Thus he won, through all the nations,
Bloodless victories, and the farmer
Bore, as trophies aud oblations,
Vines for banners, ploughs for armour.
Judged by no o'er-zealous rigour,
Much this mystic throng expresses:
Bacchus was the type of vigour,
And Silenus of excesses.
These are ancient ethnic revels,
Of a faith long since forsaken;
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils,
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken.
Now to rivulets from the mountains
Point the rods of fortune-tellers;
Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,-
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.
Claudius, though he sang of flagons
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish,
From that fiery blood of dragons
Never would his own replenish.
Even Redi, though he chaunted
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys,
Never drank the wine he vaunted
In his dithyrambic sallies.
Then with water fill the pitcher
Wreathed about with classic fables;
Ne'er Falernian threw a richer
Light upon Lucullus' tables.
Come, old friend, sit down and listen!
As it passes thus between us,
How its wavelets laugh and glisten
In the head of old Silenus!
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.
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,-
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
Half way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,-
Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,-
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,-
"Forever-never! Never-forever!"
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-
Forever-never!
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,—
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain.
"Ah! when shall they all meet again ?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,-
Forever-never!
Never--forever!"
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
Ard death, and time shall dissappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,-
Forever-never!
Never-forever!"
THE ARROW AND THE SONG.
I SHOT an arrow in the air,
It fell to earth I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It tell to earth I knew not where:
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song!
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
SONNETS AND
AND TRANSLATIONS.
THE EVENING STAR.
LO! in the painted oriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
The evening star, the star of love and rest!
And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,
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!
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love!
My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
As that fair planet in the sky above,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light.
THOU Comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thon standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 18
Upon thy bridge of gold: thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden
TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies,
What soft compassion glows, as in the skies
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,
By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's de-
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"
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 DACH.
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 cach other, however it blow
Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,
Seall be to our true love as links to the chain.
As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall' The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,
So love in our hearts shall grow nighty and strong,
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.
Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,
Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.
Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
Whatever forbidden thau hast not gainsaid.
How in the turmoil of life can love stang,
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth,
and one hand!
Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife;
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.
Annie of Tharaw, such is not ovr love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
Whate'er my desire, in thine may be seen;
I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.
It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.
This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.
THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.
FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEX. FORMS of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them
Who hath soothed my soul with love.
In his mantle-wound about him,
As their robes the sowers wind,-
Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.
And so stands calm and childlike,
High in wind and tempest wild;
Oh, where I like him exalted,
I would be like him, a child!
And my songs,-green leaves and blossoms,-
To the doors of heaven would bear,
Calling, even in storm and tempest,
Round me still these birds of air.
THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL.
FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN.
ON the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,
Sees he how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
A little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,
Its Creator's Son release.
And the saviour speaks in mildness:
Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood!"
And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Tongs like legends strange to hear.
THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. THE sea hath its pearls,
The heaven hath its stars
But my heart, my heart,
My heart hath its love.
Great are the sea and the heaven;
Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls and stars
Flashes and beams my love.
Thou little, youthful maiden,
Come unto my great heart;
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven,
Are melting away with love!
PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go;
Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark follage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose slooping caves
The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,
With one continuous sound,-
A slumbering sound.-a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream,-
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings
O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
As wrapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky.
Where the sailing clouds went by,
Like ships upon the sea;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage,
Ere Faficy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,
And chronicles of Eld.
And, loving still these quaint old themes
Even in the city's throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.
Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings
The Spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,
I sought the woodlands wide.
The green trees whispered low and mild;
It was a sound of joy!
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild;
Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy;
And ever whispered mild and low,
Come be a child once more!"
And waved their long arms to and fro,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
Oh, I could not choose but go
Into the woodlands hoar;
Into the blithe and breathing air,
Into the solemn wood.
Solemn and silent everywhere!
Nature with folded hands seemed there,
Kneeling at her evening prayer!
Like one in prayer I stood.
Before me rose an avenue
Of tall and sombrous pines;
Abroad their fan-like branches grew.
And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue,
In long and sloping lines.
And, falling on my weary brain,
Like a fast-talling shower.
The dreams of youth came back again;
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain;
As once upon the flower.
Vision of childhood! Stay, oh, stay!
Yet were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to say,
"It cannot be! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay:
Thou art no more a child!'
"The land of Song within thee lies,
Watered by living springs;
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise.
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,
It's clouds are angels' wings.
"Learn. that henceforth thy song shall be.
Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below.
"There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein.
Sees the heavens all black with sin,-
Sees not its depths, nor bounds.
"Athwart the swinging branches cast,
Soft rays of sunshine pour;
Then comes the fearful wintry blast;
Our hopes. like withered leaves, fall fast;
Pallid lips say, 'It is past!
We can return no more!'
"Look then, into thine heart and write!
Yes, into Life's deep stream!
All forms of sorrows and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or affright,-
Be these henceforth thy theme."
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