Ah! now the rosy children come to play,
And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay;
Their clear high voices sound from far away.
They know so little why the world is sad,
They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!
I long to go and play among them there;
Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair,
And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.
The happy children! full of frank surprise,
And sudden whims and innocent extacies;
What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!
No wonder round those urns of mingled clays
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days,
And colored like the torrid earth ablaze,
We find the little gods and loves portrayed,
Through ancient forests wandering undismayed,
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.
They knew, as I do now, what keen delight,
A strong man feels to watch the tender flight
Of little children playing in his sight;
What pure sweet pleasure, and what sacred love,
Comes drifting down upon us from above,
In watching how their limbs and features move.
I do not hunger for a well-stored mind,
I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.
My life is like the single dewy star
That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar, -
A microcosm where all things living are.
And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death
Should come behind and take away my breath,
I should not rise as one who sorroweth ;
For I should pass, but all the world would be
Full of desire and young delight and glee,
And why should men be sad through loss of me?
The light is flying; in the silver-blue
The young moon shines from her bright window through: The mowers are all gone, and I go too.
LAST night I woke and found between us drawn, -
Between us, where no mortal fear may creep, -
The vision of Death dividing us in sleep;
And suddenly I thought, Ere light shall dawn.
Some day, the substance, not the shadow, of Death
Shall cleave us like a sword. The vision passed,
But all its new-born horror held me fast,
And till day broke I listened for your breath.
Some day to wake, and find that colored skies,
And pipings in the woods, and petals wet,
Are things for aching memory to forget;
And that your living hands and mouth and eyes
Are part of all the world's old histories!
Dear God! a little longer, ah not yet!
HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING.
I WRITE of the Disciples, because He
Who was their Master, having left on earth
The memory of a face that none could paint,
The echo of a voice that none could reach,
Hath left his own immortal words and works
To be a witness for him. Who should dare
To add one line or lesson unto these?
And in this year of loss, this first blank year
For us whom he held near and dear to him,
The heart is far too full to speak of thee,
Except through speaking of thy faithful ones,
JOSEPH MAZZINI, Master, first of those
The Sons of Men who are the Sons of God!
O Book of mine, which he commanded! long
Waited and worked for, and achieved too late!
Whose first leaves flying over-seas, like flights
Of white doves loosened sweeping straight to home,
Were carried unto Pisa, and found there
Mourning, and at the dead feet were laid low,
Instead of in the master's living hand;
One day too late, and so came short for all,
And missed the confirmation of his eyes;
Missed for this world the comfort of his voice;
But have not therefore been unknown to him.
I do but write as he inspired it me;
There is no passage but he knew it first;
I know there is no line but must have passed
Sometime or other through his brain to mine;
Though not by utterance, by the finer threads,
Which we who live by vision more than speech,
Are conscious of, but cannot frame again.
But I loved thee; I knew thee the first time
My eyes fell on some words of thine by chance.
I was a child then: and when I am old,
And my eyes fail from following in their flights
The autumn birds into the far-off heavens,
Still mid the youth of that day I shall stand
Prouder than any in their pride of life,
Having beheld what they shall never see,
Having heard words that they can never hear,
Having a face to make the darkness dawn,
Ever within my memory for a friend;
Remembering through the twilight of those days
This solace of the sunrise, this delight,
Bought by such pain as then shall nigh be past.
For grace he gave me that outweighs all pain,
And light of heart I follow, dark or clear;
Because I hold a prouder laurel-leaf
Than any singer of imperial courts:
For he, the Seer, the Master, and the Saint,
Named me his poet, crowned me laureate
Of his Republic:-therefore are these words.
I hold this charge for ever on my soul;·
He loved me, he looked on me with such eyes
As sent forth many a young heroic life
To die rejoicing on a lonely quest;
Saying to me, 'Do not die, but live, and speak
The words that God speaks to thee. Do not shrink
For youth or for subjection: - I endorse
Thy speech beforehand, for I see thy soul.
Hath not God written somewhat on thy face
To fade and flicker, for a few to see?
Write it out large in words that will not fade,
And that can travel farther than thy eyes,
And will not die when thou art laid in dust.
I lay it on thee that thou keep not back
That fire of life that burns thy brow so clear.
What springs from a pure heart and a true mind,
And a will bound to the Eternal Will,
With eyes that look beyond the world to God,
Is worth the hearing. Do not doubt, but speak.'
For nine long years I held my peace, while God,
By tender tokens irresistible,
Laid silence on me; or by manifold
Pressure of claims and voices from without;
Or overmastering constancy of pain
(The cares and troubles of the outer courts,
Not of the inner, where the angels sing
Ever, through clouds, through winds, through fires, through calm).
And once he chided me because the songs
Were slow in coming: -now I think he knows
(Or would know were it not too small a thing)
The truth he took in trust upon my word.
For I made answer, 'If I must be dumb,
If breath but lasts for labor, not for speech,
It is not that I falter in my faith,
It is not that I alter in my will,
It is not that I fail from idleness:
It is that God hath set such bounds for me,
I cannot pass them; - I can say no more.
|