From the hundred chimneys of the village, Tower aloft into the air of amber. At the window winks the flickering fire-light; Answering one another through the darkness. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, For a well-known footstep in the passage. Each man's chimney is his Golden Milestone, Through the gateways of the world around him. In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations! THIS song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, CATAWBA WINE. To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, And the Muscadel Nor the red Mustang, Of whose purple blood For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, There grows no vine When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks And after thein tumble the mixer; Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing. And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed, On the banks of the Beautiful River. DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, me. It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail Your clarion blow; the day is near.' on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." And hurried landward far away, Crying, "Awake! it is the day." It said unto the forest, "Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!" It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie." SANTA FILOMENA. WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought, The tidal wave of deeper souls Honour to those whose words or deeds And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read The trenches cold and damp, The cheerless corridors, Pass through the glimmering gloom, And slow, as in a dream of bliss, As if a door in heaven should be On England's annals, through the long That light its rays shall cast A Lady with a Lamp shall stand Nor even shall be wanting here THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. Ir was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying "Here is a story-book MAY 28, 1857. Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God." And whenever the way seemed long, So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold; And the mother at home says, For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, "Hark! And my boy does not return!" But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word. "And now the land," said Othere, "Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. "And there we hunted the walrus, "There were six of us all together, COME to me, O ye children! CHILDREN. For I hear you at your play, Ye open the eastern windows, That look towards the sun, In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us, If the children were no more? What the leaves are to the forest, Ere their sweet and tender juices Through them it feels the glow Come to me, O ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, Ye are better than all the ballads And all the rest are dead. |