Thomas William Parsons.

BORN in Boston, Mass., 1819.

THE LAST GENTIAN.

[The Shadow of the Obelisk, and Other Poems. 1872.]

EE! I survive because I bowed my head,
Hearing the Snow's first footfall in the air;
I felt his cold kiss on my cheek with dread,
And to my sister said, Beware!

And stooped beneath my bank and let him pass.
Next morn the brook was glass:

My simple sister, in her pride,

Disdained to bow her head, so drooped and died.

Last gentian of the withering year!

Left for Augusta's hand,

Thou shalt not linger shivering here
By the bleak north wind fanned,

Until thy blue eye turn to gray,

And from thy lids the lashes fall away.

I will not leave thee, loving thee so well,

To face the ruin of November's air;

But thou shalt go where Summer still doth dwell,

Soft light and bird-song,—all things bright or fair,And happy thoughts and wise thoughts fed with books, And gentle speech, and loving looks

From eyes that still make sunshine everywhere.

For know, thou trembling stein, that not alone

My lady bears the summer in her name;

Her heart is of that season; and her tone

When she shall greet thee,-guessing whence it came,— And the sweet welcome of her smile

Thy simple soul shall so beguile,

That hadst thou lips as lids, those lips would say

The day I found thee was thy sunniest day.

GUIDO'S AURORA.

NORTH from the arms of her beloved now,

FOR

Whitening the Orient steep, the Concubine

Of old Tithonus comes, her lucent brow

Glistening with gems, her fair hands filled with flowers, That drop their violet odors on the brine,

While from her girdle pours a wealth of pearls
Round ocean's rocks and every vessel's prow

That cuts the laughing billow's crested curls.
Behind her step the busy, sober Hours,

With much to do;-and they must move apace:
Wake up, Apollo! should the women stir,

And thou be lagging? Brighten up thy face!
(Those eyes of Phaëthon more brilliant were)

Hurry, dull God! Hyperion, to thy race!
Thy steeds are galloping, but thou seem'st slow:

Hesper, glad wretch, hath newly fed his torch,
And flies before thee, and the world cries, Go!

Light the dark woods, the dew-drenched mountain scorch! Phœbus, Aurora calls, why linger so?

ON A BUST OF DANTE.

[The earliest version of this poem was contributed, over the signature “ P. P. P.," to the Boston "Advertiser and Patriot," 7 October, 1841. In 1843 the author revised it,— inserting the present fourth stanza,—and published it anew with his translation of "The First Ten Cantos of the Inferno." The following text is from the poet's manuscript of 1888 and in accordance with his final revision.]

EE, from this counterfeit of him

SEE

Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song:
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care and scorn, abide;
Small friendship for the lordly throng;
Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be,
No dream his life was,-but a fight!
Could any Beatrice see

A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight

Who could have guessed the visions came
Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cumæ's cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,

The rigid front, almost morose,

But for the patient hope within,

Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe,
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid

His palm upon the convent's guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Peace dwells not here,-this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine,
When hell he peopled with his foes,
Dread scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou!

That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now:
Before his name the nations bow;

His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

R

DIRGE.

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE.

OOM for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;

He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: