Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four
I hear no footfall beating through the dark,A lonely gust is loitering at the pane;There is no sound within these forests starkBeyond a splash or two of sullen rain;
But you are with us! and our patient landIs filled with long-expected change at last,Though we have scarce the heart to lift a handOf welcome, after all the yearning past!
Ah! marvel not; the days and nights were longAnd cold and dull and dashed with many tears;And lately there hath been a doleful song,Of “Mene, Mene,” in our restless ears!
Indeed, we’ve said, “The royal son of Time,Whose feet will shortly cross our threshold floor,May lead us to those outer heights sublimeOur Sires have sold their lives to see before!
We’ll follow him! Beyond the waves and wrecksOf years fulfilled, some fine results must lie;We’ll pass the last of all wild things that vexThe pale, sad face of our Humanity!”
But now our fainting feet are loth to strayFrom trodden paths; our eyes with pain are blind!We’ve lost fair treasures by the weary way;We cry, like children, to be left behind.
Our human speech is dim. Yet, latest bornOf God’s Eternity, there came to me,In saddened streets last week, from lips forlornA sound more solemn than the sleepless sea!
O, Rachael! Rachael! We have heard the criesIn Rama, stranger, o’er our darling dead;And seen our mothers with the heavy eyes,Who would not hearken to be comforted!
Then lead us gently! It must come to passThat some of us shall halt and faint and fall;For we are looking through a darkened glass,And Heaven seems far, and faith grows cold and pale.
I know, for one, I need a subtle strengthI have not yet to hold me from a fall;What time I cry to God within the lengthOf weary hours; my face against the wall!
My mourning brothers! in the long, still nights,When sleep is wilful, and the lone moon shines,Bethink you of the silent, silver lights,And darks with Death amongst the moody pines!
Then, though you cannot shut a stricken faceAway from you, this hope will come aboutThat Christ hath sent again throughout the placeSome signs of Love to worst and weaken doubt.
So you may find in every afterthoughtA peace beyond your best expression dear;And haply hearken to the Voice which wroughtSuch strength in Peter on the seas of fear!
To—
Ah, often do I wait and watch,And look up, straining through the RealWith longing eyes, my friend, to catchFaint glimpses of your white Ideal.
I know she loved to rest her feetBy slumbrous seas and hidden strand;But mostly hints of her I meetOn moony spots of mountain land.
I’ve never reached her shining place,And only cross at times a gleam;As one might pass a fleeting faceJust on the outside of a Dream.
But you may climb, her happy Choice!She knows your step, the maiden true,And ever when she hears your voice,She turns and sits and waits for you.
How sweet to rest on breezy crestWith such a Love, what time the MornLooks from his halls of rosy rest,Across green miles of gleaming corn!
How sweet to find a leafy nook,When bees are out, and Day burns mute,Where you may hear a passion’d brookPlay past you, like a mellow flute!
Or, turning from the sunken sun,On fields of dim delight to lie—To close your eyes and muse uponThe twilight’s strange divinity!
Or through the Night’s mysterious noon,While Sound lies hushed among the trees,To sit and watch a mirror’d moonFloat over silver-sleeping seas!
Oh, vain regret! why should I stayTo think and dream of joys unknown?You walk with her from day to day,I faint afar off—and alone.