180 THE SHIP IS READY THE SHIP IS READY. BY HANNAH F. GOULD. FARE thee well! the ship is ready, When from land and home receding, When the lonely night-watch keeping Turned to those, who wake for thee! LINES. When, with slow and gentle motion, When the tempest hovers o'er thee, LINES. TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM. BY F. G. HALLECK. THE song that o'er me hovered In summer's hour, in summer's hour, To day with joy has covered My winter bower, my winter bower. Blest be the lips that breathe it, As mine have been, as mine have been, 181 When pressed, in dreams, beneath it, Its hope may be, its hope may be, To beat for me, to beat for me. Is she a Spirit, given One hour to earth, one hour to earth, To bring me dreams from heaven, Her place of birth, her place of birth ? Or minstrel maiden, hidden Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun, A bud, a flower, forbidden To air and sun, to air and sun? For had I power to summon With harp divine, with harp divine, The Angel, or the Woman, The last were mine, the last were mine. If earth-born Beauty's fingers Awaked the lay, awaked the lay, Whose echoed music lingers Around my way, around my way; Where smiles the hearth she blesses With voice and eye, with voice and eye? Where binds the Night her tresses, When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh? Is fashion's bleak cold mountain Her bosom's throne, her bosom's throne? LINES. Or love's green vale and fountain, Why ask? why seek a treasure, Like her I sing, like her I sing? Her name nor pain nor pleasure To me should bring, to me should bring. Love must not grieve or gladden 183 My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, Nor woman soothe or sadden My path below, my path below. Before a worldlier altar I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long, And if my footsteps falter, 'Tis but in song, 't is but in song. Nor would I break the vision Young fancies frame, young fancies frame, That lights with stars elysian, A poet's name, a poet's name; For she, whose gentle spirit Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime, Gives hues they do not merit To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme. But place the proudest near her, Whate'er his pen, whate'er his pen, She'll say, (be mute who hear her,) Yet though unseen, unseeing, We meet and part, we meet and part, 184 THE DYING SENECA Be still my worshipped Being, In mind and heart, in mind and heart. And bid thy song that found me— My minstrel maid, my minstrel maid! Be winter's sunbeam round me, And summer's shade, and summer's shade. I could not gaze upon thee, And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell, And, when a happier won thee, Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell. THE DYING SENECA. He died not as the martyr dies, Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; He fell not as the warrior falls, Gasping upon the field of fame; A gentler passage to the grave Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; The field was sown with noble blood, The harvest reaped in bitter tears, |