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| Bayard Taylor
"The Prophet's words were true;
The mouth of Ali is the golden door
Of Wisdom."
When his friends to Ali bore
These words, he smiled and said: "And should they ask
The same until my dying day, the task
Were easy; for the stream from Wisdom's well,
Which God supplies, is inexhaustible."A waft from the roadside bank
Tells where the wild rose nods.Alone each heart must cover up its dead;
Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.Ancient Pines,
Ye bear no record of the years of man.
Spring is your sole historian.And far and wide, in a scarlet tide,
The poppy's bonfire spread.And half in shade and half in sun;
The Rose sat in her bower,
With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart.And rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds,
Is one with Prayer.And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.And yonder fly his scattered golden arrows,
And smite the hills with day.Around the pillars of the palm-tree bower
The orchids cling, in rose and purple spheres;
Shield-broad the lily floats; the aloe flower
Foredates its hundred years.Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance,
Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air,
Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the forests,
Seats of the gods in the limitless ether,
Looming sublimely aloft and afar.Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent,
To give consoling music for the joys
We lack, and not for those which we possess.But still I dream that somewhere there must be
The spirit of a child that waits for me.But who will watch my lilies,
When their blossoms open white?
By day the sun shall be sentry,
And the moon and the stars by night!By Wisdom wealth is won;
But riches purchased wisdom yet for none.Dead is the air, and still! the leaves of the locust and walnut
Lazily hand from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines
Rather on space than the sky,--on a tideless expansion of slumber.Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few,
And soon the grassy coverlet of God
Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.Each separate star
Seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars
Break up the Night, and make it beautiful.Eccentricity is developed monomania.Fame is what you have taken,
Character's what you give;
When to this truth you waken,
Then you begin to live.For life lives only in success.For love's humility is Love's true pride.From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. He teaches best,
Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast,
And knows their strength or weakness through his own.Higher than the perfect song
For which love longeth,
Is the tender fear of wrong,
That never wrongeth.I know I am--that simplest bliss
The millions of my brothers miss.
I know the fortune to be born,
Even to the meanest wretch they scorn.I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!Knowledge alone is the being of Nature,
Giving a soul to her manifold features,
Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness,
The footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song.Learn to live, and live to learn,
Ignorance like a fire doth burn,
Little tasks make large return.Love is better than Fame.Love's history, as Life's, is ended not
By marriage.Mysterious Flood,--that through the silent sands
Hast wandered, century on century,
Watering the length of great Egyptian lands,
Which were not, but for thee.Next to thee, O fair gazelle,
O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;
Next to the fearless Nedjidee,
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;
Next to ye both I love the Palm,
With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;
Next to ye both I love the Tree
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three
With love, and silence, and mystery!Not many but good books.Now the frosty stars are gone:
I have watched them one by one,
Fading on the shores of Dawn.
Round and full the glorious sun
Walks with level step the spray,
Through his vestibule of Day.Our life is scarce the twinkle of a star
In God's eternal day.Pansies in soft April rains
Fill their stalks with honeyed sap
Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.Pardon, not wrath, is God's best attribute.Peace the offspring is of Power.Primrose-eyes each morning ope
In their cool, deep beds of grass;
Violets make the air that pass
Tell-tales of their fragrant slope.Shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle
Such are the sea-fruits lasses love:
Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle,
And the shutterless cottages gleam above!Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,--
The loving are the daring.Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather
Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams;
Somewhere above us, in elusive ether,
Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams.Stately Pines,
But few more years around the promontory
Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea.The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks
A scarlet rain; the yellow violet
Sat in the chariot of its leaves, the phlox
Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet,
And all the streams with vernal-scented reed
Were fringed, and streaky bellow of miskodeed.The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.The hearts that dare are quick to feel;
The hands that wound are soft to heal.The hollows are heavy and dank
With the steam of the Goldenrods.The loving are the daring.The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one,
In the slow process of the doubtful years.The woods appear
With crimson blotches deeply dashed and crossed,--
Sign of the fatal pestilence of Frost.There may come a day
Which crowns Desire with gift, and Art with truth,
And Love with bliss, and Life with wiser youth!There's a pang in all rejoicing,
And a joy in the heart of pain;
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.They sang of love and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold.To Truth's house there is a single door, which is experience.Twas glory once to be a Roman;
She makes it glory, now, to be a man.We follow and race
In shifting chase,
Over the boundless ocean-space!
Who hath beheld when the race begun?
Who shall behold it run?When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox
His torch of purple fire:
. . . .
And when the punctual May arrives,
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our lives,
And cannot give us now!With rushing winds and gloomy skies
The dark and stubborn Winter dies:
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries,
Bidding her earliest child arise;
March!Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth
Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color,--
Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters,--
Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top. |
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