There was an old belief that in the embers Of all things their primordial form exists, And cunning alchemists Could re-create the rose with all its members From its own ashes, but without the bloom, Without the lost perfume.
Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore?
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?
"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap Into the unknown deep!"And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, "Alas! thy youth is dead!
It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation;In the dark places with the dead of old It lies forever cold!"Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements I will not drag this sacred dust again, Only to give me pain;But, still remembering all the lost endearments, Go on my way, like one who looks before, And turns to weep no more."Into what land of harvests, what plantations Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow Of sunsets burning low;Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations Light up the spacious avenues between This world and the unseen!
Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, What households, though not alien, yet not mine, What bowers of rest divine;To what temptations in lone wildernesses, What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, The bearing of what cross!
I do not know; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold The story still untold, But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, Until "The End" I read.
THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD
Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old!
Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold!
Ah, no longer wizard Fancy Builds her castles in the air, Luring me by necromancy Up the never-ending stair!
But, instead, she builds me bridges Over many a dark ravine, Where beneath the gusty ridges Cataracts dash and roar unseen.
And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding Footsteps that have gone before.
Naught avails the imploring gesture, Naught avails the cry of pain!
When I touch the flying vesture, 'T is the gray robe of the rain.
Baffled I return, and, leaning O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud.
And the sounds of life ascending Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.
Well I know what there lies hidden, Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden Reassumes its vanished charm.
Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree;At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.
Through the mist and darkness sinking, Blown by wind and beaten by shower, Down I fling the thought I'm thinking, Down I toss this Alpine flower.
HAWTHORNE
MAY 23, 1864
How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain!
Though all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain.
The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o'erhead Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms Shot through with golden thread.
Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, The historic river flowed:
I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road.
The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to my ear.
For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute;Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit.
Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines;I only see--a dream within a dream--
The hill-top hearsed with pines.
I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own.
There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told.
Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain?
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain!
CHRISTMAS BELLS
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY
See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour.
Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.
And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark, In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander, All the noisy chimneys blow!
