Hark! that rustle of a dress, Stiff with lavish costliness!
Writhing in its fiendish bliss; All night long he sees its eyes
Here comes one whose cheek would Flicker with foul ecstasies,
But to have her garment brush 'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin Wove the weary broidery in, Bending backward from her toil, Lest her tears the silk might soil, And, in midnights chill and murk, Stitched her life into the work, Shaping from her bitter thought Heart's-ease and forget-me-not, Satirizing her despair
With the emblems woven there. Little doth the wearer heed Of the heart-break in the brede; A hyena by her side Skulks, down-looking, He digs for her in the earth, Where lie all her claims of birth, With his foul paws rooting o'er Some long-buried ancestor, Who, perhaps, a statue won By the ill deeds he had done, By the innocent blood he shed, By the desolation spread Over happy villages, Blotting out the smile of peace.
There walks Judas, he who sold Yesterday his Lord for gold, Sold God's presence in his heart For a proud step in the mart; He hath dealt in flesh and blood; At the bank his name is good; At the bank, and only there, 'T is a marketable ware. In his eyes that stealthy gleam Was not learned of sky or stream, But it has the cold, hard glint Of new dollars from the mint. Open now your spirit's eyes, Look through that poor clay disguise Which has thickened, day by day, Till it keeps all light at bay, And his soul in pitchy gloom Gropes about its narrow tomb, From whose dank and slimy walls Drop by drop the horror falls. Look! a serpent lank and cold Hugs his spirit fold on fold; From his heart, all day and night, It doth suck God's blessed light. Drink it will, and drink it must, Till the cup holds naught but dust; All day long he hears it hiss,
As the spirit ebbs away Into the absorbing clay.
Who is he that skulks, afraid Of the trust he has betrayed, Shuddering if perchance a gleam Of old nobleness should stream Through the pent, unwholesome room, Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom,
Spirit sad beyond the rest
By more instinct for the best? 'T is a poet who was sent
For a bad world's punishment, By compelling it to see Golden glimpses of To Be, By compelling it to hear Songs that prove the angels near; Who was sent to be the tongue Of the weak and spirit-wrung, Whence the fiery-winged Despair In men's shrinking eyes might flare. 'T is our hope doth fashion us To base use or glorious:
He who might have been a lark Of Truth's morning, from the dark Raining down melodious hope Of a freer, broader scope, Aspirations, prophecies, Of the spirit's full sunrise, Chose to be a bird of night, That, with eyes refusing light, Hooted from some hollow tree Of the world's idolatry. 'Tis his punishment to hear Flutterings of pinions near, And his own vain wings to feel Drooping downward to his heel, All their grace and import lost, Burdening his weary ghost: Ever walking by his side He must see his angel guide, Who at intervals doth turn Looks on him so sadly stern, With such ever-new surprise Of hushed anguish in her eyes, That it seems the light of day From around him shrinks away, Or drops blunted from the wall Built around him by his fall. Then the mountains, whose white peaks Catch the morning's earliest streaks, He must see, where prophets sit, Turning east their faces lit,
Whence, with footsteps beautiful, To the earth, yet dim and dull, They the gladsome tidings bring Of the sunlight's hastening: Never can these hills of bliss Be o'erclimbed by feet like his !
But enough! O, do not dare From the next the veil to tear, Woven of station, trade, or dress, More obscene than nakedness, Wherewith plausible culture drapes Fallen Nature's myriad shapes! Let us rather love to mark How the unextinguished spark Will shine through the thin disguise Of our customs, pomps, and lies, And, not seldom blown to flame, Vindicate its ancient claim.
In that clear brain, which, day and night,
No movement of the heart e'er jostles, Her friends are ranged on left and right,
Here, silex, hornblende, sienite ;
There, animal remains and fossils. And yet, O subtile analyst,
That canst each property detect Of mood or grain, that canst untwist Each tangled skein of intellect, And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare Each mental nerve more fine than air, O brain exact, that in thy scales Canst weigh the sun and never err,
For once thy patient science fails, One problem still defies thy art; Thou never canst compute for her The distance and diameter
Of any simple human heart.
Sensation glimmers through its rest, It speaks unmanacled by words,
As full of motion as a nest That palpitates with unfledged birds ; "T is likest to Bethesda's stream, Forewarned through all its thrilling springs,
White with the angel's coming gleam, And rippled with his fanning wings.
Hear him unfold his plots and plans, And larger destinies seem man's; You conjure from his glowing face The omen of a fairer race; With one grand trope he boldly spans The gulf wherein so many fall, Twixt possible and actual; His first swift word, talaria-shod, Exuberant with conscious God,
Out of the choir of planets blots The present earth with all its spots.
Himself unshaken as the sky,
His words, like whirlwinds, spin on high
Systems and creeds pellmell together;
"T is strange as to a deaf man's eye, While trees uprooted splinter by,
The dumb turmoil of stormy weather;
Less of iconoclast than shaper,
His spirit, safe behind the reach
Of the tornado of his speech,
ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO.
CAN this be thou who, lean and pale, With such immitigable eye Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale,
And note each vengeance, and pass by Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance Cast backward one forbidden glance,
And saw Francesca, with child's glee, Subdue and mount thy wild-horse knee And with proud hands control its fiery prance?
Burns calmly as a glowworm's ta- With half-drooped lids, and smooth,
So great in speech, but, ah! in act So overrun with vermin troubles, The coarse, sharp-cornered, ugly fact Of life collapses all his bubbles: Had he but lived in Plato's day,
He might, unless my fancy errs, Have shared that golden voice's sway O'er barefooted philosophers. Our nipping climate hardly suits The ripening of ideal fruits :
His theories vanquish us all summer, But winter makes him dumb and dumber;
To see him mid life's needful things
Is something painfully bewildering; He seems an angel with clipt wings Tied to a mortal wife and children, And by a brother seraph taken In the act of eating eggs and bacon. Like a clear fountain, his desire
Exults and leaps toward the light, In every drop it says "Aspire!'
Striving for more ideal height; And as the fountain, falling thence, Crawls baffled through the common gutter,
So, from his speech's eminence, He shrinks into the present tense, Unkinged by foolish bread and butter.
Yet smile not, worldling, for in deeds Not all of life that 's brave and wise is;
He strews an ampler future's seeds,
"T is your fault if no harvest rises; Smooth back the sneer; for is it naught That all he is and has is Beauty's? By soul the soul's gains must be wrought, The Actual claims our coarser thought, The Ideal hath its higher duties.
And eye remote, that inly sees Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now In some sea-lulled Hesperides, Thou movest through the jarring street, Secluded from the noise of feet
By her gift-blossom in thy hand, Thy branch of palm from Holy Land;-
No trace is here of ruin's fiery sleet.
Yet there is something round thy lips That prophesies the coming doom, The soft, gray herald-shadow ere the eclipse
Notches the perfect disk with gloom; A something that would banish thee, And thine untamed pursuer be,
From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her
After its butterflies, and gives no sign. T is hard at first to see it all aright: In vain Faith blows her trump to sum- mon back
Her scattered troop: yet, through the clouded glass
Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look Undazzled on the kindness of God's face;
Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through.
It is no little thing, when a fresh soul And a fresh heart, with their unmeasured scope
For good, not gravitating earthward yet, But circling in diviner periods,
Are sent into the world, no little
The visionary hand of Might-have-been Though for its press each grape-bunch had Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim! The white feet of an Oread.
How changed, dear friend, are thy part
He bends above thy cradle now, or holds His warning finger out to be thy guide; Thou art the nursling now; he watches thee
Slow learning, one by one, the secret things
Which are to him used sights of every day;
He smiles to see thy wondering glances
The grass and pebbles of the spirit- world,
To thee miraculous; and he will teach Thy knees their due observances of
Children are God's apostles, day by day Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace;
Nor hath thy babe his mission left un
To me, at least, his going hence hath given
Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, And opened a new fountain in my heart For thee, my friend, and all: and O, if Death
More near approaches meditates, and clasps
Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand,
God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see
That 't is thine angel, who, with loving haste,
Unto the service of the inner shrine, Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss.
Through our coarse art gleam, now and then,
The features of angelic men : 'Neath the lewd Satyr's veiling paint Glows forth the Sibyl, Muse, or Saint; The dauber's botch no more obscures The mighty master's portraitures. And who can say what luckier beam The hidden glory shall redeem, For what chance clod the soul may wait To stumble on its nobler fate, Or why, to his unwarned abode, Still by surprises comes the God? Some moment, nailed on sorrow's cross, May meditate a whole youth's loss, Some windfall joy, we know not whence, Redeem a lifetime's rash expense, And, suddenly wise, the soul may mark, Stripped of their simulated dark, Mountains of gold that pierce the sky, Girdling its valleyed poverty.
I feel ye, childhood's hopes, return, With olden heats my pulses burn, Mine be the self-forgetting sweep, The torrent impulse swift and wild, Wherewith Taghkanic's rock born child Dares gloriously the dangerous leap, And, in his sky-descended mood, Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood, By touch of bravery's simple wand, To amethyst and diamond, Proving himself no bastard slip, But the true granite-cradled one, Nursed with the rock's primeval drip, The cloud-embracing mountain's son !
Prayer breathed in vain! no wish's sway Rebuilds the vanished yesterday; For plated wares of Sheffield stamp We gave the old Aladdin's lamp; 'Tis we are changed; ah, whither went
HEAVEN'S cup held down to me I That undesigned abandonment,
That wise, unquestioning content,
The sunshine mounts and spurs my Which could erect its microcosm
Bathing in grass, with thirsty eye
I suck the last drop of the sky ; With each hot sense I draw to the lees The quickening out-door influences, And empty to each radiant comer A supernaculum of summer: Not, Bacchus, all thy grosser juice Could bring enchantment so profuse,
Out of a weed's neglected blossom, Could call up Arthur and his peers By a low moss's clump of spears, Or, in its shingle trireme launched, Where Charles in some green inlet branched,
Could venture for the golden fleece And dragon-watched Hesperides, Or, from its ripple-shattered fate,
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