Last night I stole away alone, to find
A mellow crescent setting o'er the sea,
And lingered in its light, while over me
Blew fitfully the grieving autumn wind.

And somewhat sadly to myself I said,
— Summer is gone, — and watched how bright and fast
Through the moon's track the little waves sped past, —
— Summer is gone! her golden days are dead. —

Regretfully I thought, — Since I have trod
Earth's ways with willing or reluctant feet,
Never did season bring me days more sweet,

Men say that, far above our octaves, pierce
Clear sounds that soar and clamour at heaven's high gate,
Heard only of bards in vision, and saints that wait
In instant prayer with godly-purged ears:
This is that fabled music of the spheres,
Undreamed of by the crowd that, early and late,
Lift up their voice in joy, grief, hope, or hate,
The diapason of their smiles and tears.
The heart's voice, too, may be so keen and high
That Love's own ears may watch for it in vain,
Nor part the harmonies of bliss and pain,

The race, that long in darkness pin'd,
Have seen a glorious light;
The people now behold the dawn,
Who dwelt in death and night.

To hail the rising Sun of life,
The gath'ring nations come,
Joyous, as when the reapers bear
Their harvest-treasures home.

For thou our burden hast remov'd;
Th' oppressor's reign is broke;
Thy fi'ry conflict with the foe
Hath burst his cruel yoke.

It was not when my enemy had made
Large progress, and his youth sustained him well,
But on the solemn morning that he fell
My soul withdrew apart and was afraid;
And at the door of my bright hopes I stayed,
And wondered at the sudden miracle,
And shuddered inwardly, since who could tell
Why my foe's sinew and not mine decayed?
So, in the peace around, and when men came
To press my hands and murmur words of praise,
I shrank abashed, and hid me from their gaze,
Longing to be like Jacob, tired and lame,

I lit the lamps in the lighthouse tower,
For the sun dropped down and the day was dead.
They shone like a glorious clustered flower, —
Ten golden and five red.

Looking across, where the line of coast
Stretched darkly, shrinking away from the sea,
The lights sprang out at its edge, — almost
They seemed to answer me!

O warning lights! burn bright and clear,
Hither the storm comes! Leagues away
It moans and thunders low and drear, —
Burn till the break of day!

Good-night! I called to the gulls that sailed

There are who bid us chant this modern age,
With all its shifting hopes and crowded cares,
School-boards and land-laws, votes and state-affairs,
And, one by one, the puny wars we wage;
They charge us with our lyric flutes assuage
The hunger that the lean-ribbed peasant bears,
Or wreathe our laurel round the last gray hairs
Of the old pauper in his workhouse-cage, —
Not wisely; for the round world spins so fast,
Leaps in the air, staggers, and shoots, and halts, —
We know not what is false or what is true;

What gift for passionate lovers shall we find?
Not flowers nor books of verse suffice for me,
But splinters of the odorous cedar-tree,
And tufts of pine-buds, oozy in the wind;
Give me young shoots of aromatic rind,
Or samphire, redolent of sand and sea,
For all such fragrances I deem to be
Fit with my sharp desires to be combined.
My heart is like a poet, whose one room,
Scented with Latakia faint and fine,
Dried rose-leaves, and spilt attar, and old wine,
From curtained windows gathers its warm gloom

A bounding satyr, golden in the beard,
That leaps with goat-feet high into the air,
And crushes from the thyme an odour rare,
Keeps watch around the marble tomb revered
Of Sophocles, the poet loved and feared,
Whose sovereign voice once called out of her lair
The Dorian muse severe, with braided hair.
Who loved the thyrsus and wild dances weird.
Here all day long the pious bees can pour
Libations of their honey; round this tomb
The Dionysiac ivy loves to roam:
The satyr laughs; but He awakes no more,

The fairest pearls that Northern seas do breed,
For precious stones from Eastern coasts are sold;
Nought yields the earth that from exchange is freed,
Gold values all, and all things value gold:
Where goodness wants an equal change to make,
There greatness serves, or number place doth take.

No mortal thing can bear so high a price,
But that with mortal thing it may be bought;
The corn of Sicil buys the Western spice;
French wine of us, of them our cloth is sought:
No pearls, no gold, no stones, no corn, no spice,

Blow ye the trumpet, blow! —
The gladly solemn sound!
Let all the nations know,
To earth's remotest bound:
The year of Jubilee is come;
Return, ye ransom'd sinners! home.

Extol the Lamb of God,
Who takes away our shame;
Redemption in his blood
Throughout the world proclaim:
The year of Jubilee is come;
Return, ye ransom'd sinners! home.

Ye, who have sold for nought
Your heritage above!
Shall have it back unbought,
The gift of Jesus' love:
The year of jubilee is come;
Return, ye ransom'd sinners! home.