Nor him that's after-nay, through this still air,
Out of the North come quarrels, and keen blare
Of challenge by the hot-breath'd parties blown ;
Yet break they not this peace with alien tone,
Fray not my heart, nor fright me for my land,
-I hear from all-wards, allwise understand,
The great bird Purpose bears me twixt her wings,
And I am one with all the kinsmen things
That e'er my Father fathered. Oh, to me
All questions solve in this tranquillity:
E'en this dark matter, once so dim, so drear,
Now shines upon my spirit heavenly-clear:
Thou, Father, without logic, tellest me
How this divine denial true may be,
-How All's in each, yet every one of all
Maintains his Self complete and several
ON CERTAIN FRUITS AND FLOWERS SENT ME IN SICKNESS.
IF spicy-fringéd pinks that blush and pale
With passions of perfume,-if violets blue
That hint of heaven with odor more than hue,—
If perfect roses, each a holy Grail
Wherefrom the blood of beauty doth exhale
Grave raptures round,—if leaves of green as new
As those fresh chaplets wove in dawn and dew
By Emily when down the Athenian vale
She paced, to do observance to the May,
Nor dreamed of Arcite nor of Palamon,
If fruits that riped in some more riotous play
Of wind and beam than stirs our temperate sun,—
If these the products be of love and pain,
Oft may I suffer, and you love, again.
BALTIMORE, Christmas, 1880.
FINE-TISSUED as her finger-tips, and white
As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,
As if before young Violet's dreaming eyes
Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright
That swayed the random of that furious fight
Where Palamon and Arcite made assize
For Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies,
That, not with sting, but pith, do oft invite
More trial of the tongue; simple, like her,
Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,
-The queen's no finer; rich (though gossamer)
In help to him they came to, which may tell
How rich that him she'll come to; thus men see,
Like Violet's self e'en Violet's wafers be.
WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING THE IRISH FAMINE, 1880.
HEARTSOME Ireland, winsome Ireland,
Charmer of the sun and sea,
Bright beguiler of old anguish,
How could Famine frown on thee?
As our Gulf-Stream, drawn to thee-ward,
Turns him from his northward flow,
And our wintry western headlands
Send thee summer from their snow,
Thus the main and cordial current
Of our love sets over sea,—
Tender, comely, valiant Ireland,
Songful, soulful, sorrowful Ireland,-
Streaming warm to comfort thee.
UNDER THE CEDARCROFT CHESTNUT.
TRIM set in ancient sward, his manful bole
Upbore his frontage largely toward the sky.
We could not dream but that he had a soul :
What virtue breathed from out his bravery!
We gazed o'erhead: far down our deepening eyes
Rained glamours from his green midsummer mass.
The worth and sum of all his centuries
Suffused his mighty shadow on the grass.
A Presence large, a grave and steadfast Form
Amid the leaves' light play and fantasy,
A calmness conquered out of many a storm,
A Manhood mastered by a chestnut-tree!
Then, while his monarch fingers downward held
The rugged burrs wherewith his state was rife,
A voice of large authoritative Eld
Seemed uttering quickly parables of life :
How Life in truth was sharply set with ills ;
A kernel cased in quarrels ; yea, a sphere
Of stings, and hedge-hog-round of mortal quills:
How most men itched to eat too soon i the year,
And took but wounds and worries for their pains,
Whereas the wise withheld their patient hands,
Nor plucked green pleasures till the sun and rains
And seasonable ripenings burst all bands
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