Part 16 (1/2)

From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The poplars s.h.i.+ver, the pine-trees moan, My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, Under thy window I sing alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The darkness is pressing coldly around, The windows shake with a lonely sound, The stars are hid and the night is drear, The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, In thy chamber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the sh.e.l.l of this great world?

Why should we any more be alone?

Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O, 'tis a bitter and dreary word, The saddest by man's ear ever heard!

We each are young, we each have a heart, Why stand we ever coldly apart?

Must we forever, then, be alone?

Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

1840.

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.

This little flower from afar Hath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine.

Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk.

”He loves me, loves me not,” she cries; ”He loves me more than earth or heaven!”

And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well, Because it is a gift from me; And the last one of all shall tell Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find flowers just as true, Down-bending every summer morn With freshness of New-England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among.

1840.

THE BEGGAR.

A beggar, through the world am I,-- From place to place I wander by.

Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity!

A little of thy steadfastness, Rounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me,-- That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unshaken be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,-- That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circ.u.mstance,-- Give me, old granite gray.