Читать книгу: «Poems», страница 2

I'M SITTING ALONE

 
I'm sitting alone where the shadows fall
In somber groups at the vesper-call,
Where tear-dews of night seek the loving rose,
Her bosom to fill with mortal woes.
 
 
I'm waiting alone for the bridal hour
Of nymph and naiad from woodland bower;
Till vestal pearls that on leaflets lay,
Ravished with beauty the eye of day.
 
 
I'm watching alone o'er the starlit glow,
O'er the silv'ry moon and ocean flow;
And sketching in light the heaven of my youth —
Its starry hopes and its waves of truth.
 
 
I'm dreaming alone of its changeful sky —
What rainbows of rapture floated by!
Of a mother's love, that no words could speak
When parting the ringlets to kiss my cheek.
 
 
I'm thinking alone of a fair young bride,
The light of a home of love and pride;
How the glance of her husband's watchful eye
Turned to his star of idolatry.
 
 
I'm picturing alone a glad young face,
Upturned to his mother's in playful grace;
And the unsealed fountains of grief and joy
That gushed at the birth of that beautiful boy.
 
 
I'm weeping alone that the vision is fled,
The leaves all faded, the fruitage shed,
And wishing this earth more gifts from above,
Our reason made right and hearts all love.
 

Lynn, Mass., September 3, 1866.

THE UNITED STATES TO GREAT BRITAIN

 
Hail, brother! fling thy banner
To the billows and the breeze;
We proffer thee warm welcome
With our hand, though not our knees.
 
 
Lord of the main and manor!
Thy palm, in ancient day,
Didst rock the country's cradle
That wakes thy laureate's lay.
 
 
The hoar fight is forgotten;
Our eagle, like the dove,
Returns to bless a bridal
Betokened from above.
 
 
List, brother! angels whisper
To Judah's sceptered race, —
"Thou of the self-same spirit,
Allied by nations' grace,
 
 
"Wouldst cheer the hosts of heaven;
For Anglo-Israel, lo!
Is marching under orders;
His hand averts the blow."
 
 
Brave Britain, blest America!
Unite your battle-plan;
Victorious, all who live it, —
The love for God and man.
 

Boston Herald, Sunday, May 15, 1898.

CHRIST MY REFUGE

 
O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind
There sweeps a strain,
Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind
The power of pain,
 
 
And wake a white-winged angel throng
Of thoughts, illumed
By faith, and breathed in raptured song,
With love perfumed.
 
 
Then His unveiled, sweet mercies show
Life's burdens light.
I kiss the cross, and wake to know
A world more bright.
 
 
And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea
I see Christ walk,
And come to me, and tenderly,
Divinely talk.
 
 
Thus Truth engrounds me on the rock,
Upon Life's shore,
'Gainst which the winds and waves can shock,
Oh, nevermore!
 
 
From tired joy and grief afar,
And nearer Thee, —
Father, where Thine own children are,
I love to be.
 
 
My prayer, some daily good to do
To Thine, for Thee;
An offering pure of Love, whereto
God leadeth me.
 

"FEED MY SHEEP"

 
Shepherd, show me how to go
O'er the hillside steep,
How to gather, how to sow, —
How to feed Thy sheep;
I will listen for Thy voice,
Lest my footsteps stray;
I will follow and rejoice
All the rugged way.
 
 
Thou wilt bind the stubborn will,
Wound the callous breast,
Make self-righteousness be still,
Break earth's stupid rest.
Strangers on a barren shore,
Lab'ring long and lone,
We would enter by the door,
And Thou know'st Thine own;
 
 
So, when day grows dark and cold,
Tear or triumph harms,
Lead Thy lambkins to the fold,
Take them in Thine arms;
Feed the hungry, heal the heart,
Till the morning's beam;
White as wool, ere they depart,
Shepherd, wash them clean.
 

THE VALLEY CEMETERY

 
Ye soft sighing zephyrs through foliage and vine!
Ye echoing moans from the footsteps of time!
Break not on the silence, unless thou canst bear
A message from heaven – "No partings are there."
 
 
Here gloom hath enchantment in beauty's array,
And whispering voices are calling away —
Their wooings are soft as the vision more vain —
I would live in their empire, or die in their chain.
 
 
Here smileth the blossom and sunshine not dead —
Flowers fresh as the pang in the bosom that bled, —
Yes, constant as love that outliveth the grave,
And time cannot quench in oblivion's wave.
 
 
And thou, gentle cypress, in evergreen tears,
Art constant and hopeful though winter appears.
My heart hath thy verdure, it blossoms above;
Like thee, it endureth and liveth in love.
 
 
Ambition, come hither! These vaults will unfold
The sequel of power, of glory, or gold;
Then rush into life, and roll on with its tide,
And bustle and toil for its pomp and its pride.
 
 
The tired wings flitting through far crimson glow,
Which steepeth the trees when the day-god is low;
The voice of the night-bird must here send a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are all still.
 
 
'Mid graves do I hear the glad voices that swell,
And call to my spirit with seraphs to dwell;
They come with a breath from the verdant springtime,
And waken my joy, as in earliest prime.
 
 
Blest beings departed! Ye echoes at dawn!
O tell of their radiant home and its morn!
Then I'll think of its glory, and rest till I see
My loved ones in glory still waiting for me.
 

UPWARD

 
I've watched in the azure the eagle's proud wing,
His soaring majestic, and feathersome fling —
Careening in liberty higher and higher —
Like genius unfolding a quenchless desire.
 
 
Would a tear dim his eye, or pinion lose power
To gaze on the lark in her emerald bower?
When higher he soareth to compass his rest,
What vision so bright as the dream in his breast!
 
 
God's eye is upon him. He penciled his path
Whose omniscient notice the frail fledgling hath.
Though lightnings be lurid and earthquakes may shock,
He rides on the whirlwind or rests on the rock.
 
 
My course, like the eagle's, oh, still be it high,
Celestial the breezes that waft o'er its sky!
God's eye is upon me – I am not alone
When onward and upward and heavenward borne.
 

Written in early years.

THE OAK ON THE MOUNTAIN'S SUMMIT

 
Oh, mountain monarch, at whose feet I stand, —
Clouds to adorn thy brow, skies clasp thy hand, —
Nature divine, in harmony profound,
With peaceful presence hath begirt thee round.
 
 
And thou, majestic oak, from yon high place
Guard'st thou the earth, asleep in night's embrace, —
And from thy lofty summit, pouring down
Thy sheltering shade, her noonday glories crown?
 
 
Whate'er thy mission, mountain sentinel,
To my lone heart thou art a power and spell;
A lesson grave, of life, that teacheth me
To love the Hebrew figure of a tree.
 
 
Faithful and patient be my life as thine;
As strong to wrestle with the storms of time;
As deeply rooted in a soil of love;
As grandly rising to the heavens above.