Divine Adventures Part 7

O! if our hearts have sweeter balm than tears, It is the call that kissed thy dreaming ears.

TO MY LOVE

I can not say how much I love thee, words, Like wearied petrels, fall on sh.o.r.eless seas.

But O! I love thee! Simple words of these Float on the stormy soul, like halcyon birds, With speechless calm. A golden zone engirds The thee and me in worlds of nameless ease, And promise fairer far than aeetes'.

No clouds there tempest tost, but phantom herds Of golden fleece feed in the fields of blue, And sunny harbors lull the freighted s.h.i.+ps Of tender song, the while thine hero woo, For aye sweet message from thine honeyed lips; Or catch some music from thy spheres above thee,-- A song of songs to tell how dear I love thee.

THE STORM KING

The storm-king playeth his organ tonight-- O! weep for the mortals that heareth at sea!

The King of the storm! What G.o.d in his might, May still the dread music, or silence the key?

The lightning, the thunder, the rain, and the blast-- How he driveth each note to its ultimate goal!

And the roll of dead worlds in the infinite vast, How they roll in his soul, in his madness of soul!

The lightning, the thunder, the blast, and the rain-- How he playeth each note for its ultimate soul!

'Til his caverns great center grows blacker again, With the deep where his musics great nebulas roll!

And grandeur, mad grandeur, the sweep of his song, The raging and lurid storm grandeur of night, Till the Souls of the Ages, to him but a throng, Of beetling black nebula, crash in their flight.

How he laugheth, and laugheth, this maddest of Kings!

How he rageth, and rendeth his organ a.s.sunder!

Now soaring, now cras.h.i.+ng to nethermost springs-- The maddest of music but never a blunder.

For he smiteth the sea, and he teareth the land, And never a prayer but he laugheth to scorn!

A King and a G.o.d--should he render less grand For sake of the ghoul haunted beeches of morn?

THE BIRTH OF FANCY

I dreamed, and ah! the dream was sweeter far, Than any dream of cloud-born poet ever; Or love-lorn maiden praying to a star On Agne's Eve. I thought a glorious quiver, Of ecstasy was trembling, full with tears, Deep in the eyes of a maternal thought, And Time, beyond the outposts of the years, Was hushed expectant, all of wonder fraught.

For Fancy cradled in a golden cloud Had risen in a dream of boundless glory,-- While on his brow his soul had overflowed, And swiftly scaled a purple promontory.

Then back again, in speed as dreamy fleet, And laid a snow-white feather at my feet.

DESPAIR

Alas! so sick at heart! My lips are dumb.

Dull inquisition racks the aching brain.

I work no more, but fight the growing pain Of losing hours. Night of heart! No moonbeams come To bring thee twilight. Still, ah! still the hum Of artless industry--the spirit's chain That binds for life sake. Still the fight for gain That binds it to th' arena, pale and numb.

And I that hoped to do so much indeed, To clear a path in spite of time and room, To sing a song, ah! now I faint, I bleed, A conquered victim. See the conqueror loom, A careless frown and sword his only creed,-- And watching close the turning thumb of doom.

THE MAGAZINES

If Orpheus came to Maga with a song As sad as tongueless sorrow dying, So sweet the weeping world should throng To hear the strain, but come not flying The Maga pennant, una.s.sailable, Then faith! the song were not available.

If Orpheus, singing in the lonely hills, Should charm the world to raptured wonder, And Maga came in wraps and frills, And dainty tears, to cry his blunder.

Then faith! the world might wait laconical, If Maga readjust his monicle.

But if perchance the G.o.dly singer, Should pa.s.s, like bitter grief with time.

What Ho! The dandy crooks his finger, And menials bring each Orphean rhime.

And Maga's bards, and Maga's sages, Write epitaphs on tombs of pages.

THE SPHINX

Beside the falls of ancient walls, And golden Halls, Entomb'd forever, On lonely sands, with phantom bands, A figure stands, Called never, never.

Her eyes are green, as em'rald sheen, With glories seen, In distant ages; As dongon keep, her eyes are deep, And there asleep, Enchanted Mages.

A thousand years of hopes and fears, With dying cheers, Her cohort only.

A thousand miles of vanished piles, Of olden whiles Her Empire lonely.

From night to morn of glory shorn, She stands forlorn, Her only glory.

From sun to frost, a night uncrossed, Forever lost, An endless story.

A Sh.e.l.l

Full wondrous wrought, and pa.s.sing strange, Of many a sea-born tint-- Some old and deathless work of change, For fairy wonderment.

But what of that strange elfin sprite, That in this rainbow hall Once moved? What woe, or what delight, Did make its all in all?

How roamed it through the scenery?

Of ocean's old expanse?