To-morrow (who can say) Shakespeare may pass,— And our lost friend just catch one syllable Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill." THE CELESTIAL PASSION. O white and midnight sky, O starry bath, Wash me in thy pure, heavenly, crystal flood: Touch and baptize me with the mighty power Silence each tone that with thy music jars; HYMN. SUNG AT THE PRESENTATION OF THE OBELISK TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 22, 1881. I. Great God, to whom since time began The world has prayed and striven; Here, by this ancient Sign II. Older than Nilus' mighty flood Into the Mid-sea pouring, Or than the sea, Thou God hast stood,— Thou God of our adoring! Waters and stormy blast Haste when Thou bid'st them haste; Silent, and hid, and still, Thou sendest good and ill: Thy ways are past exploring. III. In myriad forms, by myriad names, Men seek to bind and mould Thee; But Thou dost melt, like wax in flames, The cords that would enfold Thee. Who madest life and light, Bring'st morning after night, Who all things did'st create No majesty, nor state, Nor word, nor world, can hold Thee IV. Great God, to whom since time began Of suns Thou art the Sun,— Who can us help save Thou! Hear us, O God in Heaven! THE POET'S FAME. Many the songs of power the poet wrought To shake the hearts of men. Yea, he had caught The inarticulate and murmuring sound That comes at midnight from the darkened ground Of the deep, starry sky he had the art To put in language that did seem a part Of the great scope and progeny of nature. In woods, or waves, or winds, there was no creature Mysterious to him. He was too wise Either to fear, or follow, or despise Whom men call Science,-for he knew full well All she had told, or still might live to tell, Was known to him before her very birth: Yea, that there was no secret of the earth, He loved the town,— Not less he loved the ever-deepening brown Where he might listen to the starts and thrills All these were written on the poet's soul,- The ditties they would sing when, not too soon, Who heard his songs were filled with noble rage, And wars took fire from his prophetic page: Most righteous wars, wherein, 'midst blood and tears, They loved him well, and therefore, on a day, So was it done, and deep his joy therein. But passing home at night, from out the din Of the loud Hall, the poet, unaware, Moved through a lonely and dim-lighted square— And then the sudden singing of a bird, Startled by his slow tread. What memory stirred Lone lingering when the eastern heavens were bright— That there is not in all the world one heart One human heart unmoved by it. Long! long! The laurel-crown has failed, but not that song Born of the night and sorrow. Where he lies At rest beneath the ever-shifting skies, Age after age, from far-off lands they come, With tears and flowers, to seek the poet's tomb. |