XIX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

XX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

XXI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182

XXII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

Au Revoir . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

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POEMS.

DEDICATORY POEM.

  Dear Carrie, were we truly wise,
  And could discern with finer eyes,
    And half-inspired sense,
    The ways of Providence:

  Could we but know the hidden things
  That brood beneath the Future's wings,
    Hermetically sealed,
    But soon to be revealed:

  Would we, more blest than we are now,
  In due submission learn to bow,—
    Receiving on our knees
    The Omnipotent decrees?

  That which is just, we have. And we
  Who lead this round of mystery,
    This dance of strange unrest,
    What are we at the best?—

  Unless we learn to mount and climb;
  Writing upon the page of time,
    In words of joy or pain,
    That we've not lived in vain.

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  We all are Ministers of Good;
  And where our mission's understood,
    How many hearts we must
    Raise, trembling, from the dust.

  Oh, strong young soul, and thinking brain!
  Walk wisely through the fair domain
    Where burn the sacred fires
    Of Music's sweet desires!

  Cherish thy Gift; and let it be
  A Jacob's ladder unto thee,
    Down which the Angels come,
    To bring thee dreams of Home.

  What were we if the pulse of Song
  Had never beat, nor found a tongue
    To make the Poet known
    In lands beyond his own?

  Take what is said for what is meant.
  We sometimes touch the firmament
    Of starry Thought—no more;
    Beyond, we may not soar.

  I speak not of myself, but stand
  In silence till the Master Hand
    Each fluttering thought sets free.
    God holds the golden key.

Kingston, C. W., May 1st, 1860.

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HESPERUS:

A LEGEND OF THE STARS.

PRELUDE.

  The Stars are heaven's ministers;
    Right royally they teach
  God's glory and omnipotence,
    In wondrous lowly speech.
  All eloquent with music as
    The tremblings of a lyre,
  To him that hath an ear to hear
    They speak in words of fire.

  Not to learned sagas only
    Their whisperings come down;
  The monarch is not glorified
    Because he wears a crown.
  The humblest soldier in the camp
    Can win the smile of Mars,
  And 'tis the lowliest spirits hold
    Communion with the stars.

  Thoughts too refined for utterance,
    Ethereal as the air,
  Crowd through the brain's dim labyrinths,
    And leave their impress there;
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  As far along the gleaming void
    Man's tender glances roll,
  Wonder usurps the throne of speech,
    But vivifies the soul.

  Oh, heaven-cradled mysteries,
    What sacred paths ye've trod—
  Bright, jewelled scintillations from
    The chariot-wheels of God!
  When in the spirit He rode forth,
    With vast creative aim,
  These were His footprints left behind,
    To magnify His name!

———

  We gazed on the Evening Star,
    Mary and I,
    As it shone
    On its throne
      Afar,
    In the blue sky;
  Shone like a ransomed soul
  In the depths of that quiet heaven;
    Like a pearly tear,
    Trembling with fear
  On the pallid cheek of Even.

  And I thought of the myriad souls
  Gazing with human eyes
    On the light of that star,
    Shining afar,
  In the quiet evening skies;

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    Some with winged hope,
    Clearing the cope
  Of heaven as swift as light,
    Others, with souls
    Blind as the moles,
  Sinking in rayless night.

  Dreams such as dreamers dream
    Flitted before our eyes;
      Beautiful visions!—
      Angelo's, Titian's,
    Had never more gorgeous dyes:
  We soared with the angels
    Through vistas of glory,
  We heard the evangels
    Relate the glad story
    Of the beautiful star,
    Shining afar
    In the quiet evening skies.

  And we gazed and dreamed,
  Till our spirits seemed
    Absorbed in the stellar world;
  Sorrow was swallowed up,
  Drained was the bitter cup
  Of earth to the very lees;
  And we sailed over seas
    Of white vapour that whirled
    Through the skies afar,
  Angels our charioteers,
  Threading the endless spheres,

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  And to the chorus of angels
  Rehearsed the evangels
    The Birth of the Evening Star.

———

I.

        Far back in the infant ages,
  Before the eras stamped their autographs
  Upon the stony records of the earth;
  Before the burning incense of the sun
        Rolled up the interlucent space,
        Brightening the blank abyss;
        Ere the Recording Angel's tears
        Were shed for man's transgressions:
        A Seraph, with a face of light,
  And hair like heaven's golden atmosphere,
  Blue eyes serene in their beatitude,
        Godlike in their tranquillity,
  Features as perfect as God's dearest work,
        And stature worthy of her race,
  Lived high exalted in the sacred sphere
  That floated in a sea of harmony
  Translucent as pure crystal, or the light
  That flowed, unceasing, from this higher world
  Unto the spheres beneath it. Far below
  The extremest regions underneath the Earth
  The first spheres rose, of vari-coloured light,
  In calm rotation through aërial deep,
  Like seas of jasper, blue, and coralline,
  Crystal and violet; layers of worlds—
  The robes of ages that had passed away,

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  Left as memorials of their sojournings.
  For nothing passes wholly. All is changed.
  The Years but slumber in their sepulchres,
  And speak prophetic meanings in their sleep.

FIRST ANGEL.

  Oh, how our souls are gladdened,
    When we think of that brave old age,