Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds, unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? How canst thou walk in these streets who hast trod the green turf of the prairies? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains? Ah! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-ground, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace halls with gold, and in summer Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn, Or by the roar of the Running-water, or where Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine the Omawhaw like a brave of the Blackfeet! Hark! what mumurs arise from the hearts of those mountainous deserts? Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man? Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of the Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the grey of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east wind, Drifts evermore to the West the scanty smokes of the wigwams SONGS. SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Laden with seaweed from the rocks; 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, On the desolate, rainy seas;- 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; With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That for ever 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; Household words, no more depart. THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness 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 the rain. Some simple and heartfelt lay, Read from some humbler poet, Who, through long days of labour, Still heard in his soul the music Such songs have power to quiet That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The night is descending; The river dead. Through clouds like ashes, The snow recommences; The road o'er the plain; A funeral train. The bell is pealing Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing, And toiling within Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art: Yellow are thy time-worn pages, Thou art stained with wine As these leaves with the libations Yet dost thou recall, Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers. And with hearts by passion wasted, Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald. In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;- Peasants in the field. Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel. WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister Under Würtzburg's minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest; Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long. On his tomb the birds were feasted Day by day, o'er tower and turret, On the tree whose heavy branches Till at length the portly abbot Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests, Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Time has long effaced the inscriptions, Where repose the poet's bones. DRINKING SONG. INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. COME, old friend! sit down and listen! From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs; On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters. Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crown that brow supernal As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes. Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing, delirous voices. Thus he won, through all the nations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armour. Of a faith long since forsaken; Never would his own replenish. Come, old friend, sit down and listen! THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!" -JACQUES BRIDAINE. Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; An ancient timepiece says to all,- Half way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands With sorrowful voice to all who pass,- By day its voice is low and light; And seems to say, at each chamber-door,- Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, In that mansion used to be His great fires up the chimney roared; There groups of merry children played, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,- From that chamber, clothed in white, The dead lay in his shroud of snow; All are scattered now and fled, Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I SHOT an arrow in the air, It fell to earth I knew not where; I breathed a song into the air, Long, long afterward, in an oak SONNETS AND TRANSLATIONS. SONNETS. 14 THE EVENING STAR. Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, AUTUMN. THOU Comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, DANTE. TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!" TRANSLATIONS. THE HEMLOCK-TREE. FROM THE GERMAN.. O HEMLOCK-TREE! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches; Green not alone in summer time, But in the winter's frost and rime! O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! To love me in prosperity, And leave me in adversity! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example, So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings. The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example! The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! It flows so long as falls the rain, In drought its springs soon dry again. The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! ANNIE OF THARAW FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACHI. ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood! Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. |