Songs at the Start

Published by Good Press, 2021

goodpress@okpublishing.info

EAN 4064066183196

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AFTER THE STORM.

I.

II.

HEMLOCK RIVER.

ON ONE POET REFUSING HOMAGE TO ANOTHER.

BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW.

RESERVE.

PATRIOT CHORUS ON THE EVE OF WAR.

LO AND LU.

HER VOICE.

AN EPITAPH.

THE FALCON AND THE LILY.

BOSTON, FROM THE BRIDGE.

THE RED AND YELLOW LEAF.

“POETE MY MAISTER CHAUCER.” [A]

MOUNT AUBURN IN MAY.

AMONG THE FLAGS IN DORIC HALL, MASSACHUSETTS STATE HOUSE.

CHILD AND FLOWER.

KNIGHT FALSTAFF.

THE POET. [C]

A CRIMINAL. 1865.

ORIENT-BORN.

CHARONDAS.

CRAZY MARGARET.

TO THE WINDING CHARLES.

MY NEIGHBOR. [D]

THE SEA-GULL.

LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY.

LOVER LOQUITUR.

VITALITY.

TO THE RIVER.

THE SECOND TIME THEY MET.

ON NOT READING A POSTHUMOUS WORK. [E]

BESSY IN THE STORM.

AFTER A DUEL.

INDIFFERENCE.

THE PLEDGING.

AT GETTYSBURG.

EARLY DEATH.

MY SOPRANO.

THE CROSS ROADS.

“HEART OF GOLD.”

A JACOBITE REVIVAL.

SPRING.

ADVENTURERS.

L’ETIQUETTE.

THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.

AFTER THE STORM.

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I.

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Now that the wind is tamed and broken,

And day gleams over the lea,

Row, row, for the one you love

Was out on the raging sea:

Row, row, row,

Sturdy and brave o’er the treacherous wave,

Hope like a beacon before,

Row, sailor, row

Out to the sea from the shore!

II.

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O, the oar that was once so merry,

O, but the mournful oar!

Row, row; God steady your arm

To the dark and desolate shore:

Row, row, row,

With your own love dead, and her wet gold head

Laid there at last on your knee,

Row, sailor, row,

Back to the shore from the sea!

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HEMLOCK RIVER.

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On that river, where their will is,

Grow the tranquil-hearted lilies;

In and out, with summer cadence,

Brown o’erbrimming waters slide;

Shade is there and mossy quiet,—

O but go thou never nigh it!

Ghosts of three unhappy maidens

Float upon its bosom wide.

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ON ONE POET REFUSING HOMAGE TO ANOTHER.

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A name all read and many rue

Chanced on the idle talk of two;

I saw the listener doubt and falter

Till came the rash reproof anew.

Then on his breath arose a sigh,

And in the flashes of reply

I saw the great indignant shower

Surcharge the azure of his eye.

Said he: “’Neath our accord intense

At mutual shrines of soul and sense,

Flows, like a subterraneous river,

This last and only difference.

“Behold, I am with anguish torn

That you should name his name in scorn,

And use it as an April flower

Plucked from his grave and falsely worn:

“Thrice better his renown were not!

And he in silence lay forgot,

Than to exhale a strife unending

Should be his gentle memory’s lot.

“How can you, freedom in your reach,

Nurse your high thought on others’ speech,

And follow after brawling critics

Reiterating blame with each?

“The world’s ill judgments roll and roll

Nor touch that shy, evasive soul,

Whose every tangled hour of living

God draws to issues fair and whole.

“It grieves me less that, purely good,

His aims are darkly understood,

Than that your spirit jars unkindly

Against its golden brotherhood.

“Et tu, Brute! Where he hath flown

On kindred wing you cross the zone,

And yet for hate, thro’ lack of knowing,

Austerely misconstrue your own.

“No closer wave and wave at sea

Than he and you for grace should be;

I would endure the chains of bondage

That you might share this truth with me!

“A leaf’s light strength should break the wind,

Ere my desire, your wilful mind;

If I should waste my lips in pleading,

Or drain my heart, you still were blind,

“Still warring on the citadels

Of Truth remotely, till her bells

Rouse me, your friend, to old defiance,—

Tho’ dear you be in all things else,—

“And tho’ my hope the day-star is

Of broadening eternities,

Wherein, the shadows cleared forever,

Your cordial hand shall rest in his.”

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BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW.

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