The light of thy great presence; and the cope Of the half-attained futurity, Though deep, not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars that tremble O strengthen me, enlighten me! Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side The seven elms, the poplars four, That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, The filtered tribute of the rough woodland. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat When the first matin-song hath wakened loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. V. Large dowries doth the raptured eye And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Unto the dwelling she must sway. With royal framework of wrought gold; Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, On the prime labor of thine early days: Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretched wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenchéd waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bowered close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Of crowned lilies, standing near Whether in after life retired From weary wind, With youthful fancy reinspired, And those whom passion had not blinded, SONG. I. A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours, For at eventide, listening earnestly, Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. II. The air is damp, and hushed, and close, My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ADELINE. MYSTERY of mysteries, Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Whence that aery bloom of thine, And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still, Ere the placid lips be cold? What hope or fear or joy is thine? Hast thou heard the butterflies With what voice the violet woos To the mosses underneath? Hast thou looked upon the breath Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, His curtains, wasting odorous sighs And those dew-lit eyes of thine, Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies? Doth the low-tongued Orient On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, |