Part 12 (1/2)

Oh musty creeds in mouldy books!

Blind teachers of the blind are ye-- A plainer wisdom talks with me In G.o.d's full psalmody of brooks.

The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course.

The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul, Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour.

Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips-- G.o.d's all-sublime Apocalypse-- His awful poem writ in stars!

Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light!

To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming.

And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay-- Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers, Against the blus.h.i.+ng face of May--

A pa.s.sion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills!

MEMORIES.

While the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, And along the dreary moorlands, s.h.i.+ne the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart.

And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words.

Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul.

Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest.

All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro.

Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave.

Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears.

Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms-- Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies-- Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blus.h.i.+ng And my heavy heart to woe.

Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith?

Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path?

No reply!--the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding sorrow Still my aching bosom fills.

Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night.

Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb.

Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity-- In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me!

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

I remember the dear little cabin That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of suns.h.i.+ne That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow--smooth shorn,-- How the dew-drops lay flas.h.i.+ng and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn.