A SONG OF THE FUTURE. SAIL fast, sail fast, Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams; Sweep lordly o'er the drownèd Past, Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams} Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea And stay not long; oh, stay not long : BALTIMORE, 1878. OPPOSITION. OF fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, Complain no more; for these, O heart, As rhymes direct the rage of art. The lute's fixt fret, that runs athwart For governance and nice consort Doth bar his wilful wavering. The dark hath many dear avails; The dark distils divinest dews; The dark is rich with nightingales, With dreams, and with the heavenly Muse. Bleeding with thorns of petty strife, I'll ease (as lovers do) my smart With sonnets to my lady Life Writ red in issues from the heart. What grace may lie within the chill Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, Complain thou not, O heart; for these Bank-in the current of the will To uses, arts, and charities. BALTIMORE, 1879-80. ROSE-MORALS. I.-RED. WOULD that my songs might be What roses make by day and night— Soul, could'st thou bare thy breast As yon red rose, and dare the day, All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest? Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye; The wind is up; so; drift away. That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly, I strive, I pray. II.-WHITE. Soul, get thee to the heart Of yonder tuberose: hide thee thereThere breathe the meditations of thine art Suffused with prayer. Of spirit grave yet light, How fervent fragrances uprise Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white Virginities! Mulched with unsavory death, Grow, Soul! unto such white estate, That virginal-prayerful art shall be thy breath, Thy work, thy fate. BALTIMORE, 1875. CORN. TO-DAY the woods are trembling through and through The copse-depths into little noises start, The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song; Through that vague wafture, expirations strong Throb from young hickories breathing deep and long With stress and urgence bold of prisoned spring And ecstasy of burgeoning. Now, since the dew-plashed road of morn is dry, And heavenlier giving. Like Jove's locks awry, Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of great pines, I pray with mosses, ferns and flowers shy That hide like gentle nuns from human eye I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green Dreaming of gods, men, nuns and brides, between Old companies of oaks that inward lean To join their radiant amplitudes of green I slowly move, with ranging looks that pass So close, the heaven of blue is seen I wander to the zigzag-cornered fence The march of culture, setting limb and thorn There, while I pause, my fieldward-faring eyes Take harvests, where the stately corn-ranks rise, Of inward dignities And large benignities and insights wise, Graces and modest majesties. Thus, without theft, I reap another's field; Thus, without tilth, I house a wondrous yield, And heap my heart with quintuple crops concealed. Look, out of line one tall corn-captain stands That leads the vanward of his timid time And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme |