Great Poems by American Women (11 page)

Bend low, O dusky Night,

And give my spirit rest.

Hold me to your deep breast,

And put old cares to flight.

Give back the lost delight

That once my soul possest,

When Love was loveliest.

Bend low, O dusky Night!

 

Enfold me in your arms—

The sole embrace I crave

Until the embracing grave

Shield me from life's alarms.

I dare your subtlest charms;

Your deepest spell I brave,—

O, strong to slay or save,

Enfold me in your arms!

In Memoriam

As the wind at play with a spark

Of fire that glows through the night,

As the speed of the soaring lark

That wings to the sky his flight,

So swiftly thy soul has sped

On its upward, wonderful way,

Like the lark, when the dawn is red,

In search of the shining day.

 

Thou art not with the frozen dead

Whom earth in the earth we lay,

While the bearers softly tread,

And the mourners kneel and pray;

From thy semblance, dumb and stark,

The soul has taken its flight

Out of the finite dark,

Into the Infinite Light.

Roses and butterflies snared on a fan,

All that is left of a summer gone by;

Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun,

And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!

 

By what subtle spell did you lure them here,

Fixing a beauty that will not change,—

Roses whose petals never will fall,

Bright, swift wings that never will range?

 

Had you owned but the skill to snare as well

The swift-winged hours that came and went,

To prison the words that in music died,

And fix with a spell the heart's content,

 

Then had you been of magicians the chief;

And loved and lovers should bless your art,

If you could but have painted the soul of the thing,—

Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart!

 

Flown are those days with their winged delights,

As the odor is gone from the summer rose;

Yet still, whenever I wave my fan,

The soft, south wind of memory blows.

I stood and watched the still, mysterious Night,
Steal from her shadowy caverns in the East,
To work her deep enchantments on the world.
Her black veil floated down the silent glens,
While her dark sandalled feet, with noiseless tread,
Moved to a secret harmony. Along
The brows of the majestic hills, she strung
Her glorious diamonds so stealthily,
It never marred their dreams; and in the deep,
Cool thickets of the wood, where scarce the Day
Could reach the dim retreat, her dusky hand
Pinned on the breast of the exhaling flower,
A glittering gem; while all the tangled ferns
And forest lace-work, as she moved along,
Grew moist and shining.

 

Who would e'er have guessed,
The queenly Night would deign to stoop and love
A little flower! And yet, with all her stealth,
I saw her press her damp and cooling lip
Upon the feverish bosom of a Rose;
At which a watchful bird poured sudden forth
A love-sick song, of sweet and saddest strain.

 

Upon the ivied rocks, and rugged crags
On which the ocean billows break, she hung
Her sombre mantle; and the gray old sea
That had been high in tumult all the day,
Became so mesmerized beneath her wiles,
He seemed a mere reflection of herself.
The billows sank into a dimpled sleep;
Only the little tide-waves glided up
To kiss the blackness of the airy robe
That floated o'er them.

 

Long I stood and watched

The mystic, spell-like influence of Night;
Till o‘er the eastern hills, came up the first
Faint glories of the crown that Phoebus wears.
And soon, the Earth, surprised to see the work
That Night had wrought, began to glow and blush,
Like maidens, conscious of the glance of Love.
While she,—the dark Enchantress,—like to one
Who decorates her bower with all things fair,
Wherewith to please her lover, but yet flees
At his approaching step,—at the first gleam
That lit the zenith from the Day-god's eye,
Fled timid o'er the distant western hills.

1861

Not of a purpose dark and dire,
That souls of evil fashion,
Nor the power that nerves the assassin's hand,
In the white heat of his passion:

A burthen bear of this one crime:
Let the world draw in a shuddering breath,
O'er the crime that aims at a nation's death!

Not in affection's dulcet tone,
Or with sound of a soft recorder:
Strike not thy harp to a strain arranged
In measured, harmonic order:

That thunder of a Nation's wrong;
Let a sound of war in thy notes appear,
Till the world opes wide a startled ear!

Thou hast a patriot's throbbing pulse,
And future history's pages,
Shall tell of the blood so freely shed
To redeem “the crime of the ages.”

And teach a rebel foe thy might!
Let a loyal heart, and undaunted will,
Show the world we are a Nation still!

Speak for the children of martyred sires,
An offspring the most ungrateful!
Warn them of Justice hurrying on,
To punish a deed so hateful!

The omens of our troubled sky!
What is the picture beyond the gloom?
New life, new birth, or a Nation's tomb?

So, because you chose to follow me into the subtle sadness of night,

Till your presence hid all of the earth and all of the sky from my sight,

And to give me a little scarlet bud, that was dying of frost, to wear,

Say, must you taunt me forever, forever? You looked at my hand and you knew

When I saw your corpse in your coffin, I flung back your flower to you;

Ah? so God is your witness. Has God, then, no world to look after but ours?

Far over a part of our darkness while we were there by the freezing flowers,

Or, if He was near us at all, do you think that He would sit listening there

While, so close to us, down in another street, in the wet, unlighted air,

Or perhaps He had gone to the ghastly field where the fight had been that day,

Or else to the place full of fever and moans where the wretched wounded lay;

So take back your flower, I tell you—of its sweetness I now have no need;

When you wake I will take it, and God, then, perhaps will witness indeed,

I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder,

Than any story painted in your books.

You are so glad? It will not make you gladder;

Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks.

 

“Is it a Fairy Story?” Well, half fairy—

At least it dates far back as fairies do,

And seems to me as beautiful and airy;

Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true.

 

You had a baby sister and a brother,

(Two very dainty people, rosily white,

Each sweeter than all things except the other!)

Older yet younger—gone from human sight!

 

And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever,

And think with yearning tears how each light hand

Crept toward bright bloom or berries—I shall never

Know how I lost them. Do you understand?

 

Poor slightly golden heads! I think I missed them

First, in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way;

But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them,

My gradual parting, I can never say.

Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished

In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss,

Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished,

For their small sakes, since my most lovely loss.

 

I fancy, too, that they were softly covered

By robins, out of apple-flowers they knew,

Whose nursing wings in far home sunshine hovered,

Before the timid world had dropped the dew.

 

Their names were—what yours are! At this you wonder.

Their pictures are—your own, as you have seen;

And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under

Lost leaves—why, it is your dead selves I mean!

Almost afraid they led her in

(A dwarf more piteous none could find):

Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,

The woman was—and wan and blind.

 

Into his mirror with a smile—

Not vain to be so fair, but glad—

The South-born painter looked the while,

With eyes than Christ's alone less sad.

 

“Mother of God,” in pale surprise

He whispered, “what am I to paint!”

A voice, that sounded from the skies,

Said to him, “Raphael, a saint.”

 

She sat before him in the sun:

He scarce could look at her, and she

Was still and silent.... “It is done,”

He said.—“Oh, call the world to see!”

 

Ah, this was she is veriest truth—

Transcendent face and haloed hair.

The beauty of divinest youth,

Divinely beautiful, was there.

 

Herself into her picture passed—

Herself and not her poor disguise,

Made up of time and dust.... At last

One saw her with the Master's eyes.

In the earnest path of duty,

With the high hopes and hearts sincere,

We, to useful lives aspiring,

Daily meet to labor here.

 

No vain dreams of earthly glory

Urge us onward to explore

Far-extending realms of knowledge,

With their rich and varied store;

 

But, with hope of aiding others,

Gladly we perform our part;

Nor forget, the mind, while storing,

We must educate the heart,—

 

Teach it hatred of oppression,

Truest love of God and man;

Thus our high and holy calling

May accomplish His great plan.

 

Not the great and gifted only

He appoints to do his will,

But each one, however lowly,

Has a mission to fulfill.

 

Knowing this, toil we unwearied,

With true hearts and purpose high;—

We would win a wreath immortal

Whose bright flowers ne'er fade and die.

When Winter's royal robes of white
From hill and vale are gone
And the glad voices of the spring
Upon the air are borne,
Friends who have met with us before,
Within these walls shall meet no more.

 

Forth to a noble work they go:
O, may their hearts keep pure,
And hopeful zeal and strength be theirs
To labor and endure,
That they an earnest faith may prove
By words of truth and deeds of love.

 

May those, whose holy task it is,
To guide impulsive youth,
Fail not to cherish in their souls
A reverence for truth;
For teachings which the lips impart
Must have their source within the heart.

 

May all who suffer share their love—
The poor and the oppressed;
So shall the blessing of our God
Upon their labors rest.
And may we meet again where all
Are blest and freed from every thrall.