II. THE SHIP OF EARTH. "THOU Ship of Earth, with Death, and Birth, and Life, and Sex aboard, And fires of Desires burning hotly in the hold, I fear thee, O! I fear thee, for I hear the tongue and sword At battle on the deck, and the wild mutineers are bold! "The dewdrop morn may fall from off the petal of the sky, But all the deck is wet with blood and stains the crystal red. A pilot, GOD, a pilot! for the helm is left awry, And the best sailors in the ship lie there among the dead!" PRATTVILLE, ALABAMA, 1868. III. HOW LOVE LOOKED FOR HELL. "To heal his heart of long-time pain One day Prince Love for to travel was fain 'Now what to thee most strange may be?' All things above, One curious thing I first would see Hell,' quoth Love. "Then Mind rode in and Sense rode out: They searched the ways of man about. 666 “Tis here, 'tis here,' and spurreth in fear To the top of the hill that hangeth above And plucketh the Prince: Come, come, 'tis here—' 'Where?' quoth Love— "Not far, not far,' said shivering Sense As they rode on. 'A short way hence, -But seventy paces hence : 666 Look, King, dost see where suddenly This road doth dip from the height above? (Cold?' quoth Love) "As I rode down, and the River was black, And yon-side, lo! an endless wrack And rabble of souls,' sighed Sense, 'Their eyes upturned and begged and burned In brimstone lakes, and a Hand above Beat back the hands that upward yearned-' ‘Nay!' quoth Love— "Yea, yea, sweet Prince; thyself shalt see, Wilt thou but down this slope with me; 666 'Tis palpable,' whispered Sense. -At the foot of the hill a living rill Shone, and the lilies shone white above; 'But now 'twas black, 'twas a river, this rill,' ('Black?' quoth Love) Ay, black, but lo! the lilies grow, And yon-side where was woe, was woe, -Where the rabble of souls,' cried Sense, 'Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn, Thrust back in the brimstone from aboveIs banked of violet, rose, and fern :' 'How?' quoth Love : "For lakes of pain, yon pleasant plain Of woods and grass and yellow grain Doth ravish the soul and sense : And never a sigh beneath the sky, And folk that smile and gaze above—' 'But saw'st thou here, with thine own eye, Hell?' quoth Love. "I saw true hell with mine own eye, 66 True hell, or light hath told a lie, True, verily,' quoth stout Sense. Then Love rode round and searched the ground, 'But I cannot find where thou hast found Hell,' quoth Love. There, while they stood in a green wood Came suddenly Minister Mind. "I saw a man sit by a corse; Hell's in the murderer's breast: remorse! Thus clamored his mind to his mind : Not fleshly dole is the sinner's goal, Hell's not below, nor yet above, "Fixed: follow me, would'st thou but see: He weepeth under yon willow tree, Fast chained to his corse,' quoth Mind. Full soon they passed, for they rode fast, Where the piteous willow bent above. 'Now shall I see at last, at last, Hell,' quoth Love. "There when they came Mind suffered shame : 'These be the same and not the same,' A-wondering whispered Mind. Lo, face by face two spirits pace Where the blissful willow waves above: One saith: 'Do me a friendly grace-' ('Grace!' quoth Love) "Read me two Dreams that linger long, Dim as returns of old-time song 666 That flicker about the mind. I dreamed (how deep in mortal sleep!) In dreams, again, I plucked a flower That clung with pain and stung with power, 6 'Twas the nettle of sin, 'twas medicine; In dreams of hate true loves begin.' 'True,' quoth Love. "Now strange,' quoth Sense, and 'Strange,' quoth Mind, 'We saw it, and yet 'tis hard to find, -But we saw it,' quoth Sense and Mind. BALTIMORE, 1878-9. IV. TYRANNY. "SPRING-GERMS, spring-germs, I charge you by your life, go back to death. This glebe is sick, this wind is foul of breath. Stay feed the worms. : “Oh! every clod Is faint, and falters from the war of growth "What need, what need, To hide with flowers the curse upon the hills, Or sanctify the banks of sluggish rills Where vapors breed? "And-if needs must Advance, O Summer-heats! upon the land, And bake the bloody mould to shards and sand And dust. "Before your birth, Burn up, O Roses! with your dainty flame. 66 Reject the bitter kindness of the moss. |