May-Day Part 8

TERMINUS.

It is time to be old, To take in sail:-- The G.o.d of bounds, Who sets to seas a sh.o.r.e, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: 'No more!

No farther spread Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root.

Fancy departs: no more invent, Contract thy firmament To compa.s.s of a tent.

There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few.

Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot; A little while Still plan and smile, And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit.

Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,-- Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the gladiators, halt and numb.'

As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: 'Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unarmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed.'

THE PAST.

The debt is paid, The verdict said, The Furies laid, The plague is stayed, All fortunes made; Turn the key and bolt the door, Sweet is death forevermore.

Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin, Nor murdering hate, can enter in.

All is now secure and fast; Not the G.o.ds can shake the Past; Flies to the adamantine door Bolted down forevermore.

None can re-enter there, No thief so politic, No Satan with a royal trick Steal in by window, c.h.i.n.k, or hole, To bind or unbind, add what lacked, Insert a leaf, or forge a name, New-face or finish what is packed, Alter or mend eternal Fact.

THE LAST FAREWELL.

LINES WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR'S BROTHER, EDWARD BLISS EMERSON, WHILST SAILING OUT OF BOSTON HARBOUR, BOUND FOR THE ISLAND OF PORTO RICO, IN 1832.

Farewell, ye lofty spires That cheered the holy light!

Farewell, domestic fires That broke the gloom of night!

Too soon those spires are lost, Too fast we leave the bay, Too soon by ocean tost From hearth and home away, Far away, far away.

Farewell the busy town, The wealthy and the wise, Kind smile and honest frown From bright, familiar eyes.

All these are fading now; Our brig hastes on her way, Her unremembering prow Is leaping o'er the sea, Far away, far away.

Farewell, my mother fond, Too kind, too good to me; Nor pearl nor diamond Would pay my debt to thee.

But even thy kiss denies Upon my cheek to stay; The winged vessel flies, And billows round her play, Far away, far away.

Farewell, my brothers true, My betters, yet my peers; How desert without you My few and evil years!

But though aye one in heart, Together sad or gay, Rude ocean doth us part; We separate to-day, Far away, far away.

Farewell I breathe again To dim New England's sh.o.r.e; My heart shall beat not when I pant for thee no more.

In yon green palmy isle, Beneath the tropic ray, I murmur never while For thee and thine I pray; Far away, far away.

IN MEMORIAM.

E. B. E.

I mourn upon this battle-field, But not for those who perished here.

Behold the river-bank Whither the angry farmers came, In sloven dress and broken rank, Nor thought of fame.

Their deed of blood All mankind praise; Even the serene Reason says, It was well done.

The wise and simple have one glance To greet yon stern head-stone, Which more of pride than pity gave To mark the Briton's friendless grave.

Yet it is a stately tomb; The grand return Of eve and morn, The year's fresh bloom, The silver cloud, Might grace the dust that is most proud.

Yet not of these I muse In this ancestral place, But of a kindred face That never joy or hope shall here diffuse.

Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star!

What hast thou to do with these Haunting this bank's historic trees?

Thou born for n.o.blest life, For action's field, for victor's car, Thou living champion of the right?

To these their penalty belonged: I grudge not these their bed of death, But thine to thee, who never wronged The poorest that drew breath.

All inborn power that could Consist with homage to the good Flamed from his martial eye; He who seemed a soldier born, He should have the helmet worn, All friends to fend, all foes defy, Fronting foes of G.o.d and man, Frowning down the evil-doer, Battling for the weak and poor.

His from youth the leader's look Gave the law which others took, And never poor beseeching glance Shamed that sculptured countenance.

There is no record left on earth, Save in tablets of the heart, Of the rich inherent worth, Of the grace that on him shone, Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit; He could not frame a word unfit, An act unworthy to be done; Honour prompted every glance, Honour came and sat beside him, In lowly cot or painful road, And evermore the cruel G.o.d Cried, "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed.

Born for success he seemed, With grace to win, with heart to hold, With s.h.i.+ning gifts that took all eyes, With budding power in college-halls, As pledged in coming days to forge Weapons to guard the State, or scourge Tyrants despite their guards or walls.

On his young promise Beauty smiled, Drew his free homage unbeguiled, And prosperous Age held out his hand, And richly his large future planned, And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,-- All, all was given, and only health denied.

I see him with superior smile Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train In lands remote, in toil and pain, With angel patience labour on, With the high port he wore erewhile, When, foremost of the youthful band, The prizes in all lists he won; Nor bate one jot of heart or hope, And, least of all, the loyal tie Which holds to home 'neath every sky, The joy and pride the pilgrim feels In hearts which round the hearth at home Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.

What generous beliefs console The brave whom Fate denies the goal!

If others reach it, is content; To Heaven's high will his will is bent.

Firm on his heart relied, What lot soe'er betide, Work of his hand He nor repents nor grieves, Pleads for itself the fact, As unrepenting Nature leaves Her every act.

Fell the bolt on the branching oak; The rainbow of his hope was broke; No craven cry, no secret tear,-- He told no pang, he knew no fear; Its peace sublime his aspect kept, His purpose woke, his features slept; And yet between the spasms of pain His genius beamed with joy again.

O'er thy rich dust the endless smile Of Nature in thy Spanish isle Hints never loss or cruel break And sacrifice for love's dear sake, Nor mourn the unalterable Days That Genius goes and Folly stays.

What matters how, or from what ground, The freed soul its Creator found?

Alike thy memory embalms That orange-grove, that isle of palms, And these loved banks, whose oak-boughs bold Root in the blood of heroes old.

ELEMENTS.

EXPERIENCE.

The lords of life, the lords of life,-- I saw them pa.s.s, In their own guise, Like and unlike, Portly and grim,-- Use and Surprise, Surface and Dream, Succession swift and spectral Wrong, Temperament without a tongue, And the inventor of the game Omnipresent without name;-- Some to see, some to be guessed, They march from east to west: Little man, least of all, Among the legs of his guardians tall, Walked about with puzzled look.

Him by the hand dear Nature took, Dearest Nature, strong and kind, Whispered, 'Darling, never mind!

To-morrow they will wear another face, The founder thou; these are thy race!'