !

He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time,

With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,

Or hearkening their fairy chime;
His slender sail

Ne'er felt the gale;

He did but float a little way,
And, putting to the shore
While yet 't was early day,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more!
No jarring did he feel,

No grating on his shallop's keel;
A strip of silver sand

Mingled the waters with the land
Where he was seen no more:
Oh stern word-Nevermore !

Look how the gray old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
Heaving with a gentle motion,
When he hears our restful voices;
List how he sings in an undertone,
Chiming with our melody;

And all sweet sounds of earth and air
Melt into one low voice alone,
That murmurs over the weary sea,
And seems to sing from everywhere, -
"Here mayst thou harbor peacefully,
Here mayst thou rest from the aching oar;
Turn thy curved prow ashore,

And in our green isle rest forevermore !
Forevermore !"

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,
And, to her heart so calm and deep,
Murmurs over in her sleep,
Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still,
"Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea;
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces gray,
Making it yet more lonely?
Is it not better than to hear
Only the sliding of the wave
Beneath the plank, and feel so near
A cold and lonely grave,

A restless grave, where thou shalt lie
Even in death unquietly?

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark,

Lean over the side and see

The leaden eye of the sidelong shark
Upturned patiently,

Ever waiting there for thee:

Look down and see those shapeless forms,
Which ever keep their dreamless sleep
Far down within the gloomy deep,
And only stir themselves in storms,
Rising like islands from beneath,
And snorting through the angry spray,
As the frail vessel perisheth

In the whirls of their unwieldy play;
Look down! Look down!
Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark,
That waves its arms so lank and brown,
Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark
Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!
Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere

Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing dreadfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream
Into the ocean's blue;

Listen! Oh, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds,

And every wish and longing seems
Lulled to a numbered flow of words, —
Listen! Oh, listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossomed trees,

IRENÉ

The indirect as well as direct references to Maria White are frequent in these early poems. Lowell, in a letter to G. B. Loring shortly after this poem appeared, wrote: "Maria fills my ideal and I satisfy hers, and I mean to live as one beloved by such a woman should live. She is every way noble. People have called Irené a beautiful piece of poetry. And so it is. It owes all its beauty to her."

HERS is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear; Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear,

Quicker to look than speak its sympathies;
Far down into her large and patient eyes
I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite,

As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,
I look into the fathomless blue skies.

But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly

Before the face of daily mysteries; —

light,

slowly

To the full goldenness of fruitful prime,
Enduring with a firmness that defies
All shallow tricks of circumstance and

time,

By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering;These are Irene's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded

state.

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chas

teneth

No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth

To pour the balm of kind looks on the

wound,

If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes,

Giving itself a pang for others' sakes;
No want of faith, that chills with sidelong

eye,

Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride
That passeth by upon the other side;
For in her soul there never dwelt a lie.
Right from the hand of God her spirit

came

Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence

It came, nor wandered far from thence,
But laboreth to keep her still the same,

Near to her place of birth, that she may

not

Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be

How to make glad one lowly human hearth;

For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart

Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all,

That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall,

She walks so bright and heaven-like there

In thy chamber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the shell of this great world? Why should we any more be alone? Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

Oh, 't is a bitter and dreary word,
The saddest by man's ear ever heard!
We each are young, we each have a heart,
Why stand we ever coldly apart?
Must we forever, then, be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER

THIS little blossom from afar
Hath come from other lands to thine;
For, once, its white and drooping star
Could see its shadow in the Rhine.

Perchance some fair-haired German maid
Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk,
And numbered over, half afraid,
Its petals in her evening walk.

"He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well,
Because it is a gift from me;
And the last one of all shall tell
Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born,
Thou wilt find blossoms just as true,
Down-bending every summer morn,
With freshness of New England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love,
Hath granted them the same sweet tongue,
Whether with German skies above,
Or here our granite rocks among.

THE BEGGAR

A BEGGAR through the world am I, From place to place I wander by.

And deck me in a robe of white,

Ready to be an angel bright,

O sweetly mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
Oh, give, to strengthen me.

MY LOVE

NOT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;

And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings

To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman: one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Seems following its own wayward will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;
It flows around them and between,