Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soullike wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. 5 And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley, fast and far, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Flows the River of Life between. And when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, Down the broad Vale of Tears afar MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE YES, the Year is growing old, The leaves are falling, falling, Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, Like weak, despised Lear, Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,- Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, "Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson! L'ENVOI. YE voices, that arose Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so low and calm, Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost, Of the vast plain where Death encamps! 7 EARLIER POEMS. [WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE LIFE, AND ALL OF THEM BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.] WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN Winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with Winter's cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. And, when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw; And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April!-many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed. AUTUMN. WITH What a glory comes and goes the year! There is a beautiful spirit breathing now O what a glory doth this world put on HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave! Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. Was darkened by the forest's shade, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills !-No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone ; |