Poems

Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love,
One little year ago
It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love,
As the autumn peaches grow.
But the rosy hue has fled, love,
Save a flush that goes and comes,
Like a flow’r born from the dead, love,
And blooming over tombs:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

TO MRS.  DULANEY

What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
That from this marred earth
Takes its imperfect birth;
It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught
From some far higher sphere,
And though an angel now, thou still must bear
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.

What was thine errand here?
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,
With earthly creatures coarse,
Held not discourse,
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,
Dwelt in communion dear;
And sure they speak to thee that language now,
Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.

What was thine errand here?
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,
And make infirmity
A patient victory,
And crown life’s baseness with a glorious wreath,
That fades not on thy bier,
But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,
In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.

IMPROMPTU,

Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg

Thou who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, though not as old,
Can’st scarce through life have travelled many a year,
Or lack’st the spirit of a pilgrim here.
Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride;
Love, its warm hearth-stones; Hope, its prospects wide;
Life’s fortress in thee, held these one, and all,
And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.

LINES,

Addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the Academy at Lenox, Massachusetts

Life is before ye—and while now ye stand
Eager to spring upon the promised land,
Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod
But few light steps, upon a flowery sod;
Round ye are youth’s green bowers, and to your eyes
Th’ horizon’s line joins earth with the bright skies;
Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy,
Friendship unwavering, love without alloy,
Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won,
Like angels, beckon ye to venture on.
And if o’er the bright scene some shadows rise,
Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies;
The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear?
Shall not a brightness gild them when more near?
Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power
Of youth is strong within ye at this hour,
And the great mortal conflict seems to ye
Not so much strife as certain victory—
A glory ending in eternity.
Life is before ye—oh! if ye could look
Into the secrets of that sealëd book,
Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith,
Ye should sink down, and falter, “Give us death!”
Could the dread Sphinx’s lips but once disclose,
And utter but a whisper of the woes
Which must o’ertake ye, in your lifelong doom,
Well might ye cry, “Our cradle be our tomb!”
Could ye foresee your spirit’s broken wings,
Earth’s brightest triumphs what despisëd things,
Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame,
Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame,
Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all,
Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall,
Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light,—
Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye might
Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife,
And die, but in beholding what is life.

Life is before ye—from the fated road
Ye cannot turn: then take ye up your load.
Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,
Ye must go o’er it, meet ye what ye may.