IN my dream, methought I trod, Overhead, a roof of cloud Here and there a wild-flower blushed, But the goodly company, Some with wailing and lament, Some with cheerful courage went; But, of all who smiled or mourned, Never one to us returned. Anxiously, with eye and ear, Questioning that shadow drear, Never hand in token stirred, Never answering voice I heard ! Steeper, darker!-lo! I felt From my feet the pathway melt. Swallowed by the black despair, And the hungry jaws of air, Past the stony-throated caves, Strangled by the wash of waves, Past the splintered crags, I sank On a green and flowery bank, Soft as fall of thistle-down, Lightly as a cloud is blown, Soothingly as childhood pressed To the bosom of its rest. Of the sharp-horned rocks instead, Green the grassy meadows spread, Bright with waters singing by Trees that propped a golden sky. Painless, trustful, sorrow-free, Waking while the dawning gray "Steep, and hung with clouds of strife, "So, with painful steps we climb "Dread of mystery solved alone, THE BAREFOOT BOY. "And this heart-consuming care, Thou, O Most Compassionate! Through the doubt and mystery, Show thy vacant tomb, and let, THE BAREFOOT BOY. BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! the grown-up man O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood: How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; 237 How the robin feeds her young, O for boyhood's time of June, I was rich in flowers and trees, O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Cheerily, then, my little man, FLOWERS IN WINTER. PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE. How strange to greet, this frosty morn, In graceful counterfeit of flowers, These children of the meadows, born Of sunshine and of showers! How well the conscious wood retains The pictures of its flower - sown home, The lights and shades, the purple stains, And golden hues of bloom! It was a happy thought to bring To the dark season's frost and rime This painted memory of spring, This dream of summer-time. Our hearts are lighter for its sake, Our fancy's age renews its youth, And dim-remembered fictions take The guise of present truth. A wizard of the Merrimack, So old ancestral legends say, Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray. The dry logs of the cottage wall, Beneath his touch, put out their leaves; The clay-bound swallow, at his call, The settler saw his oaken flail To their old homes, by man profaned, Came the sad dryads, exiled long, And through their leafy tongues complained Of household use and wrong. The beechen platter sprouted wild, The pipkin wore its old-time green; The cradle o'er the sleeping child Became a leafy screen. Haply our gentle friend hath met, While wandering in her sylvan quest, Haunting his native woodlands yet, That Druid of the West; And, while the dew on leaf and flower Glistened in moonlight clear and still, Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power, And caught his trick of skill. But welcome, be it new or old, The gift which makes the day more bright, And paints, upon the ground of cold And darkness, warmth and light! Without is neither gold nor green; Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing, Yet, summer-like, we sit between The autumn and the spring. The one, with bridal blush of rose, And sweetest breath of woodland balm, And one whose matron lips unclose HERE, while the loom of Winter weaves I think of thee and summer eves When thunder tolled the twilight's close, When, close and closer, hushing breath, Wherewith our silence crowned thee; And, strangers all, we felt the ties The sport of Time, who still apart Yet when the panes are frosty-starred, |