O MIGHTY-MOUTH'D inventor of harmonies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, Milton, a name to resound for ages: Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset! Me rather all that bowery loneliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And crimson-hued the stately palm woods Whisper in odorous heights of even 1863 THE VOYAGE WE left behind the painted buoy Warm broke the breeze against the brow, Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail; The lady's-head upon the prow Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, And swept behind; so quick the run We felt the good ship shake and reel, We seem'd to sail into the sun! How oft we saw the sun retire, And burn the threshold of the night, Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, And sleep beneath his pillar'd light! How oft the purple-skirted robe Of twilight slowly downward drawn, As thro' the slumber of the globe Again we dash'd into the dawn! New stars all night above the brim The houseless ocean's heaving field, Of her own halo's dusky shield. The peaky islet shifted shapes, High towns on hills were dimly seen; We passed long lines of Northern capes And dewy Northern meadows green. We came to warmer waves, and deep Across the boundless east we drove, Where those long swells of breaker sweep The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brine With ashy rains, that spreading made NORTHERN FARMER OLD STYLE WHEER 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan? Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse; whoy, Doctor 's abean an' agoan; Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale, but I beant a fool; Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to break my rule. Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's nawways true; Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. I've 'ed ny point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. An' I've ed my quart ivry marketnoight for foorty year. Parson's a bean loikewoise, an'a sittin' ere o' my bed. "The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you1 to 'issén, my friend," a said, An' a towd ma my sins, an' 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond; I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Marris's barne. Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate, An'i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead, An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock 2 ower my 'ead, An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, an' I coom'd awaay. Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond; I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. But Parson a cooms an'a goas, an' a says it easy an' freea : "The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in 'aaste ; But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' 1 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um mysen; Moast loike a butter-bump,1 fur I 'eard 'um about an' about, But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled 'um out. Keaper's it wur; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is faace 'ed shot Down i' the woild 'enemies 2 afoor I coom'd to the plaace. Noaks or Thimbleby-toaner 'um as dead as a naail. Noaks wur ang'd for it oop at 'soize¬ but git ma my aale. Dubbut loook at the waaste; theer warn't not feead for a cow; Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' feead, Fourscoor yows upon it, an' some on it down i' seead.5 Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an lond o' my oan. Do Godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea? I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yon. der a pea; An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all-a' dear, a' dear! And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year. A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 'aapoth o' sense, Or a mowt a' taaen young Robins-a niver mended a fence; man a bea sewer-loy!" Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin' fust a coom'd to the 'All; I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. Squoire's ' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; Sartin-sewer I bea thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, Naw, nor a moant to Robins-a niver rembles the stoans. IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ ALL along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters flow, I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. All along the valley, while I walk'd today, The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 1861. 1864. A DEDICATION DEAR, near and true,--no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho' he make you ever more Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life Shoots to the fall,-take this and pray that he Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, May trust himself; and after praise and scorn, [world, As one who feels the immeasurable Attain the wise indifference of the wise; And after autumn past-if left to pass His autumn into seeming-leafless days-Draw toward the long frost and longest night, [fruit Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the Which in our winter woodland looks a flower. 1864. right the wrong Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she; Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust, Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly? She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky; Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 1868. FROM THE COMING OF ARTHUR MERLIN'S RIDDLE RAIN, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky! A young man will be wiser by and by; An old man's wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea! And truth is this to me, and that to thee; And truth or clothed or naked let it be. Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows; Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes. 1869. TRUMPET SONG Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May! Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away! Blow thro' the living world-“ Let the King reign!" Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm? Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe upon helm, Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign! Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign! Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. Blow trumpet! live the strength, and die the lust! Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign! Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, The King is king, and ever wills the highest. Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign! Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May ! Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day! Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign! The King will follow Christ, and we the King, In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign! 1874. THE HIGHER PANTHEISM THE sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,-: Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that which He seems? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why, For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendor and gloom.I |
