Queries to My Seventietb year. APPROACHING, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre - bringest thou life or death? Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me here as now, The wallabout Martyrs. (In Brooklyn, in an old vault, mark'd by no special recognition, lie huddled at this moment the undoubtedly authentic remains of the stanchest and earliest Revolutionary patriots from the British prison ships and prisons of the times of 1776-83, in and around New York, and from all over Long Island; orginally buried many thousands of them-in trenches in the Wallabout sands.) GREATER than memory of Achilles or Ulysses, More, more by far to thee than tomb of Alexander, Those cart loads of old charnel ashes, scales and splints of mouldy bones, Once living men- once resolute courage, aspiration, strength, The stepping stones to thee to-day and here, America. The First Dandelion. SIMPLE and fresh and fair from winter's close emerging, As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been, Forth from its sunny nook of shelter'd grass-innocent, golden, calm as the dawn, The spring's first dandelion shows its trustful face. America. CENTRE of equal daughters, equal sons, All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old, Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich, Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love, Chair'd in the adamant of Time. Memories. How sweet the silent backward tracings! The wanderings as in dreams—the meditation of old times resumed their loves, joys, persons, voyages. To-day and Thee. THE appointed winners in a long-stretch'd game; The course of Time and nations-Egypt, India, Greece and Rome; The past entire, with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments, Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books, Garner'd for now and thee - To think of it! The heirdom all converged in thee! After the Dazzle of Day. AFTER the dazzle of day is gone, Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars; After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band, Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true. Abrabam Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809. (Publish'd Feb. 12, 1888.) TO-DAY, from each and all, a breath of prayer-a pulse of thought, To memory of him-to birth of him. Out of May's Sbows Selected. APPLE orchards, the trees all cover'd with blossoms; The yellow, golden, transparent haze of the warm afternoon sun; balcyon Days. NOT from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honor'd middle age, nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air, As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all! The brooding and blissful halcyon days! Fancies at Navesink. THE PILOT IN THE MIST. Steaming the northern rapids-(an old St. Lawrence reminiscence, [break, Again 't is just at morning -a heavy haze contends with dayAgain the trembling, laboring vessel veers me-I press through foam-dash'd rocks that almost touch me, Again I mark where aft the small thin Indian helmsman HAD I THE CHOICE. Had I the choice to tally greatest bards, To limn their portraits, stately, beautiful, and emulate at will, Homer with all his wars and warriors - Hector, Achilles, Ajax, Or Shakspere's woe-entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello - Tennyson's fair ladies, Metre or wit the best, or choice conceit to wield in perfect rhyme, delight of singers; These, these, O sea, all these I'd gladly barter, Would you the undulation of one wave, its trick to me transfer, Or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse, And leave its odor there. YOU TIDES WITH CEASELESS SWELL. You tides with ceaseless swell! you power that does this work! You unseen force, centripetal, centrifugal, through space's spread, *Navesink -a sea-side mountain, lower entrance of New York Bay. Rapport of sun, moon, earth, and all the constellations, What are the messages by you from distant stars to us? what Sirius'? what Capella's? What central heart-and you the pulse-vivifies all? what boundless aggregate of all? What subtle indirection and significance in you? what clue to all in you? what fluid, vast identity, Holding the universe with all its parts as one-as sailing in a ship? LAST OF EBB, AND DAYLIGHT WANING. Last of ebb, and daylight waning, Scented sea-cool landward making, smells of sedge and salt incoming, With many a half-caught voice sent up from the eddies, Many a muffled confession-many a sob and whisper'd word, As of speakers far or hid. How they sweep down and out! how they mutter! Poets unnamed-artists greatest of any, with cherish'd lost designs, Love's unresponse-a chorus of age's complaints-hope's last |