.
.

.

.

Our ancestors dedicated the inventions of their wisdom to this deity, inscribing all their own writings with the name of Hermes .-- IAMBLICUS.
Still through Egypt's desert places Flows the lordly Nile, From its banks the great stone faces Gaze with patient smile.
Still the pyramids imperious Pierce the cloudless skies, And the Sphinx stares with mysterious, Solemn, stony eyes.
But where are the old Egyptian Demi-gods and kings?
Nothing left but an inscription Graven on stones and rings.
Where are Helios and Hephaestus, Gods of eldest eld?
Where is Hermes Trismegistus, Who their secrets held?
Where are now the many hundred Thousand books he wrote?
By the Thaumaturgists plundered, Lost in lands remote; In oblivion sunk forever, As when o'er the land Blows a storm-wind, in the river Sinks the scattered sand.
Something unsubstantial, ghostly, Seems this Theurgist, In deep meditation mostly Wrapped, as in a mist.
Vague, phantasmal, and unreal To our thought he seems, Walking in a world ideal, In a land of dreams.
Was he one, or many, merging Name and fame in one, Like a stream, to which, converging Many streamlets run?
Till, with gathered power proceeding, Ampler sweep it takes, Downward the sweet waters leading From unnumbered lakes.
By the Nile I see him wandering, Pausing now and then, On the mystic union pondering Between gods and men; Half believing, wholly feeling, With supreme delight, How the gods, themselves concealing, Lift men to their height.
Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated, In the thoroughfare Breathing, as if consecrated, A diviner air; And amid discordant noises, In the jostling throng, Hearing far, celestial voices Of Olympian song.
Who shall call his dreams fallacious?
Who has searched or sought All the unexplored and spacious Universe of thought?
Who, in his own skill confiding, Shall with rule and line Mark the border-land dividing Human and divine?
Trismegistus! three times greatest! How thy name sublime Has descended to this latest Progeny of time! Happy they whose written pages Perish with their lives, If amid the crumbling ages Still their name survives! Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately Found I in the vast, Weed-encumbered sombre, stately, Grave-yard of the Past; And a presence moved before me On that gloomy shore, As a waft of wind, that o'er me Breathed, and was no more.
TO THE AVON Flow on, sweet river! like his verse Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse Nor wait beside the churchyard wall For him who cannot hear thy call.
Thy playmate once; I see him now A boy with sunshine on his brow, And hear in Stratford's quiet street The patter of his little feet.
I see him by thy shallow edge Wading knee-deep amid the sedge; And lost in thought, as if thy stream Were the swift river of a dream.
He wonders whitherward it flows; And fain would follow where it goes, To the wide world, that shall erelong Be filled with his melodious song.
Flow on, fair stream! That dream is o'er; He stands upon another shore; A vaster river near him flows, And still he follows where it goes.
PRESIDENT GARFIELD "E venni dal martirio a questa pace." These words the poet heard in Paradise, Uttered by one who, bravely dying here, In the true faith was living in that sphere Where the celestial cross of sacrifice Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies; And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear, The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear, Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes.
Ah me! how dark the discipline of pain, Were not the suffering followed by the sense Of infinite rest and infinite release! This is our consolation; and again A great soul cries to us in our suspense, "I came from martyrdom unto this peace!" MY BOOKS Sadly as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, So I behold these books upon their shelf, My ornaments and arms of other days; Not wholly useless, though no longer used, For they remind me of my other self, Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways In which I walked, now clouded and confused.
MAD RIVER IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS TRAVELLER Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, O Mad River?
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf forever?
What secret trouble stirs thy breast?
Why all this fret and flurry?
Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From over-work and worry?
THE RIVER What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, O stranger from the city?
Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty?
TRAVELLER Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing number; And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers.
THE RIVER A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling.
Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted; Out of the forest dark and dread Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted.
I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.
I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting.
And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow.
Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.
Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble.
Now go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating.
Thou seest the day is past its prime; I can no longer waste my time; The mills are tired of waiting.
POSSIBILITIES Where are the Poets, unto whom belong The Olympian heights; whose singing shafts were sent Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent, But with the utmost tension of the thong?
Where are the stately argosies of song, Whose rushing keels made music as they went Sailing in search of some new continent, With all sail set, and steady winds and strong?
Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught In schools, some graduate of the field or street, Who shall become a master of the art, An admiral sailing the high seas of thought, Fearless and first and steering with his fleet For lands not yet laid down in any chart.
DECORATION DAY Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest, Nor sentry's shot alarms! Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon's sudden roar, Or the drum's redoubling beat.
But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks; Here is no fevered breath, No wound that bleeds and aches.
All is repose and peace, Untrampled lies the sod; The shouts of battle cease, It is the Truce of God! Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free.
Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers; Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
A FRAGMENT Awake! arise! the hour is late! Angels are knocking at thy door! They are in haste and cannot wait, And once departed come no more.
Awake! arise! the athlete's arm Loses its strength by too much rest; The fallow land, the untilled farm Produces only weeds at best.
LOSS AND GAIN When I compare What I have lost with what I have gained, What I have missed with what attained, Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware How many days have been idly spent; How like an arrow the good intent Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise; The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
INSCRIPTION ON THE SHANKLIN FOUNTAIN O traveller, stay thy weary feet; Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet; It flows for rich and poor the same.
Then go thy way, remembering still The wayside well beneath the hill, The cup of water in His name.
THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS What say the Bells of San Blas To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan?
To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shore,-- Nothing more to master or man.
But to me, a dreamer of dreams, To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same,-- The Bells of San Blas to me Have a strange, wild melody, And are something more than a name.
For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old; One sound to all, yet each Lends a meaning to their speech, And the meaning is manifold.
They are a voice of the Past, Of an age that is fading fast, Of a power austere and grand, When the flag of Spain unfurled Its folds o'er this western world, And the Priest was lord of the land.
The chapel that once looked down On the little seaport town Has crumbled into the dust; And on oaken beams below The bells swing to and fro, And are green with mould and rust.
"Is, then, the old faith dead," They say, "and in its stead Is some new faith proclaimed, That we are forced to remain Naked to sun and rain, Unsheltered and ashamed?
"Once, in our tower aloof, We rang over wall and roof Our warnings and our complaints; And round about us there The white doves filled the air, Like the white souls of the saints.
"The saints! Ah, have they grown Forgetful of their own?
Are they asleep, or dead, That open to the sky Their ruined Missions lie, No longer tenanted?
"Oh, bring us back once more The vanished days of yore, When the world with faith was filled; Bring back the fervid zeal, The hearts of fire and steel, The hands that believe and build.
"Then from our tower again We will send over land and main Our voices of command, Like exiled kings who return To their thrones, and the people learn That the Priest is lord of the land!" O Bells of San Blas in vain Ye call back the Past again; The Past is deaf to your prayer! Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light; It is daybreak everywhere.
************* FRAGMENTS October 22, 1838.
Neglected record of a mind neglected, Unto what "lets and stops" art thou subjected! The day with all its toils and occupations, The night with its reflections and sensations, The future, and the present, and the past,-- All I remember, feel, and hope at last, All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass,-- Find but a dusty image in this glass.
August 18, 1847.
O faithful, indefatigable tides, That evermore upon God's errands go,-- Now seaward bearing tidings of the land,-- Now landward bearing tidings of the sea,-- And filling every frith and estuary, Each arm of the great sea, each little creek, Each thread and filament of water-courses, Full with your ministration of delight! Under the rafters of this wooden bridge I see you come and go; sometimes in haste To reach your journey's end, which being done With feet unrested ye return again And recommence the never-ending task; Patient, whatever burdens ye may bear, And fretted only by the impeding rocks.
December 18, 1847.
Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes; White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields; Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them Weareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind.
August 4, 1856.
A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun, the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming.
So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming, Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again.
But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage, Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand.
******** CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY INTROITUS The ANGEL bearing the PROPHET HABAKKUK through the air.
PROPHET.
Why dost thou bear me aloft, O Angel of God, on thy pinions O'er realms and dominions?
Softly I float as a cloud In air, for thy right hand upholds me, Thy garment enfolds me! ANGEL.
Lo! as I passed on my way In the harvest-field I beheld thee, When no man compelled thee, Bearing with thine own hands This food to the famishing reapers, A flock without keepers! The fragrant sheaves of the wheat Made the air above them sweet; Sweeter and more divine Was the scent of the scattered grain, That the reaper's hand let fall To be gathered again By the hand of the gleaner! Sweetest, divinest of all, Was the humble deed of thine, And the meekness of thy demeanor! PROPHET.
Angel of Light, I cannot gainsay thee, I can but obey thee! ANGEL.
Beautiful was it in the lord's sight, To behold his Prophet Feeding those that toil, The tillers of the soil.
But why should the reapers eat of it And not the Prophet of Zion In the den of the lion?
The Prophet should feed the Prophet! Therefore I thee have uplifted, And bear thee aloft by the hair Of thy head, like a cloud that is drifted Through the vast unknown of the air! Five days hath the Prophet been lying In Babylon, in the den Of the lions, death-defying, Defying hunger and thirst; But the worst Is the mockery of men! Alas! how full of fear Is the fate of Prophet and Seer! Forevermore, forevermore, It shall be as it hath been heretofore; The age in which they live Will not forgive The splendor of the everlasting light, That makes their foreheads bright, Nor the sublime Fore-running of their time! PROPHET.
Oh tell me, for thou knowest, Wherefore and by what grace, Have I, who am least and lowest, Been chosen to this place, To this exalted part?
ANGEL.
Because thou art The Struggler; and from thy youth Thy humble and patient life Hath been a strife And battle for the Truth; Nor hast thou paused nor halted, Nor ever in thy pride Turned from the poor aside, But with deed and word and pen Hast served thy fellow-men; Therefore art thou exalted! PROPHET.
By thine arrow's light Thou goest onward through the night, And by the clear Sheen of thy glittering spear! When will our journey end?
ANGEL.
Lo, it is ended! Yon silver gleam Is the Euphrates' stream.
Let us descend Into the city splendid, Into the City of Gold! PROPHET.
Behold! As if the stars had fallen from their places Into the firmament below, The streets, the gardens, and the vacant spaces With light are all aglow; And hark! As we draw near, What sound is it I hear Ascending through the dark?
ANGEL.
The tumultuous noise of the nations, Their rejoicings and lamentations, The pleadings of their prayer, The groans of their despair, The cry of their imprecations, Their wrath, their love, their hate! PROPHET.
Surely the world doth wait The coming of its Redeemer! ANGEL.
Awake from thy sleep, O dreamer?
The hour is near, though late; Awake! write the vision sublime, The vision, that is for a time, Though it tarry, wait; it is nigh; In the end it will speak and not lie..