FLIGHT THE THIRD

Contained in the volume entitled Aftermath, 1873.

FATA MORGANA.

Written May 21, 1870.

O SWEET illusions of Song,
That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach, and ye vanish away,
I grasp you, and ye are gone;
But ever by night and by day,
The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees
In desert or prairie vast,
Blue lakes, overhung with trees,
That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high,
And shining roofs of gold,
That vanish as he draws nigh,
Like mists together rolled, —

So I wander and wander along,
And forever before me gleams

The shining city of song,

In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate
Of that golden atmosphere,
It is gone, and I wonder and wait
For the vision to reappear.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.

EACH heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls ! On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted
By phantoms of the Past,
As motionless as shadows

By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,
That is not seen by day,

For as soon as the dawn approaches

It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight,
Itself as pale and still,

And points with its airy finger
Across the window-sill.

Without, before the window,

There stands a gloomy pine,

Whose boughs wave upward and downward As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches
Is the grave of a little child,
Who died upon life's threshold,
And never wept nor smiled.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
That haunt my troubled brain?
That vanish when day approaches,
And at night return again?

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!
But the statues without breath,
That stand on the bridge overarching
The silent river of death?

THE MEETING.

Written in December, 1870.

AFTER So long an absence

At last we meet again :
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet's two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;

And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year;
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.

VOX POPULI.

Written September 5, 1870.

WHEN Mazárvan the Magician

Journeyed westward through Cathay, Nothing heard he but the praises Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumor ended
When he came to Khaledan,
There the folk were talking only
Of Prince Camaralzaman.

So it happens with the poets :
Every province hath its own;
Camaralzaman is famous

Where Badoura is unknown.

THE CASTLE-BUILDER.

Written December 14, 1848, but not printed until 1867, when it appeared in Our Young Folks for January of that year.

A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks,
A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
And towers that touch imaginary skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee,
An eager listener unto stories told
At the Round Table of the nursery,
Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build ;
There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
There will be other legends, and all filled
With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, Rising and reaching upward to the skies; Listen to voices in the upper air,

Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.