English

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;

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

In the storm, in the smoke, in the fight, I come
To bring thee strength with my bugle and drum.
My name is Music, — and when the bell
Rings for the dead man, I rule the knell;
And when the wrecked mariner hears in the blast
The fog-bell sound, — it was I who passed.
The poets have told you how I, a young maid,
Came fresh from the gods to the myrtle shade,
And thence by a power divine I stole
To where the waters of Mineius roll;
Then down by Clitumnus and Arno's vale
I wandered, passionate and pale,

I watch'd a withered Figure at the keys
Pause, with a smile, in the great galleries,
And heard his tender fingers, as he went,
Muse on the heart of each blind instrument.

SPINET .

" Shoaling through twilight to my silver tinglings
The great-ruff'd ladies beset with pearl
Come out with the gallants in gems of Cadiz
In lofty capriols, with loud spur-jinglings,
In Roman galliard and in blithe coranto
Learnt in far Otranto
Brought home in the galleys of the Earl —

A country squire, of greater wealth than wit
(For fools are often blessed with fortune's smile),
Had built a splendid house, and furnished it
In splendid style.

" One thing is wanting," said a friend; " for, though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use."

" 'Tis true; but 'zounds!" replied the squire with glee,

Our house, that long in darkness dwelt,
And long in silence, day by day,
Before the mountain snows could melt,
While yet the world was bleak and gray,
Received an impulse from the play
Of sudden fingers on the strings,
That made the new-born meadows gay
With magic touch, as 't were the Spring's.

The melancholy frog no more
Shall pipe his burden, twanging shrill;
The oriole gives his matins o'er,
No song-bird now hath any skill;
Even that reproachful whippoorwill
That stirred such memories in my heart

Draw me not! Let your laurels round me wreathe—
You that have kept, since you began to breathe,
The soul within you ready to unsheathe!

The Cupid child tired of the winter day
Wept and lamented for the skies of blue
Till, foolish child! he cried his eyes away—
And violets grew.