And the unattained seems nearer When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces; Let us turn and wander thither. THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857. It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1841-1846-1858. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, They love to see the flaming forge, And makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow When, sleeping in the grove, Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, It comes,-the beautiful, the free, To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep But some heart, though unknown, Responds,- -as if with unseen wings "Where hast thou stayed so long?" IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay pájaros en los nidos antaño.— Spanish Proverb. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, The darting swallows soar and sing, And from the stately elms I hear The blue-bird prophesying Spring. So blue yon winding river flows, It seems an outlet from the sky, Where, waiting till the west wind blows, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. All things are new; the buds, the leaves, That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves;There are no birds in last year's nest! All things rejoice in youth and love, The fulness of their first delight? And learn from the soft heavens above The melting tenderness of night. Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May! Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, To some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, There are no birds in last year's nest! GOD'S-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life-alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, no 'garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippo crene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, powers, It gave new strength and fearless mood; A wreath of fennel wore. New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe With which its brim may overflow, He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman's face. One half the human race. Patient, though sorely tried! U I pledge you in this cup of grief, BLIND BARTIMEUS. He hears the crowd;-he hears a breath The thronging multitudes increase; Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?" And he replies, "O give me light! Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!" And Jesus answers, "Yaye Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε! Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, TO THE RIVER CHARLES. RIVER that in silence windest Through the meadows bright and Till at length thy rest thou findest Four long years of mingled feeling,' Onward, like the stream of life. I have watched thy current glide And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin dear. More than this;-thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side. Friends my soul with joy remembers! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearth-stone of my heart! 'Tis for this, thou Silent River! That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song from me. EXCELSIOR. THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung, The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the light Above, the spectral glaciers shone, "Try not the Pass!" the old man said, "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, That banner with the strange device There in the twilight cold and gray, MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes Care and age come unawares! Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows, O, that dew, like balm, shall steal THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. CARILLON. IN the ancient town of Bruges, |