Chapter 80
[Page 393.]
Chief, the charm of thy reflecting, [1]
Is the moral that it brings; Nature, with the mind connecting, Gives the artist's fancy wings.
Soul, sublime 'mid human _debris_, [5]
Paints the limner's work, I ween, Art and Science, all unweary, Lighting up this mortal dream.
Work ill-done within the misty Mine of human thoughts, we see [10]
Soon abandoned when the Master Crowns life's Cliff for such as we.
Students wise, he maketh now thus Those who fish in waters deep, When the buried Master hails us [15]
From the sh.o.r.es afar, complete.
Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling In a beauty strong and meek As the rock, whose upward tending Points the plane of power to seek. [20]
Isle of beauty, thou art teaching Lessons long and grand, to-night, To my heart that would be bleaching To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.
[Page 394.]
Hope
'T is borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour; It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower,- An infinite essence from tropic to pole, The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul. [5]
Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower, And loosens the fetters of pride and of power; It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain, To beautify, bless, and make joyful again.
The harp
A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine; The G.o.d-given mandate that speaks from above,- No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love.
Rondelet
"The flowers of June The gates of memory unbar: The flowers of June Such old-time harmonies _re_tune, I fain would keep the gates ajar,- So full of sweet enchantment are [20]
The flowers of June."
JAMES T. WHITE
[Page 395.]
To Mr. James T. White
Who loves not June [2]
Is out of tune With love and G.o.d; The rose his rival reigns, [5]
The stars reject his pains, His home the clod!
And yet I trow, When sweet _rondeau_ Doth play a part, [10]
The curtain drops on June; Veiled is the modest moon- Hushed is the heart.
Autumn
Written in childhood, in a maple grove [15]
Quickly earth's jewels disappear; The turf, whereon I tread, Ere autumn blanch another year, May rest above my head.
Touched by the finger of decay [20]
Is every earthly love; For joy, to shun my weary way, Is registered above.
The languid brooklets yield their sighs, A requiem o'er the tomb [25]
Of sunny days and cloudless skies, Enhancing autumn's gloom.
[Page 396.]
The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, [1]
To scare my woodland walk, And frightened fancy flees, to roam Where ghosts and goblins stalk.
The cricket's sharp, discordant scream [5]
Fills mortal sense with dread; More sorrowful it scarce could seem; It voices beauty fled.
Yet here, upon this faded sod,- O happy hours and fleet,- [10]
When songsters' matin hymns to G.o.d Are poured in strains so sweet,
My heart unbidden joins rehea.r.s.e; I hope it's better made, When mingling with the universe, [15]
Beneath the maple's shade.
Christ My Refuge
O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind There sweeps a strain, Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind [20]