SONGS. SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic Landward in his wrath he scourges Laden with seaweed from the rocks. From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far-off, bright Azore; Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; . Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart Till at length in books recorded, THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness As a feather is wafted downward I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet And come like the benediction Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences: The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. |