SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Large desires, with most uncertain issues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. FLOWERS. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; In all places, then, and in all seasons, And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, But, when the old cathedral bell THE BELEAGUERED CITY. Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. |