"They shall all bloom in fields of light, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep With those deep and tender eyes, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; 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, In all places, then, and in all seasons, sons, How akin they are to human things. 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. 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!" 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 The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 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 AUTUMN. WITH What a glory comes and goes the year! There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, |