Слике страница
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands;
This is the best crop from thy lands,
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

THE ROSE: A BALLAD

I

In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea,

"Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it
Where there 's none that loveth me.
On the rock the billow bursteth
And sinks back into the seas,
But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease.
Take, O sea! the tender blossom

That hath lain against my breast;
On thy black and angry bosom

It will find a surer rest.
Life is vain, and love is hollow,

Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind."
Forth into the night he hurled it,

And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark.
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breakers all alone.

II

Stands a maiden, on the morrow,

Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow,

Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart fold him,

Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forevermore!" Swells the tide and overflows it,

But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.”

III

In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

The death-watch ticked behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall,
The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline!
My heart beat thickly in mine ears:
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears,
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone,
A strong soul ousted from its throne,
What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline !
I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow,
And plumes anodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline!

Thy shroud is all of snowy white,
And, in the middle of the night,
Thou standest moveless and upright,
Gazing upon me, Rosaline!

[blocks in formation]

The senses and the spirit,
The seen and the unseen;
Lifts the eternal shadow,

The silence bursts apart,
And the soul's boundless future
Is present in my heart.

A PARABLE

WORN and footsore was the Prophet, When he gained the holy hill; "God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets,

Wilt thou speak with men no more? Have I not as truly served thee

As thy chosen ones of yore?

“Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo! a humble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee Grant thy servant but a sign!"

Bowing then his head, he listened

For an answer to his prayer; No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air:

But the tuft of moss before him
Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock's hard bosom,
Sprang a tender violet.

"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet; "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain

For the gift of prophecy.

"Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime; Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire over time.

"Had I trusted in my nature,

And had faith in lowly things,
Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me,
And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders,
That o'er men should give me sway;
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay.

“Ere I entered on my journey,

As I girt my loins to start, Ran to me my little daughter, The beloved of my heart;

"In her hand she held a flower,
Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
She had plucked and brought to me."

SONG

O MOONLIGHT deep and tender,
A year and more agone,
Your mist of golden splendor
Round my betrothal shone !

O elm-leaves dark and dewy,
The very same ye seem,
The low wind trembles through ye,
Ye murmur in my dream!

O river, dim with distance,
Flow thus forever by,
A part of my existence
Within your heart doth lie!

O stars, ye saw our meeting,
Two beings and one soul,
Two hearts so madly beating
To mingle and be whole!

O happy night, deliver

Her kisses back to me,
Or keep them all, and give her
A blissful dream of me!

SONNETS

I

TO A. C. L.

A. C. L. was Mrs. Anna Cabot Lowell (Mrs. Charles Lowell), the wife of the eldest brother of the poet, and mother of those gallant brothers, Charles and James, who fell in the war for the union, and to whom Lowell refers in the tenth of the second series of Biglow Papers. THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast passed

To show us what a woman true may be: They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast,

« ПретходнаНастави »