TWENTY-FOURTH OF OCTOBER , 1852

Comes there a frigate home? what mighty bark
Returns with torn, but still triumphant sails?
Such peals awake the wondering Sabbath — hark!
How the dread echoes die among the vales!

What ails the morning, that the misty sun
Looks wan and troubled in the autumn air?
Dark over Marshfield! — 't was the minute gun:
God! has it come that we foreboded there?

Once lived a Man who from a Rock broke stone —
For little wage, great labour. Hear him groan,
" O to be rich, and lounging on a bed
With sleepy silken curtains at my head! "
And there came an Angel, saying, Be it so!

And he was rich, and on a bed at rest
Of silk as soft as roses. From the west
The King came by with horsemen and patrolled
That land, beneath his canopy of gold.

And the Newly Rich gazed from his lattice; " Why
Have I no kingdom and no canopy?
Happy I were, with just one little thing:

Our quarrel seemed a giant thing,
It made the room feel mean and small,
The books, the lamp, the furniture,
The very pictures on the wall —

Crowded upon us as we sat
Pale and terrified, face to face.
" Why do you stay?" she said, " my room
Can never be your resting place."

" Katinka, ere we part for life,
I pray you walk once more with me."
So down the dark, familiar road
We paced together, silently.

The sky — it seemed on fire with stars!
I said: — " Katinka dear, look up!"
Like thirsty children, both of us

Wild rose,
Child rose,
Why did you come so late?
I had gleams of you,
And dreams of you,
And I could not choose but wait,
Thro' desolate days,
On lonely ways,
In the desert-land of Fate.
Child rose,
Wild rose,
Why did you come so late?

Child rose,
Wild rose,
Why did you linger so?
I saw your face
In a dreamland place
Years and years ago,—
Your glossy hair,
And your forehead fair,
And your deep dark eyes aglow.
Wild rose,
Child rose,
Why did you linger so?

Wild rose,
Child rose,

( Scene — A Blasted H EATH .)

One-Legged Soldier.

By all the gods! there's a fire burning
And three old hags about it churning;
Shall I starve here while they frisk it?
Since broth is what I want, — I'll risk it.

The Witches.

Storm, drums, and pound, knuckles! —
Hissing joy, our furnace chuckles!
Bright cities be its embers
While its heart's heart dismembers
Merry flames like Moscow steeples
For the warming of the peoples!

First Witch.

Heap device, fling in spice —

The bier is ready and the mourners wait,
The funeral car stands open at the gate.
Bring down our brother; bear him gently, too;
So, friends, he always bore himself with you.
Down the sad staircase, from the darkened room,
For the first time, he comes in silent gloom.
Who ever left this hospitable door
Without his smile and warm “good-by,” before?
Now we for him the parting word must say
To the mute threshold whence we bear his clay.

The slow procession lags upon the road,—
'T is heavy hearts that make the heavy load;

" It is cold outside, you will need a coat —
What! this old Arabian shawl!
Bind it about your head and throat,
These steps...it is dark...my hand...you might fall."

What has happened? What strange, sweet charm
Lingers about the Arabian shawl
Do not tremble so! There can be no harm
In just remembering — that is all.

" I love you so — I will be your wife,"
Here, in the dark of the Terrace wall,
Say it again. Let that other life
Fold us like the Arabian shawl.

" Do you remember?"... " I quite forget,

Who are these ancients, gnarl'd and moss'd and weigh'd
This way and that, under the sluggard blue
And shine of morning — these whose arms are laid
Low to the grasses and the sheets of dew —
These bowers rugged within and thickly knit,
But feather'd over with a roseate white
So frail that the breeze's touch dismantles it
And brings from cradled nurseries in flight —
Snow-soft — the petals down
In shadows green to drown?

We are the matrons. Bent are we and riven
Under such years of ripeness manifold

Already graced with Bravery's martial crown,
Our young republic pants for fresh renown;
When idle Prowess finds no scene for fame,
Some loftier glory beams, in Virtue's name,
Reposing Valor wantons in a trance
Of calm philosophy or gay romance;
Refinement blooms, and Wisdom claims the wreath
Which silver hairs, not scars, are hid beneath.
In every state, as one heroic age,
One intellectual, stands on history's page.
Now maddening nations quit their tranquil farms
To swell the fight — a universe in arms!

All through the Winter afternoon
We sat together, he and I
Down in the garden every tree
Seemed frozen to the sky

Yes, every twisted tree that bared
Its naked limbs for sacrifice
Was patterned like a monstrous weed
Upon a lake of ice.

It was as though the pallid world
Was gripped in the embrace of Death.
He wrapt the garden in his shroud
He killed it with his breath.

So through the Winter afternoon
We sat together by the fire
And in its heart, strange magic worlds
Would build, would flame, expire