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XIV.
There is no sadness here. Oh, that my heart Were calm and peaceful as these dreamy groves!
That all my hopes and pa.s.sions, and deep loves, Could sit in such an atmosphere of peace, Where no unholy impulses would start Responsive to the throes that never cease To keep my spirit in such wild unrest.
'Tis only in the struggling human breast That the true sorrow lives. Our fruitful joys Have stony kernels hidden in their core.
Life in a myriad phases pa.s.seth here, And death as various--an equal poise; Yet all is but a solemn change--no more; And not a sound save joy pervades the atmosphere.
{176}
XV.
Last night I heard the plaintive whippoorwill, And straightway Sorrow shot his swiftest dart.
I know not why, but it has chilled my heart Like some dread thing of evil. All night long My nerves were shaken, and my pulse stood still, And waited for a terror yet to come To strike harsh discords through my life's sweet song.
Sleep came--an incubus that filled the sum Of wretchedness with dreams so wild and chill The sweat oozed from me like great drops of gall; An evil spirit kept my mind in thrall, And rolled my body up like a poor scroll On which is written curses that the soul Shrinks back from when it sees some h.e.l.lish carnival.
{177}
XVI.
My footsteps press where, centuries ago, The Red Men fought and conquered; lost and won.
Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow, Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run The fiery gauntlet of their active days, Till few are left to tell the mournful tale: And these inspire us with such wild amaze They seem like spectres pa.s.sing down a vale Steeped in uncertain moonlight, on their way Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day, And night is wrapped in mystery profound.
We cannot lift the mantle of the past: We seem to wander over hallowed ground: We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast.
{178}
XVII.
THERE WAS A TIME--and that is all we know!
No record lives of their ensanguined deeds: The past seems palsied with some giant blow, And grows the more obscure on what it feeds.
A rotted fragment of a human leaf; A few stray skulls; a heap of human bones!
These are the records--the traditions brief-- 'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones.
The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force, Striking white terror to the hearts of braves!
The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course, Compact and steady as the ocean waves!
The stately Chippewas, a warrior host!
Who were they?--Whence?--And why? no human tongue can boast!
{179}
XVIII.
I do not wonder that the Druids built Their sacred altars in the sacred groves.
Fit place to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d. The native guilt Of our poor weak humanity behoves That we should set aside no little part Of the devotion of the yearning heart To rest and peace, as typical of that Sweet tranquil rest to which the good aspire.
Calm thoughts are as the purifying fire That burns the useless dross from life's mixed gold, And lights the torch of mind. While grasping at The shadow for the substance, youth grows old, And groves of palm spring up in every heart-- Temples to G.o.d, wherein we pray and sit apart.
{180}
XIX.
How my heart yearns towards my friends at home!
Poor suffering souls, whose lives are like the trees, Bent, crushed, and broken in the storm of life!
A whirlwind of existence seems to roam Through some poor hearts continually. These Have neither rest nor pause; one day is rife With tempest, and another dashed with gloom; And the few rays of light that might illume Their th.o.r.n.y path are drenched with tearful rain.
Yet these pure souls live not their lives in vain; For they become as spiritual guides And lights to others; rising with the tides Of their full being into higher spheres, Brighter and brighter still through all the coming years.
{181}
XX.
I sat within the temple of her heart, And watched the living Soul as it pa.s.sed through, Arrayed in pearly vestments, white and pure.
The calm, immortal Presence made me start.
It searched through all the chambers of her mind With one mild glance of love, and smiled to view The fastnesses of feeling, strong--secure, And safe from all surprise. It sits enshrined And offers incense in her heart, as on An altar sacred unto G.o.d. The dawn Of an imperishable love pa.s.sed through The lattice of my senses, and I, too, Did offer incense in that solemn place-- A woman's heart made pure and sanctified by Grace.
{182}
XXI.
Intense young soul, that takest hearts by storm, And chills them into sorrow with a look!
Some minds are open as a well-read book; But here the leaves are still uncut--unscanned, The volume clasped and sealed, and all the warm And pa.s.sionate exuberance of love Held in submission to these threadbare flaws And creeds of weaknesses, poor human laws.
Stand up erect--nay kneel--for from above G.o.d's light is streaming on thee. Fas.h.i.+on's daws May fawn and natter like a cringing pack Of servile hounds beneath the keeper's hand, But these are not thy peers; they drive thee back: Urge on the car of Thought, and take a higher stand!
{183}
XXII.
Dark, dismal day--the first of many such!
The wind is sighing through the plaintive trees, In fitful gusts of a half-frenzied woe; Affrighted clouds the hand might almost touch, Their black wings bend so mournfully and low, Sweep through the skies like night-winds o'er the seas.
There is no chirp of bird through all the grove, Save that of the young fledgeling rudely flung From its warm nest; and like the clouds above My soul is dark, and restless as the breeze That leaps and dances over Couchiching.
