I.
SUCCESS.
[Published in "A Masque of Poets"at the request of "H.H.," the author'sfellow-townswoman and friend.]
Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag to-dayCan tell the definition,So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBreak, agonized and clear!
II.
Our share of night to bear,Our share of morning,Our blank in bliss to fill,Our blank in scorning.
Here a star, and there a star,Some lose their way.Here a mist, and there a mist,Afterwards -- day!
III.
ROUGE ET NOIR.
Soul, wilt thou toss again?By just such a hazardHundreds have lost, indeed,But tens have won an all.
Angels' breathless ballotLingers to record thee;Imps in eager caucusRaffle for my soul.
IV.
ROUGE GAGNE.
'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy!If I should fail, what poverty!And yet, as poor as IHave ventured all upon a throw;Have gained! Yes! Hesitated soThis side the victory!
Life is but life, and death but death!Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!And if, indeed, I fail,At least to know the worst is sweet.Defeat means nothing but defeat,No drearier can prevail!
And if I gain, -- oh, gun at sea,Oh, bells that in the steeples be,At first repeat it slow!For heaven is a different thingConjectured, and waked sudden in,And might o'erwhelm me so!
V.
Glee! The great storm is over!Four have recovered the land;Forty gone down togetherInto the boiling sand.
Ring, for the scant salvation!Toll, for the bonnie souls, --Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,Spinning upon the shoals!
How they will tell the shipwreckWhen winter shakes the door,Till the children ask, "But the forty?Did they come back no more?"
Then a silence suffuses the story,And a softness the teller's eye;And the children no further question,And only the waves reply.
VI.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain.
VII.
ALMOST!
Within my reach!I could have touched!I might have chanced that way!Soft sauntered through the village,Sauntered as soft away!So unsuspected violetsWithin the fields lie low,Too late for striving fingersThat passed, an hour ago.
VIII.
A wounded deer leaps highest,I've heard the hunter tell;'T is but the ecstasy of death,And then the brake is still.
The smitten rock that gushes,The trampled steel that springs;A cheek is always redderJust where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,In which it cautions arm,Lest anybody spy the bloodAnd "You're hurt" exclaim!
IX.
The heart asks pleasure first,And then, excuse from pain;And then, those little anodynesThat deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;And then, if it should beThe will of its Inquisitor,The liberty to die.
X.
IN A LIBRARY.
A precious, mouldering pleasure 't isTo meet an antique book,In just the dress his century wore;A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,And warming in our own,A passage back, or two, to makeTo times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind,The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,What competitions ranWhen Plato was a certainty.And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,And Beatrice woreThe gown that Dante deified.Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,As one should come to townAnd tell you all your dreams were true;He lived where dreams were sown.
His presence is enchantment,You beg him not to go;Old volumes shake their vellum headsAnd tantalize, just so.
XI.
Much madness is divinest senseTo a discerning eye;Much sense the starkest madness.'T is the majorityIn this, as all, prevails.Assent, and you are sane;Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous,And handled with a chain.XII.
I asked no other thing,No other was denied.I offered Being for it;The mighty merchant smiled.
Brazil? He twirled a button,Without a glance my way:"But, madam, is there nothing elseThat we can show to-day?"
XIII.
EXCLUSION.
The soul selects her own society,Then shuts the door;On her divine majorityObtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausingAt her low gate;Unmoved, an emperor is kneelingUpon her mat.
I've known her from an ample nationChoose one;Then close the valves of her attentionLike stone.
XIV.
THE SECRET.
Some things that fly there be, --Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be, --Grief, hills, eternity:Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.Can I expound the skies?How still the riddle lies!
XV.
THE LONELY HOUSE.
I know some lonely houses off the roadA robber 'd like the look of, --Wooden barred,And windows hanging low,Inviting toA portico,Where two could creep:One hand the tools,The other peepTo make sure all's asleep.Old-fashioned eyes,Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night,With just a clock, --But they could gag the tick,And mice won't bark;And so the walls don't tell,None will.
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir --An almanac's aware.Was it the mat winked,Or a nervous star?The moon slides down the stairTo see who's there.
There's plunder, -- where?Tankard, or spoon,Earring, or stone,A watch, some ancient broochTo match the grandmamma,Staid sleeping there.
Day rattles, too,Stealth's slow;The sun has got as farAs the third sycamore.Screams chanticleer,"Who's there?"And echoes, trains away,Sneer -- "Where?"While the old couple, just astir,Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!
XVI.
To fight aloud is very brave,But gallanter, I know,Who charge within the bosom,The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see,Who fall, and none observe,Whose dying eyes no countryRegards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession,For such the angels go,Rank after rank, with even feetAnd uniforms of snow.
XVII.
DAWN.
When night is almost done,And sunrise grows so nearThat we can touch the spaces,It 's time to smooth the hair
And get the dimples ready,And wonder we could careFor that old faded midnightThat frightened but an hour.
XVIII.
THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.
Read, sweet, how others strove,Till we are stouter;What they renounced,Till we are less afraid;How many times they boreThe faithful witness,Till we are helped,As if a kingdom cared!
Read then of faithThat shone above the fagot;Clear strains of hymnThe river could not drown;Brave names of menAnd celestial women,Passed out of recordInto renown!
XIX.
THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.
Pain has an element of blank;It cannot recollectWhen it began, or if there wereA day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,Its infinite realms containIts past, enlightened to perceiveNew periods of pain.
XX.
I taste a liquor never brewed,From tankards scooped in pearl;Not all the vats upon the RhineYield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,And debauchee of dew,Reeling, through endless summer days,From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken beeOut of the foxglove's door,When butterflies renounce their drams,I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,And saints to windows run,To see the little tipplerLeaning against the sun!
XXI.
A BOOK.
He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!
XXII.
I had no time to hate, becauseThe grave would hinder me,And life was not so ample ICould finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but sinceSome industry must be,The little toil of love, I thought,Was large enough for me.
XXIII.
UNRETURNING.
'T was such a little, little boatThat toddled down the bay!'T was such a gallant, gallant seaThat beckoned it away!
'T was such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the coast;Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!
XXIV.
Whether my bark went down at sea,Whether she met with gales,Whether to isles enchantedShe bent her docile sails;
By what mystic mooringShe is held to-day, --This is the errand of the eyeOut upon the bay.
XXV.
Belshazzar had a letter, --He never had but one;Belshazzar's correspondentConcluded and begunIn that immortal copyThe conscience of us allCan read without its glassesOn revelation's wall.
XXVI.
The brain within its grooveRuns evenly and true;But let a splinter swerve,'T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills,And scooped a turnpike for themselves,And blotted out the mills!