It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. SONNETS
MEZZO CAMMIN
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build Some tower of song with lofty parapet. Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions chat would not be stilled, But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,-- A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.-- And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights. THE EVENING STAR
Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
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The evening star, the star of love and rest! And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love! My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
As that fair planet in the sky above, Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light. AUTUMN
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain! Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! DANTE
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"
CURFEW
I.
Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers,
And put out the light;
Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night.
Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire; Sound fades into silence,--
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All footsteps retire.
No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall!
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all! II.
The book is completed, And closed, like the day;
And the hand that has written it
Lays it away.
Dim grow its fancies; Forgotten they lie;
Like coals in the ashes, They darken and die. Song sinks into silence, The story is told,
The windows are darkened, The hearthstone is cold. Darker and darker
The black shadows fall; Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all.
************ EVANGELINE
A TALE OF ACADIE
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,-- Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
PART THE FIRST I
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
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