No mood of mind, no melody of soul, Of operative single power, Yet all the colors that our passionate eyes devour, In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit, Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away, Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray ! Regent of color, thou dost fling Thy overflowing skill on everything! The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; And all the jewelled ores in mines that hid den be BABY WHERE did you come from, baby dear ? Out of the everywhere into the here. Where did you get those eyes so blue ? What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand strok'd it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss ? Where did you get this pearly ear? Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into bonds and bands. FORERUNNERS One, who shall fervent grasp the sword of song, As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest blade, Walter. I have a strain of a departed To find the quickest passage to the heart. bard; A mighty Poet, whom this age shall choose Call'd up the buried prophet from his grave To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king Call up the dead Past from its awful grave To tell him of our future. As the air Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake Reflects the flower, tree, rock, and bending heaven, Shall he reflect our great humanity; And as the young Spring breathes with living breath On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe life Through every theme he touch, making all Beauty And Poetry for ever like the stars." Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, All glad, from grass to sun! Yet more I love Than this, the shrinking day that sometimes comes In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark peers, It seems a straggler from the files of June, BEAUTY BEAUTY still walketh on the earth and air, Our present sunsets are as rich in gold As ere the Iliad's music was out-roll'd; The roses of the Spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely soul'd, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet Friend! Oh, dearer this to me Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon, Or noble music with a golden ending. ΤΟ THE broken moon lay in the autumn sky, You bent above me; in the silence I I spoke; my soul was full of trembling fears At what my words would bring : You rais'd your face, your eyes were full of tears, As the sweet eyes of Spring. You kiss'd me then, I worshipp'd at thy feet Upon the shadowy sod. Oh, fool, I lov'd thee! lov'd thee, lovely cheat! Better than Fame or God. My soul leap'd up beneath thy timid kiss ; What then to me were groans, Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss, I seem'd to walk on thrones. And you were with me 'mong the rushing wheels, 'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars ; And where to awe-struck wilds the Night reveals Her hollow gulfs of stars. Before your window, as before a shrine, I've knelt 'mong dew-soak'd flowers, While distant music-bells, with voices fine, Measur'd the midnight hours. There came a fearful moment: I was pale, Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul, I spurn'd thy love as 't were a rich man's dole, It was my only wealth. I spurn'd thee! I, who lov'd thee, could have died, That hop'd to call thee "wife," And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side, Through all the shocks of life! Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears, EARLY HYMNODY (See also: S. F. Adams, Alford, E. B. BROWNING, H. Coleridge, De Vere, Fox, MARTINEAU, Newman) James Montgomery AT HOME IN HEAVEN "FOREVER with the Lord!" Life from the dead is in that word, "Tis immortality. Here in the body pent, Absent from him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. |