Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"But the night-wind answers, "Hollow Are the visions that you follow, Into darkness sinks your fire!"Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart.
And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim:
"These are prophets, bards, and seers;
In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years."But the night-wind cries: "Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air Leave no long-enduring marks;At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant, These are but the flying sparks.
"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread."Suddenly the flame sinks down;
Sink the rumors of renown;
And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,--"'T is the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here!"And I answer,--"Though it be, Why should that discomfort me?
No endeavor is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain."THE BELLS OF LYNN
HEARD AT NAHANT
O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!
O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!
From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!
Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!
The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!
Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!
The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!
And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!
Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!
And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!
KILLED AT THE FORD.
He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent.
Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was humming the words of some old song:
"Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword."Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill;I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead;But he made no answer to what I said.
We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if asleep on his bed;And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red!
And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat Without a murmur, without a cry;And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors wondered that she should die.
GIOTTO'S TOWER
How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete!
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,--A vision, a delight, and a desire,--
The builder's perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting still the glory of the spire.
TO-MORROW
'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks;From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep;Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.
To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest."And I make answer: "I am satisfied;
I dare not ask; I know not what is best;
God hath already said what shall betide."DIVINA COMMEDIA
I
Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait.
II
How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!
