  The Dawn that ’woke this train of songs—each simple lay— The lowering, then, and stirring hours, Have ’cross those dim fields passed away, Where History, gathering ghostly flowers, Erst flush with life, now chill and gray, Would bind them fair, their story tell, The silent bloom Death loves so well; Nay, haply show, how from their seed, What large effects may leveling breed. That Dawn has sped—trite Day knows all; The roistering winds that ravening blew Have ceased their brawl, Mad sport that drew War’s winged hounds, and harpies flew, Fanned foul the airs and thicked their breath, Each heave at bouts with throttling Death. While from the din there rose, I thought, Brave strains of man no fear might toss: If, echoing these, a few I wrought Into rude posies, strove to cross Their wildness with the rose of art,— Ah! they were such slips as throws the heart, Grafts tongue on thought; here grew to breathe Those clear-felt notes not theirs to choose. Which, humbly, while their love did wreathe A passioned chaplet for the Muse; Did they, to match her large faith there, To vie the crown she auguring bear, Not weave as well, to extol her sooth, A sister garland for the Truth? |
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