Life is vain, and love is hollow, How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long, — Ever to this sick heart fold him,— Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O, heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely III. In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Hope is truth, the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered roseleaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. I Do not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble powers; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers. Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap, Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquests o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. I watch the circle of the eternal years, And read forever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,One onward step of Truth from age to age. The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates; Man's hope lies quenched ;—and, lo! with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; |