Before the Curfew | Page 3

this prisoned spirit bears

While with ourselves this fleeting breath it shares?
Till angels greet
him with a sweeter one
In heaven, on earth we call him EMERSON.
I start; I wake; the vision is withdrawn;
Its figures fading like the
stars at dawn;
Crossed from the roll of life their cherished names,

And memory's pictures fading in their frames;
Yet life is lovelier for
these transient gleams
Of buried friendships; blest is he who dreams!
OUR DEAD SINGER
H. W. L.
PRIDE of the sister realm so long our own,
We claim with her that
spotless fame of thine,
White as her snow and fragrant as her pine!

Ours was thy birthplace, but in every zone
Some wreath of song thy
liberal hand has thrown
Breathes perfume from its blossoms, that
entwine
Where'er the dewdrops fall, the sunbeams shine,
On life's
long path with tangled cares o'ergrown.
Can Art thy truthful
counterfeit command,--
The silver-haloed features, tranquil, mild,--

Soften the lips of bronze as when they smiled,
Give warmth and
pressure to the marble hand?
Seek the lost rainbow in the sky it
spanned
Farewell, sweet Singer! Heaven reclaims its child.
Carved from the block or cast in clinging mould,
Will grateful
Memory fondly try her best
The mortal vesture from decay to wrest;


His look shall greet us, calm, but ah, how cold!
No breath can stir
the brazen drapery's fold,
No throb can heave the statue's stony breast;

"He is not here, but risen," will stand confest
In all we miss, in all
our eyes behold.
How Nature loved him! On his placid brow,

Thought's ample dome, she set the sacred sign
That marks the
priesthood of her holiest shrine,
Nor asked a leaflet from the laurel's
bough
That envious Time might clutch or disallow,
To prove her
chosen minstrel's song divine.
On many a saddened hearth the evening fire
Burns paler as the
children's hour draws near,--
That joyous hour his song made doubly
dear,--
And tender memories touch the faltering choir.
He sings no
more on earth; our vain desire
Aches for the voice we loved so long
to hear
In Dorian flute-notes breathing soft and clear,--
The sweet
contralto that could never tire.
Deafened with listening to a harsher
strain,
The Maenad's scream, the stark barbarian's cry,
Still for
those soothing, loving tones we sigh;
Oh, for our vanished Orpheus
once again!
The shadowy silence hears us call in vain!
His lips are
hushed; his song shall never die.
TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 14, 1882
I. AT THE SUMMIT
SISTER, we bid you welcome,--we who stand
On the high table-land;

We who have climbed life's slippery Alpine slope,
And rest, still
leaning on the staff of hope,
Looking along the silent Mer de Glace,

Leading our footsteps where the dark crevasse
Yawns in the frozen
sea we all must pass,--
Sister, we clasp your hand!
Rest with us in the hour that Heaven has lent
Before the swift descent.

Look! the warm sunbeams kiss the glittering ice;
See! next the
snow-drift blooms the edelweiss;
The mated eagles fan the frosty air;


Life, beauty, love, around us everywhere,
And, in their time, the
darkening hours that bear
Sweet memories, peace, content.
Thrice welcome! shining names our missals show
Amid their rubrics'
glow,
But search the blazoned record's starry line,
What halo's
radiance fills the page like thine?
Thou who by some celestial clue
couldst find
The way to all the hearts of all mankind,
On thee,
already canonized, enshrined,
What more can Heaven bestow!
II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE
IF every tongue that speaks her praise
For whom I shape my tinkling
phrase
Were summoned to the table,
The vocal chorus that would
meet
Of mingling accents harsh or sweet,
From every land and tribe,
would beat
The polyglots at Babel.
Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane,
Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of
Ukraine,
Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi,
High Dutchman and Low
Dutchman, too,
The Russian serf, the Polish Jew,
Arab, Armenian,
and Mantchoo,
Would shout, "We know the lady!"
Know her! Who knows not Uncle Tom
And her he learned his gospel
from
Has never heard of Moses;
Full well the brave black hand we
know
That gave to freedom's grasp the hoe
That killed the weed
that used to grow
Among the Southern roses.
When Archimedes, long ago,
Spoke out so grandly, "dos pou sto--

Give me a place to stand on,
I'll move your planet for you, now,"--

He little dreamed or fancied how
The sto_ at last should find its _pou

For woman's faith to land on.
Her lever was the wand of art,
Her fulcrum was the human heart,

Whence all unfailing aid is;
She moved the earth! Its thunders pealed,

Its mountains shook, its temples reeled,

The blood-red fountains

were unsealed,
And Moloch sunk to Hades.
All through the conflict, up and down
Marched Uncle Tom and Old
John Brown,
One ghost, one form ideal;
And which was false and
which was true,
And which was mightier of the two,
The wisest
sibyl never knew,
For both alike were real.
Sister, the holy maid does well
Who counts her beads in convent cell,

Where pale devotion lingers;
But she who serves the sufferer's
needs,
Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds,
May trust the Lord
will count her beads
As well as human fingers.
When Truth herself was Slavery's slave,
Thy hand the prisoned
suppliant gave
The rainbow wings