Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;
Long have I listened to the wailing wind,
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds,
For autumn charms my melancholy mind.
When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail
Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!
Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas
The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier
These waiting mourners do not sing for me!
I find sweet peace in depths of autumn
Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—
The loss of beauty is not always loss!
MUSIC IN A CROWD.
When I hear music, whether waltz or psalm,
Among a crowd, I find myself alone;
It does not touch me with a soothing balm,
But brings an echo like a moan
From some far country where a palace rose,
In which I reigned with Cleopatra’s pride:
“Come, Charmian! bring the asp for my repose.”
And queenly, men shall say, she died.
There lived and ruled a happy, noble race,
Primeval souls who held imperial power—
My kindred, gone forever from their place,
And I am here without a dower!
They were a Vision, though. And are
These men and women, moving as in sleep,
Who, smiling, gesture to the same Ideal,
For which the music makes me weep?
Have they my longings for that other world
New to them yet? I grant that Music’s swell
Is like the sea; they may be thither hurled
By storms that thunder and compel;
Or, like those voyagers in the land of
Glide through its languid air, its languid wave,
To learn that Here and There are but two dreams,
That end in Nothing and the Grave!
“I live within the stranger’s gate.”
I live within the stranger’s gate,
And count the hours
Since God let fall the bolt of fate!
Where the waves fall on yonder shore
In cloudy spray,
And where the winds forever roar,
The pillars of a mansion stand,
Without a roof;
The saddest ruin in the land!
When sunset strikes across the sea
The wreck looms up;
Then Memory comes, and touches me.
I see a pitiful white face
Break through the mould
Decaying at the pillar’s base,
And hands that beckon me to prayer.
But I still curse,
And wake the Furies slumbering there!
In the strange drama of the Past
It was my part
To hold carousal to the last;
It was for me to hide the shame,
And brave the world
With lies about our ancient name!
I played it well, and played it long:
But let it pass,
The world has never known the ’wrong.