FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn
With solemn voice and slow.
No purple flowers, -no garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between
Thick leaves of mistletoe.
This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart,
Are running all to waste.
And as it mantling passes round, With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Are in its waters steeped and drowned, And give a bitter taste.
Above the lowly plants it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers, And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers, Lost vision to restore.
It gave new strength, and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude, Mingled it in their daily food; And he who battled and subdued, A wreath of fennel wore.
Then in Life's goblet freely press The leaves that give it bitterness, Nor prize the coloured waters less, For in thy darkness and distress
New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe, With which its brim may overflow,
He has not learned to live.
The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight,
To see his foeman s face.
Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light,-for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair
One half the human race. O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die,
Patient, though sorely tried! pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf, The Battle of our Life is brief, The alarm, the struggle,-the relief,- Then sleep we side by side.
MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies, Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;- Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds, that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art.
My way is on the bright blue sea, My sleep upon the rocky tide; And many an eye has followed me,
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kissed! When fades the evening's purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep. They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem, Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown The glorious dwelling made for them.
IN the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes, From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Then, with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet. anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges.
But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwelling. All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city.
And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet's airy rhymes, All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But deeming it no more, alas! Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble inn In the narrow lanes of life, When the dusk and hush of night Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight To the poet's melodies,
Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long; Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
Wet with most delicious tears.
Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.
Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.
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