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: O stern word - Nevermore ! He did but float a little way Or hearkening their fairy chime; Ne'er felt the gale; He did but float a little way, No grating on his vessel's keel; Mingled the waters with the land Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave; The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave. He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither, so his stay With us was short, and't was most meet 'That he should be no delver in earth's clod, Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God: O blest word - Evermore ! 1839. THE SIRENS. THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whith er; Our little isle is green and breezy, 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, Is it not better here to be, To see the still seals only Making it yet more lonely? Is it not better, than to hear 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! Thus, on Life's lonely sea, 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! O, listen! And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees crowned; The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land; All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies. So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free; The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the centre; So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister. Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear These are Irené's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deepbuilded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth 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 FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The darkness is pressing coldly around, The world is happy, the world is wide, O. 't is a bitter and dreary word, WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. THIS little blossom from afar Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth of heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her And thou must count its petals well, But here at home, where we were born, For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among. 1840. THE BEGGAR. A BEGGAR through the world am I, From place to place I wander by. A little of thy merriment, Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaven help me! how could I forget That blossoms here as well, unseen, 1839. 1. NOT as all other women are II. Great feelings hath she of her own, III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. IV. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise ; V. She hath no scorn of common things, And patiently she folds her wings VI. Blessing she is: God made her so, VII. She is most fair, and thereunto |