ADELINE. 1. MYSTERY of mysteries, Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim locks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 2. Whence that aery bloom of thine, And a rose-bush leans upon, 3. What hope or fear or joy is thine? For sure thou art not all alone: Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own? Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings? With what voice the violet woos To his heart the silver dews? Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings To the mosses underneath? Hast thou look'd upon the breath Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 4. Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 5. Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies? Wander from the side of the morn, On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, And ye talk together still, A CHARACTER. WITH a half-glance upon the sky He spake of beauty: that the dull Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; Then looking as 't were in a glass, He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue: not the gods And with a sweeping of the arm, Most delicately hour by hour With lips depress'd as he were meek, And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek. THE POET. THE poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, : Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise When rites and forms before his burning eyes There was no blood upon her maiden robes But round about the circles of the globes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame All evil dreams of power- a sacred name. Her words did gather thunder as they ran, So was their meaning to her words. Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, No sword But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word THE POET'S MIND. 1. VEX not thou the poet's mind For thou canst not fathom it. 2. Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, Like sheet-lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. |