And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee.
"Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the ma.n.u.scripts of G.o.d."
And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvelous tale.
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 the glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!"
HYMN TO THE NIGHT
I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o"er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet"s rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-- From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL AMERICA, 1819-1891
LONGING
Of all the myriad moods of mind That through the soul come thronging, Which one was e"er so dear, so kind, So beautiful as Longing?
The thing we long for, that we are For one transcendent moment Before the Present poor and bare Can make its sneering comment.
Still, through our paltry stir and strife, Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing molds in clay what Life Carves in the marble Real; To let the new life in, we know, Desire must ope the portal; Perhaps the longing to be so Helps make the soul immortal.
Longing is G.o.d"s fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still Content with merely living: But, would we learn that heart"s full scope Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hope And realize our longing.
Ah! let us hope that to our praise Good G.o.d not only reckons The moments when we tread His ways, But when the spirit beckons,-- That some slight good is also wrought Beyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought, Howe"er we fail in action.
THE FINDING OF THE LYRE
There lay upon the ocean"s sh.o.r.e What once a tortoise served to cover.
A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.
It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o"er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.
So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things In shape, material, and dimensions!
Give it but strings, and lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!"
So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o"er them hovered, The sh.e.l.l disdained, a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered.
O empty world that round us lies, Dead sh.e.l.l, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury"s, In thee what songs should waken!
JOHN BURROUGHS AMERICA, 1837-
WAITING[1]
Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; I rave no more "gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Or change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor s.p.a.ce, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me.
[Footnote 1: Used by courteous permission of the publishers, Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston.]
JOAQUIN MILLER AMERICA, 1841-
COLUMBUS
Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind him the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of sh.o.r.es, Before him only sh.o.r.eless seas.
The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?"
"Why, say: "Sail on! sail on! and on!""
"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak,"
The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say, at break of day, "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!""