No heavenly chant, no earthly care, Have stirred a smile or frown. I wake; thy kiss is on my lips; THEOCRITUS AY! Unto thee belong Loved by the satyr and the faun! Thine, the blood-red revels, And maidens veiled in falling robes of lawn! The stalwart glories of the North; And ours the voices uttering forth By midnight round these cliffs a mighty strain; A tale of viewless islands in the deep Of mariners rocked asleep, In the great cradle, far from Grecian ire To us, to us, The dark-leaved shadow and the shining birch, The flight of gold through hollow woodlands driven, Soft dying of the year with many a sigh, These, all, to us are given! And eyes that eager evermore shall search The hidden seed, and searching find again Unfading blossoms of a fadeless spring; These, these, to us! The sacred youth and maid, Coy and half afraid; The sorrowful earthly pall, With whispering music in their fall; And unto thee, Theocritus, The immortal childhood of the world, The laughing waters of an inland sea, And beckoning signal of a sail unfurled ! LITTLE GUINEVER "When Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench." LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SWIFT across the palace floor Flashed her tiny wilful feet; "Playfellow, I will no more, Now I must my task complete." Arthur kissed her childish hand, Sighed to think her task severe, She has sought her latticed room, Called Launcelot from a bowery gloom "Had we bid Prince Arthur too, He had shaken his grave head, Saying, 'My holidays are few!'May queens not have their will ?" she said Thus she passed the merry day, Thus her women spake and smiled: "All we see we need not say, For Guinever is but a child." THE RETURN THE bright sea washed beneath her feet, As it had done of yore, The well-remembered odor sweet Came through her opening door. Again the grass his ripened head Bowed where her raiment swept; Again the fog-bell told of dread, And all the landscape wept. Again beside the woodland bars She found the wilding rose, And there, before that blossom small, By its young face beguiled, SPEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me; "I am come to sup with thee." All my room was dark and damp: Enter, Stranger, Opening wide the door he came, When my cheerful fire was beaming, When my little lamp was gleaming, And the feast was spread for three, Lo, my MASTER Was the Guest that supped with me! I put my question to the flower: I put my question to the Root. I know a Rose is overhead." TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN STERN be the pilot in the dreadful hour When a great nation, like a ship at sea With the wroth breakers whitening at her lee, Feels her last shudder if her helmsman cower; A godlike manhood be his mighty dower! On Time's calm ledger out of passionate days With the pure debt of gratitude begun, 1862. FARTHER (THE SUGGESTED DEVICE OF A NEW WESTERN STATE) FAR-OFF a young State rises, full of might: I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand See the log-cabin in the rough clearing stand; A woman by its door, with steadfast sight, Trustful, looks Westward, where, uplifted bright, Some city's Apparition, weird and grand, Motionless on the burning cloud afar: IRELAND A SEASIDE PORTRAIT A GREAT, still Shape, alone, She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand, And sees her children, one by one, depart:Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!) Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo She comforts her fierce heart, As wailing some, and some gay-singing go, With the far vision of that Greater Land Deep in the Atlantic skies, St. Brandan's Paradise! Another Woman there, Mighty and wondrous fair, Stands on her shore-rock:- one uplifted hand Holds a quick-piercing light That keeps long sea-ways bright; She beckons with the other, saying "Come, O landless, shelterless, Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress: Come hither, finding home! Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free, By winds of blessing blown, Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea |