CONTOOCOOK river. By mountain pass, or sunny lea, Now where is one that dares to vie With clear Contoocook, swift and shy? OF all the streams that seek the sea Monadnock's child, of snow-drifts Stoops, safe from hound and horn, to drink. And rills and springs, grown broad and deep, Unite through gorge and glen to sweep The over-floods of pool and lake, O have you seen, from Hillsboro' town How fast its tide goes hurrying down, With rapids now, and now a leap Past giant boulders, black and steep, Plunged in mid water, fain to keep Its current from the meadows green? But, flecked with foam, it speeds along; And not the birch trees' silvery sheen, Nor the soft lull of whispering pines, Nor hermit thrushes, fluting low, Nor ferns, nor cardinal flowers that glow Where clematis, the fairy, twines, Can stay its course, or still its song; Ceaseless it flows till, round its bed, The vales of Henniker are spread, Their banks all set with golden grain, Or stately trees whose vistas gleam A double forest in the stream; A moment there, no lovelier scene On England's Wye, or Scotland's Tay, Would charm your gaze a summer's day. And on it glides, by grove and glen, Dark woodlands and the homes of men, With now a ferry, now a mill: Has come, its larger life to share, DAILY DYING. NOT in a moment drops the rose That in a summer garden grows: A robin sings beneath the tree A twilight song of ecstasy, And the red, red leaves at its fragrant heart, Trembling so in delicious pain, Fall to the ground with a sudden start, And the grass is gay with a crimson stain, And a honey-bee, out of the fields of clover, Heavily flying the garden over, Brushes the stem as it passes by, And others fall where the heartleaves lie, And air and dew, ere the night is done, Have stolen the petals, every one. The maple does not shed its leaves In one tempestuous scarlet rain, But softly, when the south wind grieves, Slow-wandering over wood and One by one they waver through Coral and ruby and burning gold. Our death is gradual, like to these: We die with every waning day; There is no waft of sorrow's breeze But bears some heart-leaf slow away! Up and on to the vast To Be Our life is going eternally! Less of earth than we had last year Throbs in your veins and throbs in mine, But the way to heaven is growing clear, While the gates of the city fairer And Priam's wail is heard no more By windy Ilion's sea-built walls; Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, Shouts, "O ye Gods! 't is Hector falls!" On Ida's mount is the shining snow, But Jove has gone from its brow away; And red on the plain the poppies grow Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. Mother Earth! Are the heroes dead? Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red [yore? All that is left of the brave of Are there none to fight as Theseus fought? Far in the young world's misty dawn? Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught? Mother Earth! are the heroes gone? Gone? In a grander form they rise; Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours; [eyes, And catch the light of their clearer And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done 'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; Wherever Right has a triumph won There are the heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings on a fairer field Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod; For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, So, in his isle of calm delight, And the world is a braver world to-day. TO MOSCOW. ACROSS the steppe we journeyed, tower As the south-wind went by, And a thousand crosses lightly hung That shone like morning stars,'Twas the Kremlin wall! 'Twas Mos COW, The jewel of the Czars! SUNSET IN MOSCOW. O THE splendor of the city, When the sun is in the west! Ruddy gold on spire and belfry, Gold on Moskwa's placid breast; Till the twilight soft and sombre Falls on wall and street and square, And the domes and towers in shadow Stand like silent monks at prayer. 'Tis the hour for dream and legend: And the light above is the smile of And from off the steppe to northward of God. Chill the wind of midnight blows. FRANCIS QUARLES. THE WORLD. SHE'S empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there Thy vain inquiry can at length but find A blast of murmuring wind: It is a cask that seems as full as fair, But merely tunned with air. Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She's empty: hark! she sounds; there's nothing in't: Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce shall first Thou mayst as well expect meridian light From shades of black-mouthed night, She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; It is but wind, and blows but where it list, Poor honor earth can give! What generous mind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind ? She's empty; hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball The painted film but of a stronger bubble, It is a world whose work and recreation Is vanity and vexation; A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, A quest-house of complaint. It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint. She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Fond youth, Revived with living death? O build thy hopes on surer grounds Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark! she sounds. ON MAN. My darkened soul, but they were false alarms; Ar our creation, but the Word was I thought I'd had fair Rachel in my said; And we were made; No sooner were, but our false hearts did swell With pride, and fell: How slight is man! At what an easy cost He's made and lost! bed, But I had blear-eyed Leah in my arms; How seeming sweet is sin when clothed in light, But, when discovered, what a loathed delight. |