Part 20 (2/2)

II.

Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: ”Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long,-- Ever to this sick heart fold him,-- Be the spirit of his song?

Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy sh.o.r.e, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!”

Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet.

Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest.

”Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.”

III.

In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim.

Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the noon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night.

Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare.

”Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind.

Hope is truth,--the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer G.o.d from day to day.”

Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.

1842.

A LEGEND OF BRITTANY.

PART FIRST.

I.

Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,-- Such dream as in a poet's soul might start, Musing of old loves while the moon doth set: Her hair was not more sunny than her heart, Though like a natural golden coronet It circled her dear head with careless art, Mocking the suns.h.i.+ne, that would fain have lent To its frank grace a richer ornament.

II.

His loved one's eyes could poet ever speak, So kind, so dewy, and so deep were hers,-- But, while he strives, the choicest phrase, too weak Their glad reflection in his spirit blurs; As one may see a dream dissolve and break Out of his grasp when he to tell it stirs, Like that sad Dryad doomed no more to bless The mortal who revealed her loveliness.

III.

She dwelt forever in a region bright, Peopled with living fancies of her own, Where naught could come but visions of delight, Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan: A summer cloud thrilled through with rosy light, Floating beneath the blue sky all alone, Her spirit wandered by itself, and won A golden edge from some unsetting sun.

IV.

The heart grows richer that its lot is poor,-- G.o.d blesses want with larger sympathies,-- Love enters gladliest at the humble door, And makes the cot a palace with his eyes; So Margaret's heart a softer beauty wore, And grew in gentleness and patience wise, For she was but a simple herdsman's child, A lily chance-sown in the rugged wild.

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