They talk together and say, And the old gods, the austere "At length!" Ah me! for the land that is sown Where ashes are heaped in drifts His head through the blackened rifts See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Appennines, "Enceladus, arise!" THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop of war: And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foe Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, "It is better to sink than to yield!" With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Shall be one again, And without a seam! SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOUR with what zeal we will By the bedside, on the stair, Waits, and will not go away; Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems And we stand from day to day, WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years Where toil shall cease and rest begin, O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask; Am weary, thinking of your task. 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! SNOWFLAKES. OUT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow, Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, The grief it feels. This is the poem of the Air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, |