The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 6

At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain-top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake.

All beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies Irene, with her destinies!

O lady bright! can it be right, This window open to the night?

The wanton airs from the tree-top Laughingly through the lattice drop; The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.

O lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor; strange thy dress; Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to G.o.d that she may lie Forever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by.

My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!

Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold: Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls Of her grand family funerals; Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone; Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, It was the dead who groaned within!

E.A. POE.

BOOK SECOND.

Nature.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly rea.s.sured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more,-- So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Hebe.

I saw the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on, by sweet degrees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.

Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with G.o.dhood; like a lover I sprang the proffered life to clasp;-- The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The Earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters?

Can Summer fill the icy cup, Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?

O spendthrift haste! await the G.o.ds; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor.

J.R. LOWELL.

The Day is Done.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Ichabod.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore!