THE CHILD It was only the clinging touch In my own stretched out to his need, The sweetest thing the heart can divine, More precious than fame or gold, Lay in my breast, all mine. I was nothing to him; He neither looked up nor spoke; He was gone ere my mind awoke Eve's rosy star a-tremble Its hour of light, - The violets we cherish But love leaves slow, how slowly! O, strange to me, and wondrous, But stranger, love, thy fashion, – Art thou, dark storm of passion, So slow to die? When the great gale has blown o'er; As the long winter-dirges From frozen branches pour; As the whole sea's harsh December SEAWARD I WILL rise, I will go from the places that are dark with passion and pain, From the sorrow-changed woodlands and a thousand memories slain. O light gone out in darkness on the cliff I seek no more Where she I worshipped met me in her girlhood at the door! O, bright though years how many! farewell, sweet guiding star The wild wind blows me seaward over the harbor-bar! Better thy waste, gray Ocean, the homeless, heaving plain, Than to choke the fount of life and the flower of honor stain ! I will seek thy blessed shelter, deep bosom of sun and storm, From the fever and fret of the earth and the things that debase and deform; For I am thine; from of old thou didst lay me, a child, at rest In thy cradle of many waters, and gav'st Man-grown, I will seek thy healing; though Let me taste on my lips thy salt, let me live with the sun and the rain, Let me lean to the rolling wave and feel me man again ! O, make thee a sheaf of arrows as when thy winters rage forth, Whiten me as thy deep-sea waves with the blanching breath of the North ! O, take thee a bundle of spears from thine azure of burning drouth, Smite into my pulses the tremors, the fervors, the blaze of the South! So might my breath be snow-cold, and my blood be pure like fire, The heavenly souls that have left me will come back to sustain and inspire. Take me - I come―0, save me in the paths my fathers trod ! Then fling me back to the battle where men labor the peace of God ! FROM "MY COUNTRY" O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel, What founding fates even now doth peace compel, That through the world thy name is sweet to tell! O throned Freedom, unto thee is brought Empire; nor falsehood nor blood-payment asked; Who never through deceit thy ends hast sought, Nor toiling millions for ambition tasked; Unlike the fools who build the throne On fraud, and wrong, and woc; But far from these is set thy continent, For thou art founded in the eternal fact That every man doth greaten with the act Of freedom; and doth strengthen with the weight Of duty; and diviner moulds his fate, By sharp experience taught the thing he lacked, God's pupil; thy large maxim framed, though late, Who masters best himself best serves the State. This wisdom is thy Corner: next the stone Of Bounty; thou hast given all; thy store, Free as the air, and broadcast as the light, Thou flingest; and the fair and gracious sight, More rich, doth teach thy sons this happy lore: That no man lives who takes not priceless gifts Both of thy substance and thy laws, whereto He may not plead desert, but holds of thee A childhood title, shared with all who grew, His brethren of the hearth; whence no man lifts Above the common right his claim; nor dares To fence his pastures of the common good: For common are thy fields; common the toil; Common the charter of prosperity, Now westward, look, my country bids good-night, Peace to the world from ports without a gun ! LOVE'S ROSARY SWEET names, the rosary of my evening prayer, Told on my lips like kisses of good-night To friends who go a little from my sight, And some through distant years shine clear and fair So this dear burden that I daily bear Mighty God taketh, and doth loose me quite; And soft I sink in slumbers pure and light With thoughts of human love and heavenly care; But when I mark how into shadow slips My manhood's prime, and weep fast-passing friends, And heaven's riches making poor my lips, And think how in the dust love's labor ends, Then, where the cluster of my hearth-stone shone, "Bid mo not live," I sigh, "till all be gone." SONG OF EROS, IN "AGATHON " That weep for the cold, Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses! The eagle alone with the sun, THE WAY TO ARCADY On, what's the way to Arcady, Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Nor any breezes blow so light. Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be? Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know: And know not now where it may be ; |