Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stopsshort, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still; Again, now, now, again Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, Again the thunder shouts His battle-song, One quivering flash, Followed by silence dead and dull, To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, And then a total lull. Gone, gone, so soon! No more my half-crazed fancy there Can shape a giant in the air, No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form ;The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fightat sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me. 1839. spring. Such is true Love, which steals into the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness, Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare, Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points, But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, Every sad and happy feeling, Clear and low; All thy smiles and all thy tears And sweetness, wove of joy and woe, It hath caught a touch of sadness, It hath tones of clearest gladness, A dim, sweet twilight voice it is Thy voice is like a fountain Thine is music such as yields Flowing like an emerald river, The melodies from out thy breast; And white arms crost, The beauty which the summer time That filled thy soul with joyous dread, Yea, every holy influence, In thine eyes to-day is seen, Whatever led thy childish feet, Thy voice is like a fountain, When the moon behind the mountain Dims the low East with faintest white, Ever darkling, Ever sparkling, We know not if 't is dark or bright; But, when the great moon hath rolled round, And, sudden-slow, its solemn power Grows from behind its black, clear edged bound, No spot of dark the fountain keepeth, But, swift as opening eyelids, leapeth Into a waving silver flower. 1841. THE MOON. My soul was like the sea, Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unrestful and unstaid. Through every rift it foamed in vain, For yet no moon had risen: And lived but in an aimless seeking. So was my soul; but when 't was full Whispered a dim foreboding, As if by an unconscious will, For the moon's silver feet, So lay my soul within mine eyes When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise. And now, howe'er its waves above With guidance sure and peaceful, REMEMBERED MUSIC. A FRAGMENT. THICK-RUSHING, like an ocean vast Or in low murmurs they began, And then, like minute-drops of rain They lingering dropped and dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be. 1840. SONG. TO M. L. A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy share; By the wind and sun; The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more fair. A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud; but O, how strange, How full of wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom burst! How did the tears to my glad eyesstart, When the woman-flower Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart! Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store. Thou canst not see a shade in life; Thou wast some foundling whom the Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Some influence more gay than ours That shook their seeds round thee on earth. And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child; All pleasant winds from south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. Thine every fancy seems to borrow A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, — Though 'yond to-day it never peers. I would more natures were like thine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea, THE FOUNTAIN. Into the moonlight, |