Herself must be her saviour. Side by side Spring poisonous weed and helpful antidote Within her tangled herbage; lonely pride
And humble fellow-service; dreams that dote, Deeds that aspire; foul sloth, free labor: she Hath power to choose, and what she wills, to be.
HERE might I rest forever; here, Till death, inviolate of fear,
Descended cloud-like on calm eyes, Enjoy the whisper of the waves Stealing around those azure caves, The gloom and glory of the skies!
Great mother, Nature, on thy breast Let me, unsoiled by sorrow, rest,
By sin unstirred, by love made free: Full-tried am I by years that bring The blossoms of the tardy spring Of wisdom, thine adept to be.
In vain I pray: the wish expires Upon my lip, as fade the fires
Of youth in withered veins and weak; Not mine to dwell, the neophyte
Of Nature, in her shrine of light,
But still to strive and still to seek.
I have outgrown the primal mirth That throbs in air and sea and earth; The world of worn humanity Reclaims my care; at ease to range Those hills, and watch their interchange Of light and gloom, is not for me.
Dread Pan, to thee I turn: thy soul That through the living world doth roll, Stirs in our heart an aching sense Of beauty, too divinely wrought To be the food of mortal thought, For earth-born hunger too intense.
Breathless we sink before thy shrine; We pour our spirits forth. like wine; With trembling hands we strive to lift The veil of airy amethyst,
That shrouds thy godhood like a mist; Then, dying, forth to darkness drift.
Thy life around us laughs, and we Are merged in its immensity;
Thy chanted melodies we hear, The marrying chords that meet and kiss Between two silences; but miss
The meaning, though it seems so clear.
From suns that sink o'er silent seas, From myrtles neath the mountain breeze Shedding their drift of scented snow, From fleeting hues, from sounds that swoon On pathless hills, from night and noon, The inarticulate passions flow,
That are thy minions, mighty Pan! No priest hast thou; no muse or man
Hath ever told, shall ever tell,
But each within his heart alone,
Awe-struck and dumb hath learned to own
The burden of thine oracle.
I FOUND him lying neath the vines that ran Grape-laden o'er gray frames of oak and beech; A fair and jocund Faun, whose beard began, Like dewy down on quince or blushing peach, To soften chin and cheek. He bade me reach My hand to his, and drew me through the screen Of clusters intertwined with glistening green.
Sunrise athwart us fell- -a living fire,
That touching turned our tendrilled roof to red; Network of shade from many a flickering spire And solid orb upon the youth was shed;
With purple grapes and white his comely head Was crowned, and in his hand a bunch he pressed Against the golden glory of his breast.
Gourds with the grapes, and hops, and serpentine Wreaths of blue bindweed tangling built a bower, Where lying we could watch 'twixt vine and vine Young men and maidens move, and singing shower On wattled crates the fruit whose hoary flower With dew still glistened; for the kiss of night Lay yet on vale and mountain misty-bright.
Some trod the press; some climbed the elms that hung Vine-burdened; and beneath, a beardless boy Tuning his melancholy lute-strings sung
A wild shrill song, that spake of only joy, But was so sad that virgins cold and coy Melted, and love mid sorrow-sweetness fell On careless hearts that felt the powerful spell.
BLEST is the man whose heart and hands are pure! He hath no sickness that he shall not cure, No sorrow that he may not well endure: His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure.
Oh, blest is he who ne'er hath sold his soul, Whose will is perfect, and whose word is whole, Who hath not paid to common sense the toll Of self-disgrace, nor owned the world's control!
Through clouds and shadows of the darkest night He will not lose a glimmering of the light, Nor, though the sun of day be shrouded quite, Swerve from the narrow path to left or right.
AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON.
SHE lived in the hovel alone, the beautiful child. Alas, that it should have been so!
But her father died of the drink, and the sons went wild; And where was the child to go?
Her brothers left her alone in the lonely hut.
Ah, it was dreary at night
When the wind whistled right through the door that never would shut,
And sent her sobbing with fright.
She never had slept alone; for the stifling room
Held her, brothers, father - all.
Ah, better their violence, better their threats, than the gloom
That now hung close as a pall!
When the hard day's washing was done, it was sweeter to stand
Hearkening praises and vows,
To feel her cold fingers kept warm in a sheltering hand, Than crouch in the desolate house.
Ah, me! she was only a child; and yet so aware Of the shame which follows on sin.
A poor, lost, terrified child! she stept in the snare, Knowing the toils she was in.
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