And the sea answered, with a lamentation, It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation, Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements But, still remembering all the lost endearments, Into what land of harvests, what plantations Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations This world and the unseen! Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, To what temptations in lone wildernesses, I do not know; nor will I vainly question But without rash conjecture or suggestion HAWTHORNE. MAY 23, 1864. How beautiful it was, that one bright day Though all its splendour could not chase away The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o'erhead, Dark shadows wove on their aërial looms, Across the meadows, by the grey old manse, The historic river flowed; I was as one who wanders in a trance, The faces of familiar friends seemed strange; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to the ear. For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream, Dimly my thought defines; I only see a dream within a dream The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower, THE BELLS OF LYNN. HEARD AT NAHANT. O CURFEW of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. SEE, the fire is sinking low, While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour. Sings the blackened log a tune And the night-wind rising, hark! Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to say to me, 66 Aspire!" But the night-wind answers,-" Hollow Then the flicker of the blaze Loud through whose majestic pages Throb the harp-strings of the heart. And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim, "These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years." But the night-wind cries,-" Despair! "Dust are all the hands that wrought; Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread." Suddenly the flame sinks down; Sink the rumours of renown; And alone the night-wind drear And I answer,-"Though it be, Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain." NOËL Envoyé à M. Agassiz, la veille de Noël, 1864, avec un panier de vins divers. |