Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted;Out of the forest dark and dread Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted.
I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending With thunder from the passing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.
I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating;Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting.
And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow;Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow.
Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors;Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.
Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble.
Now go and write thy little rhyme, As of thine own creating.
Thou seest the day is past its prime;
I can no longer waste my time;
The mills are tired of waiting.
POSSIBILITIES
Where are the Poets, unto whom belong The Olympian heights; whose singing shafts were sent Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent, But with the utmost tension of the thong?
Where are the stately argosies of song, Whose rushing keels made music as they went Sailing in search of some new continent, With all sail set, and steady winds and strong?
Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught In schools, some graduate of the field or street, Who shall become a master of the art, An admiral sailing the high seas of thought, Fearless and first and steering with his fleet For lands not yet laid down in any chart.
DECORATION DAY
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest On this Field of the Grounded Arms, Where foes no more molest, Nor sentry's shot alarms!
Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon's sudden roar, Or the drum's redoubling beat.
But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks;Here is no fevered breath, No wound that bleeds and aches.
All is repose and peace, Untrampled lies the sod;The shouts of battle cease, It is the Truce of God!
Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
The thoughts of men shall be As sentinels to keep Your rest from danger free.
Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers;Yours has the suffering been, The memory shall be ours.
A FRAGMENT
Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait, And once departed come no more.
Awake! arise! the athlete's arm Loses its strength by too much rest;The fallow land, the untilled farm Produces only weeds at best.
LOSS AND GAIN
When I compare What I have lost with what I have gained, What I have missed with what attained, Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware How many days have been idly spent;How like an arrow the good intent Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
INSCRIPTION ON THE SHANKLIN FOUNTAIN
O traveller, stay thy weary feet;
Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet;
It flows for rich and poor the same.
Then go thy way, remembering still The wayside well beneath the hill, The cup of water in His name.
THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS
What say the Bells of San Blas To the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan?
To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shore,--Nothing more to master or man.
But to me, a dreamer of dreams, To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same,--The Bells of San Blas to me Have a strange, wild melody, And are something more than a name.
For bells are the voice of the church;
They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old;One sound to all, yet each Lends a meaning to their speech, And the meaning is manifold.
They are a voice of the Past, Of an age that is fading fast, Of a power austere and grand, When the flag of Spain unfurled Its folds o'er this western world, And the Priest was lord of the land.
The chapel that once looked down On the little seaport town Has crumbled into the dust;And on oaken beams below The bells swing to and fro, And are green with mould and rust.
"Is, then, the old faith dead,"
They say, "and in its stead Is some new faith proclaimed, That we are forced to remain Naked to sun and rain, Unsheltered and ashamed?
"Once, in our tower aloof, We rang over wall and roof Our warnings and our complaints;And round about us there The white doves filled the air, Like the white souls of the saints.
"The saints! Ah, have they grown Forgetful of their own?
Are they asleep, or dead, That open to the sky Their ruined Missions lie, No longer tenanted?
"Oh, bring us back once more The vanished days of yore, When the world with faith was filled;Bring back the fervid zeal, The hearts of fire and steel, The hands that believe and build.
"Then from our tower again We will send over land and main Our voices of command, Like exiled kings who return To their thrones, and the people learn That the Priest is lord of the land!"O Bells of San Blas in vain Ye call back the Past again;The Past is deaf to your prayer!
Out of the shadows of night The world rolls into light;It is daybreak everywhere.
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FRAGMENTS
October 22, 1838.
Neglected record of a mind neglected, Unto what "lets and stops" art thou subjected!
The day with all its toils and occupations, The night with its reflections and sensations, The future, and the present, and the past,--All I remember, feel, and hope at last, All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass,--Find but a dusty image in this glass.
August 18, 1847.
O faithful, indefatigable tides, That evermore upon God's errands go,--Now seaward bearing tidings of the land,--Now landward bearing tidings of the sea,--And filling every frith and estuary, Each arm of the great sea, each little creek, Each thread and filament of water-courses, Full with your ministration of delight!
