MARIAN'S FIRST HALF-YEAR.
MAIDEN Marian, born in May, When the earth with flowers was gay, And the Hours by day and night Wore the jewels of delight: Half-a-year has vanish'd by Like a wondrous pageantry— Mother May with fairy flowers,
June with dancing leaf-crown'd Hours, July red with harvest-rust, Swarthy August white with dust, Mild September clothed in gold, Wise October, hermit old-
And the world, so new and strange, Circled you in olden change, Since the miracle-morn of birth Made your May-day on the earth. Half-a-year, sweet child, has brought To your eyes the soul of thought; To your lips, with cries so dumb, Baby-syllables have come, Dreams of fairy language known To your mother's heart alone— Ante-Hebrew words complete (To old Noah obsolete);
You have learn'd expressions strange, Miracles of facial change, Winning gestures, supplications, Stamp'd entreaties, exhortations- Oratory eloquent
Where no more is said than meant: You have lived philosophies Older far than Socrates- Holiest life you've understood Better than oldest wise and good: Such as erst in Eden's light
Shunn'd not God's nor angels' sight; You have caught with subtler eyes Close Pythagorean ties In the bird and in the tree, And in every thing you see; You have found and practise well (Moulding life of principle) Epicurean doctrines old Of the Hour's fruit of gold: Lifted, Moses-like, you stand, Looking, where the Promised Land Dazzles far away your sight- Milk-and-honey's your delight! Maiden Marian, born in May, Half-a-year has pass'd away; Half a year of cannon-pealing, ('Twas your era of good-feeling,) You have scarce heard dreader sound Than those privateers around, Buzzing flies, a busy brood, Lovers of sweet babyhood-
Than the hum of iullaby
Rock'd to dreamland tenderly;
Half-a-year of dreadest sights Through bright days and fairy nights, You have seen no dreader thing Than the marvel of a wing, Than the leaves whose shadows warm Play'd in many a phantom swarm On the floor, the table under, Lighting your small face with wonder! Maiden Marian, born in May, Half-a-year has pass'd away: "Tis a dark November day; Lifted by our window, lo! Washington is whirl'd in snow! But, within, the fluttering flame Keeps you summer-warm the same, And your mother (while I write), Crimson'd by the ember light, Murmurs sweeter things to you Than I'd write a half-year through; Baby lyrics, lost to art, Found within a mother's heart.
Maiden Marian, born in May, I'll not question Time to-day, For the mysteries of your morrows, Girlhood's joys or woman's sorrows, But (while-side by side, alone— We recall your summer flown, And, with eyes that cannot look, Hold his clasped Mystery-Book) I will trust when May is here He shall measure you a year, With another half-year sweet Make the ring of light complete: We will date our New-Years thence, Full of summer songs and sense-- All the years begun that day Shall be born and die in May!
NATURE gives with freest hands Richest gifts to poorest lands: When the lord has sown his last And his field's to desert pass'd, She begins to claim her own, And-instead of harvests flown, Sunburnt sheaves and golden ears- Serds her hardier pioneers; Barbarous brambles, outlaw'd seeds, The first families of weeds Fearing neither sun nor wind, With the flowers of their kind (Outcasts of the garden-bound), Colonize the expended ground, Using (none her right gainsay Confiscations of decay.
I WATCH the leaves that flutter in the wind, Bathing my eyes with coolness and my heart Filling with springs of grateful sense anew, Before my window-in the sun and rain. And now the wind is gone and now the rain, And all a motionless moment breathe, and now Playful the wind comes back-again the shower, Again the sunshine! Like a golden swarın Of butterflies the leaves are fluttering, The leaves are dancing, singing-all alive (For Fancy gives her breath to every leaf) For the blithe moment. Beautiful to me, Of all inanima'e things most beautiful,
And dear as flowers their kindred, are the leaves In all their summer life; and, when a child, I loved to lie through sunny afternoons With half-shut eyes (familiar eyes with things Long unfamiliar, knowing Fairyland And all the unhidden mysteries of the Earth) Using my kinship in those earlier days With Nature and the humbler people, dear To her green life, in every shade and sun. The leaves had myriad voices, and their joy One with the birds that sang among them seem'd; And, oftentimes, I lay in breezy shade Till, creeping with the loving stealth he takes In healthy temperaments, the blessed Sleep
(Thrice blessed and thrice blessing now, because Of sleepless things that will not give us rest) Came with his weird processions-dreams that
All happy masks-blithe fairies numberless, Forever passing, never more to pass,
The Spirits of the Leaves. Awaking then, Behold the sun was swimming in my face Through mists of his creations, swarming gold, And all the leaves in sultry languor lay Above me, for I waken'd when they dropp'd Asleep, unmoving. Now, when Time has ceased His holiday, and I am prison'd close In his harsh service, master'd by his Hours, The leaves have not forgotten me: behold, They play with me like children who, awake, Find one most dear asleep and waken him To their own gladness from his sultry dream; But nothing sweeter do they give to me Than thoughts of one who, far away, perchance Watches, like me, the leaves, and thinks of me While o'er her window, sunnily, the shower Touches all boughs to music, and the rose Beneath swings lovingly toward the pane, And she, whom Nature gave the freshest sense For all her delicate life, rejoices in
The joy of birds that use the sun to sing With breasts o'er-full of music. "Little Birds," She sings," sing to my little Bird below!" And with her child-like fancy, half-belief, She hears them sing and makes believe they obey, And the child, wakening, listens motionless.
WHENE'ER, in morning airs, I walk abroad, Breasting upon the hills the buoyant wind, Up from the vale my shadow climbs behind, An earth-born giant climbing toward his god; Against the sun, on heights before untrod, I stand faint glorified, but undefined, Far down the slope in misty meadows blind, I see my ghostly follower slowly plod. "O stature of my shade," I muse and sigh,
How great art thou, how small am I the while!" Then the vague giant blandly answers, "True, But though thou art small thy head is in the sky, Crown'd with the sun and all the Heaven's smile My head is in the shade and valley too."
He keeps his state,-do thou keep thine, And shine upon me from afar ! So shall I bask in light divine
That falls from Love's own guiding-star. So shall thy eminence be high, And so my passion shall not die.
But all my life shall reach its hands
Of lofty longing toward thy face, And be as one who speechless stands In rapture at some perfect grace. My love, my hope, my all, shall be To look to heaven and look to thee.
Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights; Thy voice shall be the summer breeze, What time its sways, on moonlit nights,
The murmuring tops of leafy trees; And I will touch thy beauteous form In June's red roses, rich and warm.
But thou thyself shalt come not down From that pure region far above; But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, Queen of my heart and queen of love! A monarch in thy realm complete, And I a monarch-at thy feet!
THE apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun.
At the cottage-door the grandsire Sits, pale, in his easy-chair, While a gentle wind of twilight Plays with his silver hair.
A woman is kneeling beside him; A fair young head is prest, In the first wild passion of sorrow, Against his aged breast.
And far from over the distance The faltering echoes come,
Of the flying blast of trumpet And the rattling roll of drum.
Then the grandsire speaks, in a whisper,- "The end no man can see; But we give him to his country,
And we give our prayers to Thee.". . .
The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door, And over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour.
But the grandsire's chair is empty, The cottage is dark and still,
There's a nameless grave on the battle-field, And a new one under the hill.
And a pallid. tearless woman
By the cold hearth sits alone; And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.
COME with a smile, when come thou must, Evangel of the world to be,
And touch and glorify this dust,—
This shuddering dust that now is me,And from this prison set me free!
Long in those awful eyes I quail, That gaze across the grim profound: Upon that sea there is no sail,
Nor any light nor any sound From the far shore that girds it round
Only two still and steady rays, That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop; Only-a quiet, patient gaze
That drinks my being, drop by drop, And bids the pulse of Nature stop.
Come with a smile, auspicious friend, To usher in the eternal day! Of these weak terrors make an end, And charm the paltry chains away That bind me to this timorous clay!
And let me know my soul akin
To sunrise and the winds of morn, And every grandeur that has been
Since this all-glorious world was born, Nor longer droop in my own scorn.
Come, when the way grows dark and chil Come, when the baffled mind is weak, And in the heart that voice is still
Which used in happier days to speak, Or only whispers sadly meek.
Come with a smile that dims the sun!
With pitying heart and gentle hand! And waft me, from a work that's done, To peace that waits on thy command, In God's mysterious better land.
THINK of me as your friend, I pray, And call me by a loving name: I will not care what others say, If only you remain the same. I will not care how dark the night, I will not care how wild the storm; Your love will fill my heart with light, And shield me close and keep me warm
Think of me as your friend, I pray, For else my life is little worth: So shall your memory light my way, Although we meet no more on earth. For while I know your faith secure, I ask no happier fate to see: Thus to be loved by one so pure Is honor rich enough for me.
THE BLUEBELLS OF NEW ENGLAND.
THE roses are a regal troop,
And humble folks the daisies; But, Bluebells of New England, To you I give my praises,- To you, fair phantoms in the sun, Whom merry Spring discovers, With bluebirds for your laureates, And honey-bees for lovers.
The south-wind breathes, and lo! you throng This rugged land of ours:
I think the pale blue clouds of May Drop down, and turn to flowers! By cottage-doors along the roads You show your winsome faces, And, like the spectre lady, haunt The lonely woodland places.
All night your eyes are closed in sleep, Kept fresh for day's adorning :
Such simple faith as yours can see God's coming in the morning! You lead me by your holiness To pleasant ways of duty: You set my thoughts to melody, You fill me with your beauty.
And you are like the eyes I love,
So modest and so tender,
Just touch'd with daybreak's glorious light, And evening's quiet splendor.
Long may the heavens give you rain,
The sunshine its caresses,
Long may the woman that I love Entwine you in her tresses.
PALABRAS CARIÑOSAS.
GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night To such a host of peerless things! Good-night unto that fragile hand All queenly with its weight of rings; Good-night to fond up-lifted eyes, Good-night to chestnut braids of hair, Good-night unto the perfect mouth, And all the sweetness nestled there,-
The snowy hand detains me, then I'll have to say Good-night again! But there will come a time, my love, When, if I read our stars aright, I shall not linger by this porch With my adieus. Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so?
You would have blush'd yourself to death To own so much. a year ago,—
What, both these snowy hands! ah, then, I'll have to say Good-night again!
WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves ! What tender thought, what speechless pain I hold thy faded lips to mine, Thou darling of the April rain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine, Though scent and azure tint are fled,-- O dry, mute lips! ye are the type Of something in me cold and dead:
Of something wilted like thy leaves; Of fragrance flown, of beauty gone; Yet, for the love of those white hands That found thee, April's earliest-born,—
That found thee when thy dewy mouth Was purpled as with stains of wine,— For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine.
That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this, I use my subtlest art, For this, I fold thee in my song.
I LIKE not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor vet the flaky roses,
Red, or white as snow;
I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies,
That in our garden grow!
For they are tall and slender; Their mouths are dashed with carmine, And when the wind sweeps by them, On their emerald stalks They bend so proud and graceful,— They are Circassian women, The favorites of the Sultan,
Adown our garden walks!
And when the rain is falling,
I sit beside the window
And watch them glow and glisten,- How they burn and glow!
O for the burning lilies, The tender Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies,
That in our garden grow!
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