O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask; O little hearts! that throb and beat Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white Direct from heaven, their source divine; How lurid looks this soul of mine! Flower-de-Luce. BEAUTIFUL lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance, But makest glad and radiant with thy presence The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, And winged with the celestial azure, bearest Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river O flower of song, bloom on, and make for ever PALINGENESIS. I LAY upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened. Until the rolling meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist. Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; Seemed peopled with the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed, A moment only, and the light and glory And the wild roses of the promontory There was an old belief that in the embers Could recreate the rose with all its members Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science What craft of alchemy can bid defiance "O, give me back!" I cried, "the vanished splendours, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders And the sea answered, with a lamentation, It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation; It lies for ever cold!" Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements Only to give me pain; But, still remembering all the lost endearments, Into what land of harvests, what plantations Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations Light up the spacious avenues between This world and the unseen! Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, To what temptations in lone wildernesses, I do not know; nor will I vainly question But without rash conjecture or suggestion THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. BURN, O evening hearth, and waken Though the house by winds be shaken, Ah, no longer wizard Fancy But, instead, she builds me bridges And I cross them, little heeding Footsteps that have gone before. Naught avails the imploring gesture, Baffled I return, and leaning And the sounds of life ascending Well I know what there lies hidden, Well I know the secret places, Through the mist and darkness sinking, HAWTHORNE. MAY 23, 1864. How beautiful it was, that one bright day Though all its splendour could not chase away The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms, Across the meadows, by the grey old manse, I was as one who wanders in a trance, The faces of familiar friends seemed strange: Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change For the one face I looked for was not there, Only an unseen presence filled the air, |