Life is vain, and love is hollow, Forth into the night he hurled it, How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: "Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long, – Ever to this sick heart fold him,— Be the spirit of his song? Touch not, sea, the blessed letters Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore! Swells the tide and overflows it, י! But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O, heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely III. In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden-lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Strength and wisdom only flower Hope is truth, the future giveth Nearer God from day to day." Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered roseleaf fluttered ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. I Do not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble powers; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers. Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap, Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquests o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. 207 The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, But Alexander now to Plato yields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. I watch the circle of the eternal years, And read forever in the storied page One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears, — One onward step of Truth from age to age. The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; The poet sings through narrow dungeon-grates; Man's hope lies quenched;—and, lo! with steadfast gain Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; |