And yet we "ve sometimes found it rather pleasant To dream again the scenes that Shakespeare drew,-- To walk the hill-side with the Scottish peasant Among the daisies wet with morning"s dew;
To leave awhile the daylight of the real, Led by the guidance of the master"s hand, For the strange radiance of the far ideal,-- "The light that never was on sea or land."
Well, Time alone can lift the future"s curtain,-- Science may teach our children all she knows, But Love will kindle fresh young hearts, "t is certain, And June will not forget her blushing rose.
And so, in spite of all that Time is bringing,-- Treasures of truth and miracles of art, Beauty and Love will keep the poet singing, And song still live, the science of the heart.
IN RESPONSE
Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, May, 1879.
SUCH kindness! the scowl of a cynic would soften, His pulse beat its way to some eloquent words, Alas! my poor accents have echoed too often, Like that Pinafore music you"ve some of you heard.
Do you know me, dear strangers--the hundredth time comer At banquets and feasts since the days of my Spring?
Ah! would I could borrow one rose of my Summer, But this is a leaf of my Autumn I bring.
I look at your faces,--I"m sure there are some from The three-breasted mother I count as my own; You think you remember the place you have come from, But how it has changed in the years that have flown!
Unaltered, "t is true, is the hall we call "Funnel,"
Still fights the "Old South" in the battle for life, But we"ve opened our door to the West through the tunnel, And we"ve cut off Fort Hill with our Amazon knife.
You should see the new Westminster Boston has builded,-- Its mansions, its spires, its museums of arts,-- You should see the great dome we have gorgeously gilded,-- "T is the light of our eyes, "t is the joy of our hearts.
When first in his path a young asteroid found it, As he sailed through the skies with the stars in his wake, He thought "t was the sun, and kept circling around it Till Edison signalled, "You"ve made a mistake."
We are proud of our city,--her fast-growing figure, The warp and the woof of her brain and her hands,-- But we"re proudest of all that her heart has grown bigger, And warms with fresh blood as her girdle expands.
One lesson the rubric of conflict has taught her Though parted awhile by war"s earth-rending shock, The lines that divide us are written in water, The love that unites us cut deep in the rock.
As well might the Judas of treason endeavor To write his black name on the disk of the sun As try the bright star-wreath that binds us to sever And blot the fair legend of "Many in One."
We love You, tall sister, the stately, the splendid,-- The banner of empire floats high on your towers, Yet ever in welcome your arms are extended,-- We share in your splendors, your glory is ours.
Yes, Queen of the Continent! All of us own thee,-- The gold-freighted argosies flock at thy call, The naiads, the sea-nymphs have met to enthrone thee, But the Broadway of one is the Highway of all!
I thank you. Three words that can hardly be mended, Though phrases on phrases their eloquence pile, If you hear the heart"s throb with their eloquence blended, And read all they mean in a sunshiny smile.
FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION
MAY 28, 1879.
ENCHANTER of Erin, whose magic has bound us, Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim, Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us That blush into life at the sound of thy name.
The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers,-- I hear the old song with its tender refrain,-- What pa.s.sion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain!
The home of my childhood comes back as a vision,-- Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room,-- "T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian,-- The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom,--
We are cl.u.s.tered around the "Clementi" piano,-- There were six of us then,--there are two of us now,-- She is singing--the girl with the silver soprano-- How "The Lord of the Valley" was false to his vow;
"Let Erin remember" the echoes are calling; Through "The Vale of Avoca" the waters are rolled; "The Exile" laments while the night-dews falling; "The Morning of Life" dawns again as of old.
But ah! those warm love-songs of fresh adolescence!
Around us such raptures celestial they flung That it seemed as if Paradise breathed its quintessence Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung!
Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred, Yet still with their music is memory haunted, And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard.
I feel like the priest to his altar returning,-- The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there, The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning, And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air.
II.
The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor, And Spring the last tear-drop of May-dew is leaving On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore.
How like, how unlike, as we view them together, The song of the minstrels whose record we scan,-- One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather, One sweet as the breath from an odalisque"s fan!
Ah, pa.s.sion can glow mid a palace"s splendor; The cage does not alter the song of the bird; And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard.
No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered Graces Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest, For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces, Beats time with the pulse in the peasant girl"s breast!
Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature"s bestowing!
Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold; Alike, when its musical waters are flowing, The sh.e.l.l from the seaside, the chalice of gold.
The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened; Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty"s shrine; For Coila"s loved minstrel the holly-wreath glistened; For Erin"s the rose and the myrtle entwine.
And while the fresh blossoms of summer are braided For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jewelled isle, While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded, While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile,
The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted, Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the sh.o.r.e, The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted, Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore!
TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE
APRIL 4, 1880
I BRING the simplest pledge of love, Friend of my earlier days; Mine is the hand without the glove, The heart-beat, not the phrase.
How few still breathe this mortal air We called by school-boy names!
You still, whatever robe you wear, To me are always James.