And all we shrink from now may seem Familiar as our childhood's stream, The loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing. Serene and mild the untried light And, as in Summer's northern night The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new morning. I sit alone: in foam and spray Wave after wave Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave. What heed I of the dusty land I see the mighty deep expand From its white line of glimmering sand To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts down! In listless quietude of mind, The change of cloud and wave and wind, I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall But look, thou dreamer!-wave and shore The night-wind warns me back once more Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky LINES. So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell! No token stone nor glittering shell, 51 Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea LINES, WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF SILAS WRIGHT, OF NEW YORK As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, Who stay the march of slavery? He, whose voice Hath called thee from thy task-field, shall not lack Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Him: Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trin, And wave them high across the abysmal black, Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice. 10th mo., 1847. LINES, ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND 'Tis said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings; Till starting from his sandy bed, The wayworn wanderer looks to see The halo of an angel's head Shine through the tamarisk-tree. So through the shadows of my way So at the weary close of day Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. That pilgrim pressing to his goal LINES. The graceful palm-tree by the well, 53 Each pictured saint, whose golden hair And loving Mary's tomb; And thus each tint or shade which falls The pleasant thought of thee. Of one, in sun and shade the same, Not blind to faults and follies, thou These light leaves at thy feet I lay— Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, That tree still clasps the kindly mould, There still the morning zephyrs play, Yet, even in genial sun and rain, Oh, friend beloved, whose curious skill Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring THE REWARD. Wão, looking backward from his manhood's prime, Of funeral cypress planted thick behind, Who bears no trace of passion's evil force? On the thronged pages of his memory's book, Regretful of the Past? |