Volume Iii Part 72 (1/2)

THE CUP

The cup I sing is a cup of gold Many and many a century old, Sculptured fair, and over-filled With wine of a generous vintage, spilled In crystal currents and foaming tides All round its luminous, pictured sides.

Old Time enameled and embossed This ancient cup at an infinite cost.

Its frame he wrought of metal that run Red from the furnace of the sun.

Ages on ages slowly rolled Before the glowing ma.s.s was cold, And still he toiled at the antique mold,-- Turning it fast in his fas.h.i.+oning hand, Tracing circle, layer, and band, Carving figures quaint and strange, Pursuing, through many a wondrous change, The symmetry of a plan divine.

At last he poured the l.u.s.trous wine, Crowned high the radiant wave with light, And held aloft the goblet bright, Half in shadow, and wreathed in mist Of purple, amber, and amethyst.

This is the goblet from whose brink All creatures that have life must drink: Foemen and lovers, haughty lord, And sallow beggar with lips abhorred.

The new-born infant, ere it gain The mother's breast, this wine must drain.

The oak with its subtle juice is fed, The rose drinks till her cheeks are red, And the dimpled, dainty violet sips The limpid stream with loving lips.

It holds the blood of sun and star, And all pure essences that are: No fruit so high on the heavenly vine, Whose golden hanging cl.u.s.ters s.h.i.+ne On the far-off shadowy midnight hills, But some sweet influence it distils That slideth down the silvery rills.

Here Wisdom drowned her dangerous thought, The early G.o.ds their secrets brought; Beauty, in quivering lines of light, Ripples before the ravished sight: And the unseen mystic spheres combine To charm the cup and drug the wine.

All day I drink of the wine, and deep In its stainless waves my senses steep; All night my peaceful soul lies drowned In hollows of the cup profound; Again each morn I clamber up The emerald crater of the cup, On ma.s.sive k.n.o.bs of jasper stand And view the azure ring expand: I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim In the wine that o'erruns the jeweled rim:-- Edges of chrysolite emerge, Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge: My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, My eager senses kiss the wave, And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore That kindles the bosom's secret core, And the fire that maddens the poet's brain With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A STRIP OF BLUE

I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine,-- The orchards and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine.

The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me t.i.thes divine,-- Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity,-- A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every s.h.i.+p Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And n.o.bler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew,-- My s.h.i.+ps that sail into the East Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, The people of the sky,-- Guests in white raiment coming down From Heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh, So white, so light, so spirit-like, From violet mists they bloom!

The aching wastes of the unknown Are half reclaimed from gloom, Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn to night; We miss the warm, caressing sh.o.r.e, Its brooding shade and light.

A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told.

The fringes of eternity,-- G.o.d's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glittering sea, I reach out for, and hold.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones,-- Sapphire and amethyst, Washed from celestial bas.e.m.e.nt walls By suns unsetting kissed.

Out through the utmost gates of s.p.a.ce, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift; Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of G.o.d's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before: Thy universe, O G.o.d, is home, In height or depth, to me; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be; Glad, when is opened unto my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD To Hasten Him Into The Country

Come, spur away!