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Out clanged the Ave Mary bells,
And to my heart this message came :
Each clamorous throat among them tells
What strong-souled martyrs died in

flame To make it possible that thou Shouldst here with brother sinners bow.

The winter wind is not so cold

As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old

As our poor gabble sour and thin. I envy him the ungyved prance

By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance

The galley-slave of dreary forms. O, could he have my share of din,

And I his quiet ! – past a doubt 'T would still be one man bored within,

And just another bored without.

Thoughts that great hearts once broke

for, we Breathe cheaply in the common air ; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes

Who perished, opening for their race
New pathways to the commonplace.
Henceforth, when rings the health to

Who live in story and in song,
O nameless dead, who now repose
Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong,
One cup of recognition true
Shall silently be drained to you !




My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the

door; I hear him with his brethren swear,

As I could do, - but only more. Flattening his nose against the pane,

He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain,

And dooms me to a place more hot. He sees me in to supper go,

A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row

Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled

load ; And wishes me some dreadful harm,

Hearing the merry corks explode. Meanwhile I inly curse the bore

Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door,

In golden quiets of the moon.

GODMINSTER? Is it Fancy's play?

I know not, but the word Sings in my heart, nor can I say

Whether 't was dreamed or heard ; Yet fragrant in my mind it clings

As blossoms after rain, And builds of half-remembered things

This vision in my brain. Through aisles of long-drawn centuries

My spirit walks in thought, And to that symbol lifts its eyes

Which God's own pity wrought ; From Calvary shines the altar's gleam,

The Church's East is there,
The Ages one great minster seem,

That throbs with praise and prayer. And all the way from Calvary down

The carven pavement shows Their graves who won the martyr's

crown And safe in God repose ; The saints of many a warring creed

Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead

Where Self the feet have spurned. And, as the mystic aisles I pace,

By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace

Alike through grace and guilt ;

One Mary bathes the blessed feet

With ointment from her eyes, 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

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

And God one music hears.
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 !

I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold

in mine, As if to be withdrawn, and I replied: "O, leave the hot wild heart within my

breast ! Duty comes soon enough, too soon

comes Death ; This slippery globe of life whirls of it

self, Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric

heats, Too soon will show, like nests on win

try boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable

wreck, Which whistling northwinds line with

downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged

rime, in vain, Thither the singing birds no more re



Who hath not been a poet? Who hath

not, With life's new quiver full of wingëd

years, Shot at a venture, and then, following

on, Stood doubtful at the Parting of the

Ways? There once I stood in dream, and as I

paused, Looking this way and that, came forth

to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, “My name is Duty, turn and follow

me; Something there was that chilled me in her voice ;

Then glowed to me a maiden from the

left, With bosom half disclosed, and naked

arms 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 North

ern May “I am called Pleasure, come with me!

she said, Then laughed, and shook out sunshine

from her hair, Not 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 and

gone. So we two went together; downward

sloped The path through yellow meads, or so

I dreamed, Yellow with sunshine and young green,

but I Saw naught nor heard, shut up in one

close joy ;

I only felt the hand within my own, Transmuting all my blood to golden fire, Dissolving all my brain in throbbing


Suddenly shrank the hand; suddenly

burst A cry that split the torpor of my brain, And as the first sharp thrust of light

ning loosens From the heaped cloud its rain, loos

ened my sense : "Save me !" it thrilled; “O, hide me!

there is Death ! Death the divider, the unmerciful, That digs his pitfalls under Love and

Youth And covers Beauty up in the cold

ground; Horrible Death! bringer of endless Let him not see me ! hide me in thy

breast !" Thereat I strove to clasp her, but my

dark ;


After long weary days I stood again And waited at the Parting of the Ways; Again the figure of a woman veiled Stood forth and beckoned, and I fol

lowed now: Down to no bower of roses led the path. But through the streets of towns where

chattering Cold Hewed wood for fires whose glow was

owned and fenced, Where Nakedness wove garments of

warm wool Not for itself; - or through the fields

it led Where Hunger reaped the unattaina

ble grain, Where Idleness enforced saw idle lands, Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common

earth, Walled round with paper against God

and Man. “ I cannot look," I groaned, “at only

these ; The heart grows hardened with perpet

ual wont, And palters with a feigned necessity, Bargaining with itself to be content ; Let me behold thy face.”

The Form replied: “Men follow Duty, never overtake; Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks be

hind.” But, as she spake, a loosened lock of

hair Slipped from beneath her hood, and I,

who looked To see it gray and thin, saw amplest

gold ; Not that dull metal dug from sordid

earth, But such as the retiring sunset flood Leaves heaped on bays and capes of

island cloud. “O Guide divine,” I prayed, “although I may repair the virtue which I feel Gone out at touch of untuned things

and foul With draughts of Beauty, yet declare

how soon!"

Met only what slipped crumbling down,

and fell, A handful of gray ashes, at my feet. I would have fled, I would have fol

lowed back That pleasant path we came, but all

was changed ; Rocky the way, abrupt, and hard to find; Yet Í toiled on, and, toiling on, I

thought, “That way lies Youth, and Wisdom,

and all Good ; For only by unlearning Wisdom comes And climbing backward to diviner

Youth ; What the world teaches profits to the

world, What the soul teaches profits to the

soul, Which then first stands erect with God

ward face, When she lets fall her pack of withered

facts, The gleanings of the outward eye and

not ye

ear, And looks and listens with her finer Nor Truth nor Knowledge cometh

from without."

sense :

“Faithless and faint of heart," the

voice returned, “Thou see'st no beauty save thon mako

it first;

I have nothing 't would pain me to lose,

For I own no more castles in Spain I


Man, Woman, Nature, each is but a

glass Where the soul sees the image of her

self, Visible echoes, offsprings of herself. But, since thou need'st assurance of how

soon, Wait till that angel comes who opens

all, The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death.” I waited, and methought he came; but

how, Or in what shape, I doubted, for no

sign, By touch or mark, he gave me as he

passed : Only I know a lily that I held Snapt short below the head and shriy

Nine years have slipt like hour-glass

sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Sin

last, dear friend, I clasped your

hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the token which 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.

elled up;

Then turned my Guide and looked at

me unveiled, And I beheld no face of matron stern, But that enchantment I had followed

erst, Only more fair, more clear to eye and

brain, Heightened and chastened by a house

hold charm; She smiled, and “Which is fairer,” said

The hag's unreal Florimel or mine?"

her eyes,

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.


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 cold,

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

My beautiful castles in Spain ! 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 ;

He needs no ship to cross the tide,
Who, in the lives about him, sees.
Fair window-prospects opening wide
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 weal or woe.
Whatever empires' wax and wane,
To him that hath 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

The nights to proctor-haunted ends.

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-lamed 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.

There have we watched the West un

furl 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.

Up a ridged beach of cloudy giay,
Curved round the east as round a bay,
It slips and spreads its gradual tide.
Then suddenly, in lurid mood,
The moon looms large o'er town and

As upon Adam, red like blood,
'Tween him and Eden's happy wood,
Glared the commissioned angel's shield.
Or let us seek the seaside, there
To wander idly as we list,
Whether, on rocky headlands bare,
Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear
The trailing fringes of gray mist,
Or whether, under skies full flown,
The brightening surfs, with foamy din,
Their breeze-caught forelocks backward

blown, Against the beach's yellow zone, Curl slow, and plunge forever in. And, as we watch those canvas towers That lean along the horizon's rim, “Sail on,” I 'll say ;

may sunniest hours Convoy you from this land of ours, Since from my side you bear not him!” For years thrice three, wise Horace

said, A poem rare let silence bind; And love may ripen in the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In deepest arches of the mind. Come back! Not ours the Old World's

good, The Old World's ill, thank God, not

ours: But here, far better understood, The days enforce our native mood, And challenge all our manlier powers. Kindlier to me the place of birth That first my tottering footsteps trod; There may be fairer spots of earth, But all their glories are not worth The virtue of the native sod. Thence climbs an influence more benign Through pulse and nerve, through heart

and brain;

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

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.

eastward saw we slowly grow Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, While great elm-masses blacken slow, And linden-ricks their round heads

show Against a flush of widening fire.

Doubtful at first and far away,
The moon-flood creeps more wide and

wide ;

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