English

'Tis strange to think, there was a time
When mirth was not an empty name,
When laughter really cheered the heart,
And frequent smiles unbidden came,
And tears of grief would only flow
In sympathy for others' woe;

When speech expressed the inward thought,
And heart to kindred heart was bare,
And Summer days were far too short
For all the pleasures crowded there,
And silence, solitude, and rest,
Now welcome to the weary breast —

Were all unprized, uncourted then —
And all the joy one spirit showed,

The glories of her lucent eyes,
That seem of truth and wisdom full,
Are merely starry summer skies
Mirrored upon a mountain pool,
Whose level limpid water lies
Placid, and passionless, and cool.

The truth and beauty that they dole
Are borrowed and reflected light.
No glimmer is there of a soul
In the blue depths that seem so bright;
And where the mirrored planets roll
Is cold as space, and dark as night.

And though a dancing summer wind
Make the blue water ripple and gleam

I

With dreamy eyes undimmed by care,
And earnest mouth and dusky hair,
More calm she is than halcyon air

Upon a languorous night in June,
What time the scented breezes swoon,
And brown bats flit across the moon.

More pure she is than the petals white
That dimple the dark breasts of Night,
As tiny cherub-fingers might.

And cinctured with simplicity,
She moveth like the singing sea,
And wotteth not the melody

What is so fair as the first rose-tree's blushes
All diamonded o'er with morning dew?
What is so fresh as the green streamlet's rushes,
'Mid which the silvery fish their sport pursue?
What is so patient as my dog's eye waiting
The tardy summons to be up for stroll?
What is so gracious as art's least creating
Of some rare vision that enchants the soul?
Yet are these virtues all in thee residing,
Yea each choice jewel of man's pure estate;
Freshness and beauty, patience, joy abiding —
In and around thy presence, see, they wait.

Are ye, dear Creatures, merely petted toys
Some idler moods a moment to amuse
With frolic sport? Go to! I rather choose
To call ye friends, whoe'er shall raise a voice
In scorn or laughter. Sure, it ne'er destroys
Our rare companionship to disabuse
My life of so sweet a union? I refuse,
Censor, to heed a jibe, that scarce annoys.

With vision profounder far outspoke God's saint
From the fair Umbrian highland to men's souls,
Who taught how one Spirit made and still controls
All nature's offspring in relation fond,

Listen, I lay these roses on thy path
As petals by a summer wind are blown.
Why are thy gentle eyes so full of wrath?
I, as a wind, am nameless and unknown,
And lost and hidden in a width of sky.
What know you but a rose — a song — a sigh?

And would I were a wind, that I might claim
A wind's invisible, elusive flight,
And so might lay my heart on thine like flame,
Or fly to thee upon some golden night,
All passionate and fragrant from the South,
And crowd my soul upon thy crimson mouth.

Oh tell me not of heavenly halls,
Of streets of pearl and gates of gold,
Where angel unto angel calls
'Mid splendors of the sky untold;

My homesick heart would backward turn
To find this dear, familiar earth,
To watch its sacred hearth-fires burn,
To catch its songs of joy or mirth.

I'd lean from out the heavenly choir
To hear once more the red cock crow,
What time the morning's rosy fire
O'er hill and field began to glow.

To hear the ripple of the rain,
The summer waves at ocean's brim,

Past the point and by the beach,
Oh but the waves ran merrily,
With laughter light and silver speech,
And red the sunset flushed the sea.

Two lovers wandered side by side, —
Oh but the waves ran merrily;
They watched the rushing of the tide,
And fairer than a dream was she.

About her slender waist was cast —
Oh but the waves ran merrily —
His strong right arm that held her fast,
A zone that elasped her royally.

He gazed in her bewildering face, —
Oh but the waves ran merrily:

A strong sweet tide toward the lonely shore
Sets steadfastly, till every inlet sings,
And to the waiting silence, blank before,
Its full refreshment brings.

Through the day's business passing to and fro,
Ever she grows more conscious of the charm
Upholding her wherever she may go,
Like some enfolding arm.

For this dear joy all days more fair do seem,
The night's repose more blissful and more deep,
As pillowed on the breast of this sweet dream
Softly she falls asleep.

Altho' the Present fruits and sums
The Past, and all the Bygone holds,
Yet ever new my soul becomes,
Not merely blossoms and unfolds.

A Mind directs the plasmic flow;
A Will inspires the plastic soul;
And ever something new I grow,
Like sequent writing on a scroll,

Where every word transmutes the last,
And by a prescient phrase is wrought,
Out of the phrases of the Past,
A new-created crescent thought.

You praise the child. I have no part
In all his vanished grace and joy;