O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, In all places, then, and in all seasons, And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, The mist-like banners clasped the air, But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, No other challenge breaks the air, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain! |