Our Willie
‘T was merry Christmas when he came,Our little boy beneath the sod;And brighter burned the Christmas flame,And merrier sped the Christmas game,Because within the house there layA shape as tiny as a fay—The Christmas gift of God!In wreaths and garlands on the wallsThe holly hung its ruby balls,The mistletoe its pearls;And a Christmas tree’s fantastic fruitsWoke laughter like a choir of flutesFrom happy boys and girls.For the mirth, which else had swelled as shrillAs a school let loose to its errant will,Was softened by the thought,That in a dim hushed room aboveA mother’s pains in a mother’s loveWere only just forgot.The jest, the tale, the toast, the glee,All took a sober tone;We spoke of the babe upstairs, as weHeld festival for him alone.When the bells rang in the Christmas morn,It scarcely seemed a sin to sayThat they rang because that babe was born,Not less than for the sacred day.Ah! Christ forgive us for the crimeWhich drowned the memories of the timeIn a merely mortal bliss!We owned the error when the mirthOf another Christmas lit the hearthOf every home but this.When, in that lonely burial-ground,With every Christmas sight and soundRemoved or shunned, we keptA mournful Christmas by the moundWhere little Willie slept!
Ah, hapless mother! darling wife!I might say nothing more,And the dull cold world would holdThe story of that precious lifeAs amply told!Shall we, shall you and I, beforeThat world’s unsympathetic eyesLay other relics from our storeOf tender memories?What could it know of the joy and loveThat throbbed and smiled and wept aboveAn unresponsive thing?And who could share the ecstatic thrillWith which we watched the upturned billOf our bird at its living spring?Shall we tell how in the time gone by,Beneath all changes of the sky,And in an ordinary homeAmid the city’s din,Life was to us a crystal dome,Our babe the flame therein?Ah! this were jargon on the mart;And though some gentle friend,And many and many a suffering heart,Would weep and comprehend,Yet even these might fail to seeWhat we saw daily in the child—Not the mere creature undefiled,But the winged cherub soon to be.That wandering hand which seemed to reachAt angel finger-tips,And that murmur like a mystic speechUpon the rosy lips,That something in the serious faceHolier than even its infant grace,And that rapt gaze on empty space,Which made us, half believing, say,“Ah, little wide-eyed seer! who knowsBut that for you this chamber glowsWith stately shapes and solemn shows?”Which touched us, too, with vague alarms,Lest in the circle of our armsWe held a being less akinTo his parents in a world of sinThan to beings not of clay:How could we speak in human phrase,Of such scarce earthly traits and ways,What would not seemA doting dream,In the creed of these sordid days?No! let us keepDeep, deep,In sorrowing heart and aching brain,This story hidden with the pain,Which since that blue October nightWhen Willie vanished from our sight,Must haunt us even in our sleep.In the gloom of the chamber where he died,And by that grave which, through our care,From Yule to Yule of every year,Is made like Spring to bloom;And where, at times, we catch the sighAs of an angel floating nigh,Who longs but has not power to tellThat in that violet-shrouded cellLies nothing better than the shellWhich he had cast aside—By that sweet grave, in that dark room,We may weave at will for each other’s ear,Of that life, and that love, and that early doom,The tale which is shadowed here:To us alone it will always beAs fresh as our own misery;But enough, alas! for the world is said,In the brief “Here lieth” of the dead!
Address Delivered at the Opening of the New Theatre at Richmond
A Prize Poem
A fairy ringDrawn in the crimson of a battle-plain—From whose weird circle every loathsome thingAnd sight and sound of painAre banished, while about it in the air,And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies,Throng, in a vision fairAs ever lit a prophet’s dying eyes,Gleams of that unseen worldThat lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapesWith starry wings unfurled,Poised for a moment on such airy capesAs pierce the golden foamOf sunset’s silent main—Would image what in this enchanted dome,Amid the night of war and deathIn which the armèd city draws its breath,We have built up!For though no wizard wand or magic cupThe spell hath wrought,Within this charmëd fane, we ope the gatesOf that divinest Fairy-land,Where under loftier fatesThan rule the vulgar earth on which we stand,Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.Shut for one happy evening from the floodThat roars around us, here you may behold—As if a desert wayCould blossom and unfoldA garden fresh with May—Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood,Souls that upon the poet’s pageHave lived from age to age,And yet have never donned this mortal clay.A golden strandShall sometimes spread before you like the isleWhere fair Miranda’s smileMet the sweet stranger whom the father’s artHad led unto her heart,Which, like a bud that waited for the light,Burst into bloom at sight!Love shall grow softer in each maiden’s eyesAs Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand,And prattles to the night.Anon, a reverend form,With tattered robe and forehead bare,That challenge all the torments of the air,Goes by!And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh,While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hearThe noble wreck of LearReproach like things of life the ancient skies,And commune with the storm!Lo! next a dim and silent chamber where,Wrapt in glad dreams in which, perchance, the MoorTells his strange story o’er,The gentle Desdemona chastely lies,Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh.Then through a hush like deathStalks Denmark’s mailëd ghost!And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breathWhich is the trumpet to a countless hostOf reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep;For while it calls to strife,He pauses on the very brink of factTo toy as with the shadow of an act,And utter those wise saws that cut so deepInto the core of life!
Nor shall be wanting many a sceneWhere forms of more familiar mien,Moving through lowlier pathways, shall presentThe world of every day,Such as it whirls along the busy quay,Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall,Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall,Or toils in attics dark the night away.Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet,As in the round wherein our lives are pent;Chance for a while shall seem to reign,While Goodness roves like Guilt about the street,And Guilt looks innocent.But all at last shall vindicate the right,Crime shall be meted with its proper pain,Motes shall be taken from the doubter’s sight,And Fortune’s general justice rendered plain.Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth,Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet,Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth,Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet.As sometimes from the meanest spot of earthA sudden beauty unexpected starts,So you shall find some germs of hidden worthWithin the vilest hearts;And now and then, when in those moods that turnTo the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers,You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learnYou’ve struck a spring of tears!
But while we lead you thus from change to change,Shall we not find within our ample rangeSome type to elevate a people’s heart—Some hero who shall teach a hero’s partIn this distracted time?Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell!And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice,As if across the billows unenthralledThy Alps unto the Alleghanies called,Bid Liberty rejoice!Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strandThe deeds which, more than their own awful mien,Make every crag of Switzerland sublime!And say to those whose feeble souls would lean,Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand,That once a single mind sufficed to quellThe malice of a tyrant; let them knowThat each may crowd in every well-aimed blow,Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand,But the whole spirit of a mighty land!
Bid Liberty rejoice! Aye, though its dayBe far or near, these clouds shall yet be redWith the large promise of the coming ray.Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smileAmid the terrors of the wildest fray,Let us among the charms of Art awhileFleet the deep gloom away;Nor yet forget that on each hand and headRest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.