I sit alone; in foam and spray Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray, Shoulder the broken tide away, And bends above our heads the flowering Or murmurs hoarse and strong through locust spray. mossy cleft and cave. WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF SILAS WRIGHT OF NEW YORK. As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone, So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon, While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight, And, day by day, within thy spirit grew A holier hope than young Ambition knew, As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon ! Portents at which the bravest stand aghast, The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast, Alarm the land; yet thou, so wise and strong, Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host? Who wear the mantle of the leader lost? Who stay the march of slavery? He whose voice Hath called thee from thy task-field shall not lack Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Him: Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim, And wave them high across the abysmal black, Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice. 10th mo., 1847. LINES, The song whose holy symphonies Are beat by unseen wings; 129 Till starting from his sandy bed, Shine through the tamarisk-tree. So through the shadows of my way Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, So at the weary close of day Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. That pilgrim pressing to his goal The graceful palm-tree by the well, Each pictured saint, whose golden hair Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom; Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, And loving Mary's tomb ; And thus each tint or shade which falls, From sunset cloud or waving tree, Along my pilgrim path, recalls The pleasant thought of thee. Of one in sun and shade the same, Not blind to faults and follies, thou Hast never failed the good to see, These light leaves at thy feet I lay, ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENT- Which time is shaking, day by day, ED TO A FRIEND. 'Tis said that in the Holy Land The angels of the place have blessed The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, Like Jacob's stone of rest. That down the hush of Syrian skies Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings Like feathers from his wings, Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, To nurturing care but little known, Their good was partly learned of thee, Their folly is my own. That tree still clasps the kindly mould, Its leaves still drink the twilight dew, I SHALL not soon forget that sight : The glow of autumn's westering day, A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, On Raphael's picture lay. It was a simple print I saw, The fair face of a musing boy; A simple print:-the graceful flow Unmarked and clear, were there. Yet through its sweet and calm repose The white veil of a shrine. As if, as Gothland's sage has told, The hidden life, the man within, Dissevered from its frame and mould, By mortal eye were seen. Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, Of all we knew and loved in thee, Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one, In blank annihilation blest ; Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again. No! I have FRIENDS in Spirit Land, Not shadows in a shadowy band, Not others, but themselves are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came ; Their change, the holy morn-light breaking Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking,A change from twilight into day. They've laid thee midst the household graves, Where father, brother, sister lie; The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. wrong, The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty Which blended in thy song. All lovely things, by thee beloved, Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; These green hills, where thy childhood roved, Yon river winding to the sea, The sunset light of autumn eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves Of rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake; And all thou lovedst of earth and sky, Seem sacred to thy memory. CHANNING.44 Nor vainly did old poets tell, For even in a faithless day Can we our sainted ones discern; And feel, while with them on the way, Our hearts within us burn. And thus the common tongue and pen Which, world-wide, echo CHANNING'S fame, As one of Heaven's anointed men, Have sanctified his name. In vain shall Rome her portals bar, And shut from him her saintly prize, Whom, in the world's great calendar, All men shall canonize. |