Part 50 (1/2)
Orpheus, through the h.e.l.lward wood Hurried, ere the eve-star glowed, For the fauns' lugubrious hoots Followed, hollow, from crooked roots; Aeschylus, where Aetna smoked, G.o.ds of Sicily evoked With the flute, till sulphur taint Dulled and lulled the echoes faint; Pliny, soon his style mislaid, Dogged Miletus' merry maid, As she showed eburnean limbs All-multiplied by brooklet brims; Plautus, see! like Plutus, hold Bosomfuls of orchard-gold, Learns he why that mystic core Was sweet Venus' meed of yore?
Dante dreamt (while spirits pa.s.s As in wizard's jetty gla.s.s) Each black-bossed Briarian trunk Waved live arms like furies drunk; Winsome Will, 'neath Windsor Oak, Eyed each elf that cracked a joke At poor panting grease-hart fast-- Obese, roguish Jack hara.s.sed; At Versailles, Moliere did court Cues from Pan (in heron port, Half in ooze, half treeward raised), ”Words so witty, that Boileau's 'mazed!”
Foliage! fondly you attract!
Dian's faith I keep intact, And declare that thy dryads dance Still, and will, in thy green expanse!
SHOOTING STARS.
[FOR MY LITTLE CHILD ONLY.]
_(”Tas de feux tombants.”)_
[Bk. III. vii.]
See the scintillating shower!
Like a burst from golden mine-- Incandescent coals that pour From the incense-bowl divine, And around us dewdrops, shaken, Mirror each a twinkling ray 'Twixt the flowers that awaken In this glory great as day.
Mists and fogs all vanish fleetly; And the birds begin to sing, Whilst the rain is murm'ring sweetly As if angels echoing.
And, methinks, to show she's grateful For this seed from heaven come, Earth is holding up a plateful Of the birds and buds a-bloom!
L'ANNeE TERRIBLE.
TO LITTLE JEANNE.
_(”Vous eutes donc hier un an.”)_
[September, 1870.]
You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild, New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow.
Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand Whose pictures please you--while I trembling stand To see their big leaves tattered by your hand-- Are n.o.ble lines; but nothing half your worth, When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth To welcome me. No work of author wise Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, Regarding man with all the boundless range Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear That G.o.d's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here.
Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven When man no shadow feels: if fond caress Round parent twines, children the world possess.
Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove; No wider range of view your heart can take Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; They two alone on this your opening hour Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: They two--none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I, Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by.
You come--I go: though gloom alone my right, Blest be the destiny which gives you light.
Your fair-haired brother George and you beside Me play--in watching you is all my pride; And all I ask--by countless sorrows tried-- The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow.