English

SINCE that first dream how long, how weary-long
Crept the slow, lonely centuries, with no heed
Of the premonitory need
Of that forgotten and neglected land —
Years like to years as waves upon that sleepy strand.
Now, through thy sympathetic strife,
The dozing Tropic is no more;
The world is at its door.
At last it is adjoined to Life,
To Freedom, and the brood
Of! Human Brotherhood.
This is the meed
Of richer triumph in thy deed, —
The nation's pride that soon shall be a pride without alloy:

Servant of Man, well done!
Thy war of peace is won.
The dream of continents five and centuries four.
Is dream no more.

Once, on a waiting " peak in Darien, "
Obscure till then,
But made immortal by a single line
Of verse divine,
Bold Balboa, following the lure
Of fell Adventure's backward-glancing eyes,
Found the new wonder that he sought.
What did he not endure
That still another watery realm
He thus might add as kingdom to the Spanish helm!
Oh, joy supreme of half-divined surprise! —

Most fair his dreams and visions when he dwelt
His spirit's comrade. Meager was his speech
Of things celestial, save in line and mould;
But sudden cloud-rift may reveal a star
As surely as the unimpeded sky.
The deer has its deep forest of retreat:
Shall the shy spirit have none? Be, then,
The covert unprofaned wherein withdrew
The soul that 'neath his pensive ardor lay?
Find the last frontier — Man is still unknown ground.

Things true and beautiful made a heaven for him.
Childhood, the sunrise of the spirit world,

BORN IN DUBLIN, IRELAND, MARCH 1, 1848 — DIED IN CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, AUGUST 3, 1907

U PLANDS of Cornish! Ye, that yesterday
Were only beauteous, now are consecrate.
Exalted are your humble slopes, to mate
Proud Settignano and Fiesole,
For here new-born is Italy's new birth of Art.
In your beloved precincts of repose
Now is the laurel lovelier than the rose.

XI

And ever since that fatal night,
Pale Virtue treads her path beside;
Each step an effort, but the light
Of hope before them as a guide.
Through scenes in distance that appeared
Bright homes of rest, through dens of strife,
Through mirage vanishing when neared,
She walks the arid wastes of life.

XII

But still, while gathering flowers that breathed
Their fragrance in her soul, she felt

VI

Thus Reason sighed. In vain preferred
Her prayer, she sadly turned, and joined
Discarded Faith, that, listening, heard
The imploring accents from behind.
Distrust was in her heart awake
To sleep no more, while, stealing near,
Pale jealousy, the green-eyed snake,
His poison whispered in her ear.

VII

She grasped the light beside her shining
Through darkness, and on tiptoe crept,

I

" I PRAY thee, Psyche! do not bring
That fatal lamp beside the bed
Of heavenly Eros slumbering;
Enjoy thy happiness ere fled.
He is thy star of life, thine own;
Veiled from the common light of day,
Thou meet'st him in his haunt alone,
And liv'st in his immortal ray.

II

" Oh, let not doubt that love efface,
Nor dim its mirror with a stain.
The secret of his life to trace

IX

" Hark! outside the door they greet
Your heir riding up the street!
There the Morris Dancers meet,
In their ribboned shirts and shoes,
And sleeves slashed with crimson hues,
Brass bells on their knees and feet.
There the Friar's aspect bland,
With his hood and shaven crown,
Corded belt and russet gown;
His bead chaplet in his hand,
With his wallet stuffed, and eye
Twinkling through its corner sly.
There the Minstrel, with his tabor,
And his tabor-stick and pipe,

VII

" I am not as they, Old Man!
Bright and cold as they,
Seasons passed of yesterday:
Whose brief life was as a span;
Who, as shadow-like they ran,
Shed on you the beautiful,
Seen ere sunk in time's decay.
I, too, own, alas! his rule:
But my mind can him subdue;
For this body holds a soul
That yields not to his control;
And this harp is as a spirit,
That its life to you can give,
A new birthright to inherit
From time, when you cease to live.
For I come not, Old Man! hither

V

But, alas! it may not be;
Such joys, never meant to last
With wild youth nor be o'ercast,
Were not made, Old Man, for thee!
For she saw his locks were whitened
That his eyes no longer lightened:
That his heart no more expanded,
Nor his lip of pride commanded.
Yet, oh yet, life's sands withhold.
Ere from him for ever rolled!
In red harvest-fields, in bowers
With grapes' bacchanalian showers
Gushingly above him streaming,
Give the hours to rapture dreaming.

But such fleeting joys are hollow,