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With spikenard one, and both are sweet,

For both are sacrifice.

Moravian hymn and Roman chant

In one devotion blend,
To speak the soul's eternal want

Of Him, the inmost friend;
One prayer soars cleansed with martyr

One choked with sinner's tears,
In heaven both meet in one desire,

And God one music hears.

This slippery globe of life whirls of itself,
Hasting our youth away into the dark;
These senses, quivering with electric heats,
Too soon will show, like nests on wintry

Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck,
Which whistling north-winds line with

downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime,

in vain, Thither the singing birds no more return." Then glowed to me a maiden from the

left, With bosom half disclosed, and naked More white and undulant than necks of

swans; And all before her steps an influence ran Warm as the whispering South that opens

buds And swells the laggard sails of Northern

May. “ I am called Pleasure, come with me!”

she said,
Then laughed, and shook out sunshine from

her hair,
Nor only that, but, so it seemed, shook out
All memory too, and all the moonlit past,
Old loves, old aspirations, and old dreams,
More beautiful for being old and gone.

Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out

Upon the Sabbath air,
Each seems a hostile faith to shout,

A selfish form of prayer;
My dream is shattered, yet who knows

But in that heaven so near
These discords find harmonious close

In God's atoning ear ?
O chime of sweet Saint Charity,

Peal soon that Easter morn
When Christ for all shall risen be,

And in all hearts new-born !
That Pentecost when utterance clear

To all men shall be given,
When all shall say My Brother here,

And hear My Son in heaven !


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS So we two went together; downward

sloped Who hath not been a poet? Who hath not, The path through yellow meads, or so I With life's new quiver full of wingëd dreamed,

Yellow with sunshine and young green, years, Shot at a venture, and then, following on,

but I Stood doubtful at the Parting of the Ways ? Saw naught nor heard, shut up in one close

joy; There once I stood in dream, and as I I only felt the hand within my own, paused,

Transmuting all my blood to golden fire, Looking this way and that, came forth Dissolving all my brain in throbbing mist.

to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, Suddenly shrank the hand; suddenly burst

My name is Duty, turn and follow me;" A cry that split the torpor of my brain, Something there was that chilled me in And as the first sharp thrust of lightning her voice;

loosens I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in From the heaped cloud its rain, loosened mine,

my sense: As if to be withdrawn, and I exclaimed: “ Save me !” it thrilled; "ob, hide me! “Oh, leave the hot wild heart within my

there is Death! breast !

Death the divider, the unmerciful, Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes That digs his pitfalls under Love and Death;


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soon !"

And covers Beauty up in the cold ground; The heart grows hardened with perpetual
Horrible Death ! bringer of endless dark;

Let him not see me! bide me in thy

And palters with a feigned necessity, breast !"

Bargaining with itself to be content;
Thereat I strove to clasp her, but my arms Let me bebold thy face.”
Met only what slipped crumbling down,

The Form replied: and fell,

“ Men follow Duty, never overtake; A handful of gray ashes, at my feet. Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks behind.”

But, as she spake, a loosened lock of hair I would have fled, I would have followed Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, who back

That pleasant path we came, but all was To see it gray and thin, saw amplest gold;

Not that dull metal dug from sordid earth,
Rocky the way, abrupt, and hard to find; But such as the retiring sunset flood
Yet I toiled on, and, toiling on, I thought, Leaves heaped on bays

and capes of island “ That way lies Youth, and Wisdom, and

cloud. all Good;

“O Guide divine,” I prayed," although not For only by unlearning Wisdom comes

yet And climbing backward to diviner Youth; I may repair the virtue which I feel What the world teaches profits to the Gone out at touch of untuned things and world,

foul What the soul teaches profits to the soul, With draughts of Beauty, yet declare how Which then first stands erect with God

ward face, When she lets fall her pack of withered « Faithless and faint of heart," the voice facts,

returned, The gleanings of the outward eye and “Thou seest no beauty save thou make it ear,

first; And looks and listens with her finer sense; Man, Woman, Nature each is but a glass Nor Truth nor Knowledge cometh from Where the soul sees the image of herself, without."

Visible echoes, offsprings of herself.

But, since thou need'st assurance of how After long, weary days I stood again

soon, And waited at the Parting of the Ways; Wait till that angel comes who opens all, Again the figure of a woman veiled

The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, Stood forth and beckoned, and I followed The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death."

now: Down to no bower of roses led the path, I waited, and methought he came; but But through the streets of towns where

how, chattering Cold

Or in what shape, I doubted, for no sign, Hewed wood for fires whose glow was By touch or mark, he gave me owned and fenced,

Where Nakedness wove garments of warm Only I knew a lily that I held

Snapt short below the head and shrivelled
Not for itself; — or through the fields it

up; led

Then turned my Guide and looked at me Where Hunger reaped the unattainable unveiled, grain,

And I beheld no face of matron stern,
Where idleness enforced saw idle lands, But that enchantment I had followed erst,
Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common Only more fair, more clear to eye and brain,

Heightened and chastened by a household
Walled round with paper against God and charm;

She smiled, and “ Which is fairer," said
"I cannot look," I groaned, “at only

“ The hag's unreal Florimel or mine ?”

as he

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her eyes,


WHEN I was a beggarly boy,

And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy,

But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for the cold,

I had fire enough in my brain, and builded, with roofs of gold,

My beautiful castles in Spain !

O'er history's fields on every side,
To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece.
Whatever moulds of various brain
E'er shaped the world to wea) or woe,
Whatever empires' wax and wane,
To him that bath not eyes in vain,
Our village-microcosm can show

Come back our ancient walks to tread, Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, Old Harvard's scholar-factories red, Where song and smoke and laughter sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends.

Since then I have toiled day and night,

I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright

For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and

may snatch again; I have nothing 't would pain me to lose,

For I own no more castles in Spain !

Constant are all our former loves,
Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond,
Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves,
Where floats the coot and never moves,
Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond.
Our old familiars are not laid,
Though snapt our wands and sunk our

books; They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads that mowers

wade, The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks.


Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillsides shift Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift.

TO J[OHN] F[RANCIS] H[EATH] NINE years have slipt like hour-glass sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your

hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the token wbich you gave, While slowly the smoke-pennon curled O’er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And shut the distance like a grave, Leaving me in the colder world; The old, worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and

scope; While

you, where beckoning billows fleet Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, Sank wavering down the ocean-slope. You sought the new world in the old, I found the old world in the new, All that our human hearts can hold, The inward world of deathless mould, The same that Father Adam knew. He needs no ship to cross the tide, Who, in the lives about him, sees Fair window-prospects opening wide

There have we watched the West unfurl
A cloud Byzantium newly born,
With flickering spires and domes of pearl,
And vapory surfs that crowd and curl
Into the sunset's Golden Horn.

There, as the flaming occident
Burned slowly down to ashes gray,
Night pitched o’erhead her silent tent,
And glimmering gold from Hesper sprent
Upon the darkened river lay,

Where a twin sky but just before
Deepened, and double swallows skimmed,
And from a visionary shore
Hung visioned trees, that more and more
Grew dusk as those above were dimmed.

Then eastward saw we slowly grow Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire,

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To utilize Time's sliding river,
Content that it flow waste forever,
If they, like it, may have their wills.

And yet I felt it everywhere ;

Walked I the woodland's aisles along It seemed to brush me with its hair ;

Bathed I, I heard a mermaid's song.


An hour they pitch their shifting tents
In thoughts, in feelings, and events ;
Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass,
They sing, they dance, make love, and

chatter, Ver the grim temples with their clatter, And make Truth's fount their looking


How sweet it was! A buttercup

Could hold for me a day's delight, A bird could lift my fancy up

To ether free from cloud or blight.

A picnic life ; from love to love,
From faith to faith they ligbtly move,
And yet, bard-eyed philosopher,
The fightiest maid that ever hovered
To me your thought-webs fine discovered,
No lens to see them through like her.
So witchingly her finger-tips
To Wisdom, as away she trips,
She kisses, waves such sweet farewells
To Duty, as she laughs “To-morrow!”
That botb from that mad contrast borrow
A perfectness found nowhere else.
The beach-bird on its pearly verge
Follows and flies the whispering surge,
While, in his tent, the rock-stayed shell
Awaits the flood's star-timed vibrations,
And both, the flutter and the patience,
The sauntering poet loves them well.

Who was the nymph ? Nay, I will see,

Methought, and I will know her near; If such, divined, her charm can be,

Seen and possessed, how triply dear! So every magic art I tried,

And spells as numberless as sand,
Until, one evening, by my side

I saw her glowing fulness stand.
I turned to clasp her, but “ Farewell,”

Parting she sigbed, “ we meet no more; Not by my hand the curtain fell

That leaves you conscious, wise, and poor. “Since you have found me out, I go;

Another lover I must find, Content his happiness to know,

Nor strive its secret to unwind.”


Fulfil so much of God's decree
As works its problem out in thee,
Nor dream that in thy breast alone
The conscience of the changeful seasons,
The Will that in the planets reasons
With space-wide logic, has its throne.
Thy virtue makes not vice of mine,
Unlike, but none the less divine ;
Thy toil adorns, not chides, my play ;
Nature of sameness is so chary,
With such wild whim the freakish fairy
Picks presents for the christening-day.

In 1834 Lowell contributed to The Crayon, then just started by W. J. Stillman, a poem, My Appledore Gallery, which reappears in part in the following poem under a slightly changed title. In sending the first portion to Mr. Still. man, he wrote : "You may add a note, if you like, saying that Appledore is one of the Isles of Shoals, off Portsmouth, N. H., discovered by the great Captain Smith, and once named after him. A cairn on the apex of Appledore is said to be of his building."


I A HEAP of bare and splintery crags Tumbled about by lightning and frost, With rifts and chasms and storm-bleached

jags, That wait and growl for a ship to be lost; No island, but rather the skeleton Of a wrecked and vengeance-smitten one, Where, æons ago, with half-shut eye, The sluggish saurian crawled to die, Gasping under titanic ferns;

A PRESENCE both by night and day,

That made my life seem just begun, Yet scarce a presence, rather say

The warning aureole of one.

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