SPIRIT THAT FORM'D THIS SCENE.

WRITTEN IN PLATTE CAÑON, COLORADO.

Spirit that form'd this scene,

These tumbled rock-piles grim and red,

These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks,

These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness,
These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own,

I know thee, savage spirit—we have communed together,
Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own;
Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?
To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse?
The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace-
Column and polish'd arch forgot?

But thou that revelest here-spirit that form'd this scene,
They have remembered thee.

ASHES OF SOLDIERS.

Ashes of soldiers South or North,

As I muse retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,
The war resumes again to my sense your shapes,

And again the advance of the armies.

Noiseless as mists and vapors,

From cemet'ries all through Virginia and Tennessee,

From every point of the compass out of the countless graves,

In wafted clouds, in myriads large, or squads of twos or threes

or single ones they come,

And silently gather round me.

Now sound no note, O trumpeters,

Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited horses,

With sabres drawn and glistening, and carbines by their thighs,

(ah my brave horseman !

My handsome tanfaced horseman ! what life,

What joy and pride,

With all the perils were yours.)

Nor your drummers, neither at reveillé at dawn,

Nor the long roll alarming the camp, nor even the muffled beat

for a burial,

Nothing from you this time, O drummers bearing my warlike

drums.

But aside from these and the marts of wealth and the crowded promenade,

Admitting around me comrades close unseen by the rest and voiceless,

The slain elate and alive again, the dust and débris alive,

I chant this chant of my silent soul in the name of all dead soldiers.

Faces so pale with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet, Draw close, but speak not!

Phantoms of countless lost,

Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions,

Follow me ever-desert me not while I live!

Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living-sweet are the

musical voices sounding,

But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead with their silent eyes.

Dearest comrades, all is over and long gone,

But love is not over-and what love, O comrades!

Perfume from battle-fields rising, up from the fœtor arising.

Perfume therefore my chant, O love, immortal love,

Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,

Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender

pride.

Perfume all—make all wholesome,

Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,

O love, solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry!

Give me exhaustless, make me a fountain,

That I exhale love from me wherever I go like a moist perennial

dew,

For the ashes of all dead soldiers South and North.

Do saints keep holy day in heavenly places?

Does the old joy shine new in angel faces?

Are hymns still sung the night when Christ was born, And anthems on the Resurrection Morn?

Because our little year of earth is run,

Do they make record there beyond the sun?

And in their homes of light so far away

Mark with us the sweet coming of this day?

What is their Easter? For they have no graves.

No shadow there the holy sunrise craves,—
Deep in the heart of noontide marvelous
Whose breaking glory reaches down to us.

How did the Lord keep Easter? With His own!
Back to meet Mary where she grieved alone,
With face and mien all tenderly the same,

Unto the very sepulchre He came.

Ah, the dear message that He gave her then,—

Said for the sake of all bruised hearts of men! "Go, tell those friends who have believed on me,

"Into the life so poor and hard and plain,
That for a while they must take up again,
My presence passes! Where their feet toil slow
Mine, shining-swift with love, still foremost go!

'Say, Mary, I will meet them. By the way,
To walk a little with them; where they stay,
To bring my peace. Watch! For ye do not know
The day, the hour, when I may find you so!"—

And I do think, as He came back to her,
The many mansions may be all astir
With tender steps that hasten in the way,
Seeking their own upon this Easter Day.

Parting the veil that hideth them about,
I think they do come, softly wistful, out
From homes of heaven that only seem so far,
And walk in gardens where the new tombs are!

EQUINOCTIAL.

The Sun of Life has crossed the line;
The summer-shine of lengthened light
Faded and failed,-till, where I stand,
'Tis equal Day and equal Night.

One after one, as dwindling hours,

Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away,
And soon may barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter's day.

I am not young, I am not old;
The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
Paling, and deepening, each to each,
Meet midway with a solemn charm.