Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, Of being set on flame By the pure fire that flies all contact base Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, X Who now shall sneer? Who dare again to say we trace Roundhead and Cavalier! Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud; Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, They flit across the ear: That is best blood that hath most iron in 't crawl Down from some victor in a border-brawl! How poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets! XI Not in anger, not in pride, Lift the heart and lift the head! T'is no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, How could poet ever tower, Kept not measure with his people? Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves ! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple ! Banners, a-dance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: "Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, XII Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more ! Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the Nations bright beyond compare? What were our lives without thee? What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare! THE FIRST SNOW-FALL THE snow had begun in the gloaming, Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window YES, faith is a goodly anchor; In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm. In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, Then better one spar of Memory, One broken plank of the Past, To the spirit its splendid conjectures, Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket With its anguish of deathless hair! Immortal? I feel it and know it, There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, Console if you will, I can bear it; 'Tis a well-meant alms of breath; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made Death other than Death. It is pagan; but wait till you feel it, That jar of our earth, that dull shock When the ploughshare of deeper passion Tears down to our primitive rock. Communion in spirit! Forgive me, For a touch of her hand on my cheek. That little shoe in the corner, So worn and wrinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down. IN THE TWILIGHT MEN say the sullen instrument, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings Old summers in its memory glow; The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro With delight as it stood O my life, have we not had seasons But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, Have we not from the earth drawn juices All I feel, all I know? Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of memories that stay not and go not, That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something too vague, could I name it, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, AN AUTOGRAPH O'ER the wet sands an insect crept Ages ere man on earth was known And patient Time, while Nature slept, The slender tracing turned to stone. 'T was the first autograph: and ours? Prithee, how much of prose or song, In league with the creative powers, Shall 'scape Oblivion's broom so long. 24th June, 1886. William Wetmore Storp CLEOPATRA HERE, Charmian, take my bracelets: A gauze o'er my bosom throw, That over the garden blow. I dreamed I was with my Antony, Ah, me! the vision has vanished That wound the blue smoke of its odor Scatter upon me rose leaves, They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odors fan me Till into my veins they creep; Reach down the lute, and play me A melancholy tune, To rhyme with the dream that has vanished And the slumbering afternoon. There, drowsing in golden sunlight, Through slender papyri, that cover And opens its heart of gold, Those feathery palms to wave, And yon little cloud is as motionless As a stone above a grave. Ah, me! this lifeless nature Oppresses my heart and brain! Oh! for a storm and thunder For lightning and wild fierce rain! Hark! to my Indian beauty- And shrieks as he madly swings! There leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaning less, And its silly tinkling bell! Take him, my nerves he vexesThe thing without blood or brain, Or, by the body of Isis, I'll snap his thin neck in twain ! Leave me to gaze at the landscape Their earthy forms expire; |