II

Her azure eyes, dark lashes hold in fee:

Her fair superfluous ringlets, without check,

Drop after one another down her neck;

As many to each cheek as you might see

Green leaves to a wild rose. This sign, outwardly,

And a like woman-covering seems to deck

Her inner nature. For she will not fleck

World's sunshine with a finger. Sympathy

Must call her in Love's name! and then, I know,

She rises up, and brightens, as she should,

And lights her smile for comfort, and is slow

In nothing of high-hearted fortitude.

To smell this flower, come near it: such can grow

In that sole garden where Christ's brow dropped blood.

MOUNTAINEER AND POET.

THE simple goatherd, between Alp and sky,

      Seeing his shadow, in that awful tryst,

Dilated to a giant's on the mist,

Esteems not his own stature larger by

The apparent image, but more patiently

Strikes his staff down beneath his clenching fist—

While the snow-mountains lift their amethyst

And sapphire crowns of splendor, far and nigh,

Into the air around him. Learn from hence

Meek morals, all ye poets that pursue

Your way still onward, up to eminence!

Ye are not great, because creation drew

Large revelations round your earliest sense,

Nor bright, because God's glory shines for you.

THE POET.

THE poet hath the child's sight in his breast,

      And sees all new. What oftenest he has viewed,

He views with the first glory. Fair and good

Pall never on him, at the fairest, best,

But stand before him, holy and undressed

In week-day false conventions, such as would

Drag other men down from the altitude

Of primal types, too early dispossessed.

Why, God would tire of all his heavens as soon

As thou, O godlike, childlike poet, didst,

Of daily and nightly sights of sun and moon!

And therefore hath He set thee in the midst,

Where men may hear thy wonder's ceaseless tune,

And praise His world for ever, as thou bidst.

HIRAM POWERS' GREEK SLAVE.

THEY say Ideal Beauty cannot enter

      The house of anguish. On the threshold stands

An alien Image with the shackled hands,

Called the Greek Slave: as if the artist meant her,

(That passionless perfection which he lent her,

Shadowed, not darkened, where the sill expands)

To, so, confront man's crimes in different lands,

With man's ideal sense. Pierce to the centre,

Art's fiery finger!—and break up ere long

The serfdom of this world! Appeal, fair stone,

From God's pure heights of beauty, against man's wrong!

Catch up in thy divine face, not alone

East griefs but west,—and strike and shame the strong,

By thunders of white silence, overthrown.

LIFE.

EACH creature holds an insular point in space:

      Yet what man stirs a finger, breathes a sound,

But all the multitudinous beings round

In all the countless worlds, with time and place

For their conditions, down to the central base,

Thrill, haply, in vibration and rebound,

Life answering life across the vast profound,

In full antiphony, by a common grace!—

I think, this sudden joyaunce which illumes

A child's mouth sleeping, unaware may run

From some soul newly loosened from earth's tombs:

I think, this passionate sigh, which, half-begun,

I stifle back, may reach and stir the plumes

Of God's calm angel standing in the sun.

LOVE.

WE cannot live, except, thus, mutually,

      We alternate, aware or unaware,

The reflex act of life: and when we bear

Our virtue outward most impulsively,

Most full of invocation, and to be

Most instantly compellant, certes, there,

We live most life, whoever breathes most air

And counts his dying years by sun and sea.

But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth

Throw out her full force on another soul,

The conscience and the concentration, both,

Make mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole

And aim consummated, is Love in sooth,

As nature's magnet-heat rounds pole with pole.

HEAVEN AND EARTH.

"And there was silence in heayen for the space of half-an-hour."

Revelation.

GOD, who, with thunders and great voices kept

      Beneath thy throne, and stars most silver-paced

Along the inferior gyres, and open-faced

Melodious angels round;—canst intercept

Music with music;—yet, at will, hast swept

All back, all back, (said he in Patmos placed,)

To fill the heavens with silence of the waste,

Which lasted half-an-hour!—Lo, I, who have wept

All day and night, beseech Thee, by my tears,

And by that dread response of curse and groan

Men alternate across these hemispheres,

Vouchsafe us such a half-hour's hush alone,

In compensation for our noisy years!

As heaven has paused from song, let earth, from moan.

THE PROSPECT.

METHINKS we do as fretful children do,

      Leaning their faces on the window-pane

To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain,

And shut the sky and landscape from their view.

And thus, alas! since God the maker drew

A mystic separation 'twixt those twain,

The life beyond us, and our souls in pain,

We miss the prospect which we're called unto,

By grief we're fools to use. Be still and strong,

O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath,

And keep thy soul's large window pure from wrong,—

That so, as life's appointment issueth,

Thy vision may be clear to watch along

The sunset consummation-lights of death.

HUGH STUART BOYD.

HIS BLINDNESS

GOD would not let the spheric Lights accost

      This God-loved man, and bade the earth stand off

With all her beckoning hills, whose golden stuff

Under the feet of the royal sun is crossed.

Yet such things were, to him, not wholly lost,—

Permitted, with his wandering eyes light-proof,

To have Mr visions rendered full enough

By many a ministrant accomplished ghost:

And seeing, to sounds of softly-turned book-leaves,

Sappho's crown-rose, and Meleager's spring,

And Gregory's starlight, on Greek-burnished eves:

Till Sensual and Unsensual seemed one thing

Viewed from one level;—earth's reapers at the sheaves,

Not plainer than Heaven's angels marshalling!

HUGH STUART BOYD.

HIS DEATH, 1848.

BELOVED friend, who living many years

      With sightless eyes raised vainly to the sun,

Didst learn to keep thy patient soul in tune

To visible nature's elemental cheers!

God has not caught thee to new hemispheres

Because thou wast aweary of this one:—

I think thine angel's patience first was done,

And that he spake out with celestial tears,

"Is it enough, dear God? then lighten so

This soul that smiles in darkness!"

                                                                  Stedfast friend,

Who never didst my heart or life misknow,

Nor either's faults too keenly apprehend,—

How can I wonder when I see thee go

To join the Dead, found faithful to the end?

HUGH STUART BOYD.

LEGACIES.

THREE gifts the Dying left me; Æschylus,

      And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock

Chiming the gradual hours out like a flock

Of stars, whose motion is melodious.

The books were those I used to read from, thus

Assisting my dear teacher's soul to unlock

The darkness of his eyes: now, mine they mock,

Blinded in turn, by tears: now, murmurous

Sad echoes of my young voice, years agone,

Entoning, from these leaves, the Græcian phrase,

Return and choke my utterance. Books, lie down

In silence on the shelf within my gaze!

And thou, clocks striking the hour's pulses on,

Chime in the day which ends these parting days!

FUTURE AND PAST.

MY future will not copy fair my past.

      I wrote that once; and, thinking at my side

My ministering life-angel justified

The word by his appealing look upcast

To the white throne of God, I turned at last,

And saw instead there, thee; not unallied

To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

By natural ills, received the comfort fast,

While budding at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff

Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.

—I seek no copy now of life's first half!

Leave here the pages with long musing curled,

And write me new my future's epigraph,

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

↑ To whom was inscribed, in grateful affection, my poem of "Cyprus Wine." There comes a moment in life when even gratitude and affection turn to pain, as they do now with me. This excellent and leaned man, enthusiastic for the good and the beautiful, and one of the most simple and upright of human beings, passed out of his long darkness through death in the summer of 1848; Dr. Adam Clarke's daughter and biographer, Mrs. Smith, (happier in this than the absent) fulfllling a double filial duty as she sate by the death-bed of her father's friend and hers.