So was my soul; but when 't was full
Of unrest to o'erloading,
A voice of something beautiful
Whispered a dim foreboding,
And yet so soft, so sweet, so low,
It had not more of joy than woe;

And, as the sea doth oft lie still,
Making its waters meet,
As if by an unconscious will,
For the moon's silver feet,
So lay my soul within mine eyes
When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise.

And now, howe'er its waves above
May toss and seem uneaseful,
One strong, eternal law of Love,

With guidance sure and peaceful,
As calm and natural as breath,

Moves its great deeps through life and death.

REMEMBERED MUSIC

A FRAGMENT

THICK-RUSHING, like an ocean vast
Of bisons the far prairie shaking,
The notes crowd heavily and fast
As surfs, one plunging while the last
Draws seaward from its foamy breaking.

Or in low murmurs they began,
Rising and rising momently,

As o'er a harp Æolian

A fitful breeze, until they ran
Up to a sudden ecstasy.

And then, like minute-drops of rain
Ringing in water silverly,

They lingering dropped and dropped again,
Till it was almost like a pain

To listen when the next would be.

SONG

TO M. L.

A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first,
A lily-bud not opened quite,

That hourly grew more pure and white, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed:

In all of nature thou hadst thy share;

Thou wast waited on

By the wind and sun;

The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A lily-bud; but oh, how strange,
How full of wonder was the change,
When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full

bloom burst!

How did the tears to my glad eyes start, When the woman-flower Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart!

Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away

Some impulses bright

Of fragrance and light,

Which fall upon souls that are lone and

astray,

To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.

ALLEGRA

I WOULD more natures were like thine,
That never casts a glance before,
Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine
So lavishly to all dost pour,
That we who drink forget to pine,

And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life;

With sunward instinct thou dost rise,
And, leaving clouds below at strife,
Gazest undazzled at the skies,
With all their blazing splendors rife,
A songful lark with eagle's eyes.

Thou wast some foundling whom the
Hours

Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth;

Some influence more gay than ours

Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal stars were flowers

That shook their seeds round thee on

earth.

And all his brethren cried with one accord,

"Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!"

He to his heart with large embrace had taken

The universal sorrow of mankind, And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind.

He could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum.

He in his heart was ever meek and humble, And yet with kingly pomp his numbers

Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden

To thee for wings to soar to her desire. Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth,

Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth!

Oh, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear

In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere !

Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,

That beauty in its highest thou shouldst

Where'er there lingers but a shadow of wrong,

There still is need of martyrs and apostles,

There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,

And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise.

Sit thou enthronëd where the Poet's mountain

Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain,

They all may drink and find the rest they seek.

Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven,

A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking

For who shall bring the Maker's name to light,

To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right. Proprieties our silken bards environ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land

Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron

And strike it with a toil-imbrownëd hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well attended,

Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,

Whose soul with all her countless lives hath

Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,

And find a bottom still of worthless clay; Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working,

Knowing that one sure wind blows on above,

And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, One God-built shrine of reverence and

love;

Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches

Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches The moving globe of being like a sky; Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer

Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh,

Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer

Than that of all his brethren, low or high;

Who to the Right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evil-doer,

And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his

The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within.

She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter,

Adding more bitterness to woe,

More loneliness to desertion utter.

One half the cold she had not felt
Until she saw this gush of light
Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt
Its slow way through the deadening night.

She hears a woman's voice within,
Singing sweet words her childhood knew,
And years of misery and sin

Furl off, and leave her heaven blue.

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks
Outwearied in the drifting snow,
Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks
No longer of its hopeless woe:

Old fields, and clear blue summer days,

Old meadows, green with grass, and trees That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze,

Old faces, all the friendly past

Rises within her heart again,
And sunshine from her childhood cast
Makes summer of the icy rain.

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow,
From man's humanity apart,
She hears old footsteps wandering slow
Through the lone chambers of the heart

Outside the porch before the door,
Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone,
She lies, no longer foul and poor,
No longer dreary and alone.

Next morning something heavily

Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay.

A smile upon the wan lips told

That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace.