A voice that is hushed forever —
A heart in the dull, deep clay;
Once wildly stirred at every word
Thy cruel lips could say.

And canst thou bury the Past,
Like the dead, in its funeral pall?
The cold, dark sneer, and the look severe —
Hast thou forgotten them all?

All the departed one
So sadly, sweetly bore —
And how tears did rise in the gentle eyes
That now can weep no more?

All men speak ill of thee, unlucky Tree!
Spoiling with graceless line the mountain edge,
Clothing with awkward sameness rifted ledge,
Or uplands swelling brokenly and free:
Yet shalt thou win some few good words of me.
Thy boughs it is that teach the wind to mourn,
Haunting deep inland spots and groves forlorn
With the true murmurs of the plaintive sea.
When tuft and shoot on vernal woodlands shine,
Who hath a green unwinterlike as thine?
And when thou leanest o'er some beetling brow,
With pale thin twigs the eye can wander through,

O that I was all soul, that I might prove
For you as fit a love
As you for angel's, for I vow
None but pure spirits ere are fit for you.

You're all ethereal—there's in you no dross,
Nor any part that's gross;
Your coarsest part is like the curious lawn,
With cords for vestal relics drawn.

Your finer part, part of the purest fire
That ere Heaven did inspire;
Makes every thought that is refined by it,
A quintessence of goodness and of wit.

Thus hath your rapture reach'd to that degree
In love's highest philosophy,

WRITTEN AT THE KING'S COMMAND .

Thou that lov'd once, now lov'st no more,
For fear to show more love than brain,
With heresy unhatched before,
Apostacy thou dost maintain.
Can he have either brain or love,
That doth inconstancy approve?
A choice well made, no change admits,

" Up! bully boys of the Nepperhan!
Gather! ye troopers, grim and rough;
Ye of the hardy homespun clan,
Ye who have trained in the Blue and Buff.
Come from the Highlands, grandly free,
Barring the stream to the baffled foe;
Come from your farms by the Tappan Zee,
Come from the Vale of Pocantico! "
Dark of the moon; and shadows deep
Curtain the road on field and ridge;
Laggardly watch the redcoats keep,

Nay, thou hast ceased to be a poet: pride
Hath all displaced the heavenly gift within;
Music of soul can live with many a sin,
But will not with a haughty spirit bide.
A bard is one on whom, as in a shower,
Man's mighty deeds and lovely arts rain power;
One whose quick soul hath fetched another sense,
An inlet deep, where earth with her green things
Mounts in a tide of vast intelligence,
And mysteries that need interpretings.
Can they be proud, who walk across the earth,
Like fountains, shedding waters for the weary,

Oh pray for me! — thou know'st what prayer I need!
What is it to be one in whose weak heart
Two faiths are lodged, while thought and feeling bleed
In the wild war; yet neither will depart?
What is it to be one, spell-drawn to stay
For the completing of his nature, trembling
Between two different characters each day,
And seem to his harsh friends to be dissembling?
Watch me, as thou hast watched Mosella's waves
Bringing her clear, sweet waters down from Treves,
To Neuendorf along yon southern shore
Breasting with hope the turbulent green Rhine,

I.

Come, I will give thee half a heart
If that will do to love;
And if I give thee all, dear friend,
It would but worthless prove.

II.

Thou art too good to see or know
The ills that in me dwell:
It is most right to keep our faults
From those we love so well.

III.

So then I warn thee, do not think
My fitful love untrue:
I have another, darker self,
Which thou must sometimes view.

IV.

Men take me, change me if they may,
And love me if they can;
Few can do that; few choose, like thee,
A double-hearted man.

Across Cacapon's barren back,
Beneath the scudding cloudland rack,
Silent, beside the mountaineer,
I rode along the rugged track.

Below us lay the valley bright,
Far reaching to the left and right,
Of varying width: a buttressed wall
Gave mete and bound to forward sight.

The isles of grass seemed emeralds set
In some forgotten coronet;
And through the midst, a shining band,
Wound in and out a rivulet.

Two homes appeared: one, white and far,

A hyacinth's lovely completeness
Unfolds to the chilly spring day,
A marvel of color and sweetness.
O tender-faced step-child of May,
Ere scarcely the winter is over,
You come with consoling amends;
The wild fickle wind is your lover,
And the cloud and the cold are your friends!

The wild fickle wind is your lover;
He searches through snowflakes and gloom
Your winter retreat to discover,
And kisses your cheek into bloom;
He charms you with tenderest praising,
Till, weary of fragrance and you,