Into the darkness and the deeps
My thoughts have strayed, where silence dwells,
Where the old world encrypted sleeps,—
Myriads of forms, in myriad cells,
Of dead and inorganic things,
That neither live, nor move, nor grow,
Nor any change of atoms know;
That have neither legs, nor arms, nor wings,
That have neither heads, nor mouths, nor stings,
That have neither roots, nor leaves, nor stems,
To hold up flowers like diadems,
Growing out of the ground below:
But which hold instead
The cycles dead,
And out of their stony and gloomy folds
Shape out new moulds
For a new race begun;
Shutting within dark pages, furled
As in a vast herbarium,
The flowers and balms,
The pines and palms,
The ferns and cones,
All turned to stones
Of all the unknown elder world,
As in a wonderful museum,
Ranged in its myriad mummy shelves.
Insects and worms,—
All lower forms
Of fin and scale,
Of gnat and whale,
Fish, bird, and the monstrous mastodon,
The fabulous megatherium,
And men themselves.

Ah, what life is here compressed,
Frozen into endless rest!
Down through springing blades and spires,
Down through mines, and crypts, and caves,
Still graves on graves, and graves on graves,
Down to earth's most central fires.

The morning stars sang at their birth,
In the first beginnings of time.
What voice of dolour or of mirth
At their last funeral made moan,—
Ashes to ashes—earth to earth,
And stone to stone,—
Chanting the liturgy sublime.

What matter,—in that doom's-day book
Their place is fixed—their names are writ,
Each in its individual nook,—
God's eye beholds—remembers it.

When the slow-moving centuries
Have lapsed in the former eternities,—
When the day is come which we see not yet,—
When the sea gives up its dead—
And the thrones are set,
These books shall be opened and read!

WRITTEN IN A CEMETERY.

Stay yet awhile, oh flowers!—oh wandering grasses,
And creeping ferns, and climbing, clinging vines;—
Bend down and cover with lush odorous masses
My darling's couch, where he in sleep reclines.

Stay yet awhile;—let not the chill October
Plant spires of glinting frost about his bed;
Nor shower her faded leaves, so brown and sober,
Among the tuberoses above his head.

I would have all things fair, and sweet, and tender,—
The daisy's pearl, the cowslip's shield of snow,
And fragrant hyacinths in purple splendour,
About my darling's grassy couch to grow.

Oh birds!—small pilgrims of the summer weather,
Come hither, for my darling loved ye well;—
Here floats the thistle down for you to gather,
And bearded grasses ripen in the dell.

Here pipe, and plume your wings, and chirp and flutter,
And swing, light-poised upon the pendant bough;—
Fondly I deem he hears the calls ye utter,
And stirs in his light sleep to answer you.

Oh wind!—that blows through hours of nights and lonely,
Oh rain!—that sobs against my window pane,—
Ye beat upon my heart, which beats but only
To clasp and shelter my lost lamb again.

Peace—peace, my soul:—I know that in another
And brighter land my darling walks and waits,
Where we shall surely meet and clasp each other,
Beyond the threshold of the shining gates.

MARGUERITE

Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!
Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet,
Framed in the pale gold of thy hair,
Thy face is like an angel's fair,
Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!

Tender curves of cheek and lips—
Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse—
Pale robes flowing to thy feet—
Folded hands that lightly meet,—
Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!

Sleep'st thou still?—the world awakes,—
Still the echo swells and breaks,—
Over field, and wood, and street
Easter anthems throb and beat,—
Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!

Christ the Lord is risen again,—
Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,—
Have those gentle lips no breath,
Smiling in the trance of death?—
Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!

In the grave from whence He rose,
Lay thee to thy long repose,—
Sweet with myrrh and spices,—sweet
With the footprints of His feet,—
Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!

Where His sacred head hath lain,
Thine may rest, secure from pain.
While the circling years go round,
Without motion,—without sound,—
Marguerite,—oh Marguerite!

THE WATCH-LIGHT.

Above the roofs and chimney-tops,
And through the slow November rain,
A light from some far attic pane,
Shines twinkling through the water-drops.

Some lonely watcher waits and weeps,
Like me, the step that comes not yet;—
Her watch for weary hours is set,
While far below the city sleeps.

The level lamp-rays lay the floors,
And bridge the dark that lies below,
O'er which my fancies come and go,
And peep, and listen at the doors;

And bring me word how sweet and plain,
And quaint the lonely attic room,
Where she sits singing in the gloom,
Words sadder than the autumn rain.

A thousand times by sea and shore,
In my wild dreams I see him lie,
With face upturned toward the sky,
Murdered, and stiffening in his gore;—

Or drowned, and floating with the tide,
Within some lonely midnight bay,—
His arms stretched toward me where he lay,
And blue eyes staring, fixed and wide.

Oh winds that rove o'er land and sea!
Oh waves that lap the yellow sands!
Oh hide your stealthy, treacherous hands,
And call no more his name to me.'—

Thus much I heard,—and unawares,
The sense of pity stole away
My loneliness and misery,—
When lo, a light step on the stairs!—

Ah joy!—the step that brings my own,
Safe from all harms and dangers in;—
My heart lifts up its thankful hymn,
And bids' good-night to night and moan.

I sleep,—I rest,—and I forget
The bridge-the night-lamp's level beams,
Till waking out of happy dreams,
I see her watch-light shining yet.

God comfort those that watch in vain,—
I breathe to Him my voiceless prayer;
Pity their tears and their despair,
And bring the wanderers home again,

NEW YEAR, 1868.

Cradled in ice, and swathed in snows,
And shining like a Christmas rose,
Wreathed round with white chrysanthemums;
Heaven in his innocent, brave blue eyes,
Straight from the primal paradise,
Behold the infant New Year comes!

His looks a serious sweetness wear,
As if upon that unseen way,
Those baby hands that lightly bear
Garlands, and festive tokens gay,
For but a glance,—a touch sufficed,—
Had met and touched the infant Christ!

And lingering on the wing, had heard,
Sweeter than song of any bird,
Of cherub or of seraphim,
The notes of that divinest hymn,—
Glory to God in highest strain,
And peace on earth, good will to men.

Oh, diamond days, so royally set
In winter's stern and rugged breast,
Like jewels in an amulet,—
Your light has cheered, and soothed, and blest,
The want and toil, the sighs and tears,
And sorrows-of a thousand years!

The bells ring in the merry morn,
The poor forget their poverty,
The saddest face grows bright with glee,
And smiles for joy that he is born;
The fair round world shines out with cheer,
To welcome in the glad New Year.

Oh ye, whose homes are warm and bright,
With plenty smiling at the board,
Remember those whose roofs to-night,
Nor warmth, nor light, nor food afford,
Still make those wants, and woes your care,
And let the poor your bounty share.

For yet our hills and lakes along
Echoes the herald angels' song,—
Peace and good will!—oh look abroad,—
In every nation, tribe, and clan,
Behold the brotherhood of man,—
Behold the Fatherhood of God!

Peace to our mountains and our hills,—
Peace to our rivers and our rills;—
Our young Dominion takes her place
Among the nations west and east,—
God send her length of happy days,
And years of plenty and of peace!