The Iron Gate and Other Poems | Page 7

the priest to his altar returning,--?The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there,?The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning,?And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air.
II.?The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving?In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor,?And Spring the last tear-drop of May-dew is leaving?On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore.
How like, how unlike, as we view them together,?The song of the minstrels whose record we scan,--?One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather,?One sweet as the breath from an odalisque's fan!
Ah, passion can glow mid a palace's splendor;?The cage does not alter the song of the bird;?And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender?As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard.
No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered Graces?Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest,?For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces,?Beats time with the pulse in the peasant girl's breast!
Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing!?Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold;?Alike, when its musical waters are flowing,?The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold.
The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened;?Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine;?For Coila's loved minstrel the holly-wreath glistened;?For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine.
And while the fresh blossoms of summer are braided?For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jewelled isle,?While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded,?While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile,
The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted,?Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore, The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted,?Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore!
TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE
APRIL 4, 1880
I BRING the simplest pledge of love,?Friend of my earlier days;?Mine is the hand without the glove,?The heart-beat, not the phrase.
How few still breathe this mortal air?We called by school-boy names!?You still, whatever robe you wear,?To me are always James.
That name the kind apostle bore?Who shames the sullen creeds,?Not trusting less, but loving more,?And showing faith by deeds.
What blending thoughts our memories share!?What visions yours and mine?Of May-days in whose morning air?The dews were golden wine,
Of vistas bright with opening day,?Whose all-awakening sun?Showed in life's landscape, far away,?The summits to be won!
The heights are gained. Ah, say not so?For him who smiles at time,?Leaves his tired comrades down below,?And only lives to climb!
His labors,--will they ever cease,--?With hand and tongue and pen??Shall wearied Nature ask release?At threescore years and ten?
Our strength the clustered seasons tax,--?For him new life they mean;?Like rods around the lictor's axe?They keep him bright and keen.
The wise, the brave, the strong, we know,--?We mark them here or there,?But he,--we roll our eyes, and lo!?We find him everywhere!
With truth's bold cohorts, or alone,?He strides through error's field;?His lance is ever manhood's own,?His breast is woman's shield.
Count not his years while earth has need?Of souls that Heaven inflames?With sacred zeal to save, to lead,--?Long live our dear Saint James!
WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB
January 14, 1880
CHICAGO sounds rough to the maker of verse;?One comfort we have--Cincinnati sounds worse;?If we only were licensed to say Chicago!?But Worcester and Webster won't let us, you know.
No matter, we songsters must sing as we can;?We can make some nice couplets with Lake Michigan,?And what more resembles a nightingale's voice,?Than the oily trisyllable, sweet Illinois?
Your waters are fresh, while our harbor is salt,?But we know you can't help it--it is n't your fault;?Our city is old and your city is new,?But the railroad men tell us we're greener than you.
You have seen our gilt dome, and no doubt you've been told?That the orbs of the universe round it are rolled;?But I'll own it to you, and I ought to know best,?That this is n't quite true of all stars of the West.
You'll go to Mount Auburn,--we'll show you the track,--?And can stay there,--unless you prefer to come back;?And Bunker's tall shaft you can climb if you will,?But you'll puff like a paragraph praising a pill.
You must see--but you have seen--our old Faneuil Hall,?Our churches, our school-rooms, our sample-rooms, all;?And, perhaps, though the idiots must have their jokes,?You have found our good people much like other folks.
There are cities by rivers, by lakes, and by seas,?Each as full of itself as a cheese-mite of cheese;?And a city will brag as a game-cock will crow?Don't your cockerels at home--just a little, you know?
But we'll crow for you now--here's a health to the boys,?Men, maidens, and matrons of fair Illinois,?And the rainbow of friendship that arches its span?From the green of the sea to the blue Michigan!
AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION
MAY 26, 1880
SIRE, son, and grandson; so the century glides;?Three lives, three strides, three foot-prints in the sand;?Silent as midnight's falling meteor slides?Into the stillness of the far-off land;?How dim the space its