What meaneth this unrest within my heart,
And why do I sit here alone and sigh?
The sunset throws its garnished doors apart,
And palace halls are opened in the sky--
I gaze upon the gold strewn in the west,
A miser, of his jewels dispossessed.
I have played in the sunset’s crimson rain,
And felt its saffron torch wave o’er my brow,
That heated to excess my maddened brain,
And threw a halo ’round my heart--but now,
Like some poor bird far from its kindred sky,
I look into the sunset--look and sigh.
I have no friend to lean upon my heart,
Ah! how I miss the pressure of thy hand,
And thy dear voice seems of the past a part;
Thy figure like a shade from shadow-land.
I think I would be happy if you came
And touched my hand, or softly called my name.
If I could look into your face to-night,
And search the deep mines of your pensive eyes,
Sure, I would find there a responsive light,
To dissipate from out my heart the sighs;
And then I know my lips would lose their scorn,
And in my soul a new impulse be born.
If we could wander off far from the crowd
Among the hills--our voices there unheard--
Where once our hearts in unison beat loud,
To the sweet song of some wild mountain bird,
I think the twilight vail would lose its gloom,
That shrouds to-night the windows of my room.
Perhaps ’tis wrong that I should sadden you
With these rain-droppings that my heart-clouds shed;
Gladly would I distill a drop of dew
Down deep into your flower-like heart instead.
Some other night, if separation’s sky
Should clearer grow, dear absent one, I’ll try.
Journeys.
Oh! the many, many journeys
I have taken in a day!
Journeys short and journeys long,
Journeys right and journeys wrong;
Often pausing on the way,
Themes so grand my thoughts delay--
Themes suggesting instant song--
Lofty, good,
Scarce understood,
Dying ere I knew their worth,
As an infant dies at birth.
Oh! the melancholy journeys
That on earth my eyes have seen!
Over cemeteries vast,
Like a spirit I have passed,
Where the helmet and canteen
Cankered near a grave-stone lean,
Where the warrior’s sword was cast;
And the mould,
So shallow rolled,
That the eagle from on high
Dropped his penetrating eye.
Oh! the mad, exciting journey!
Floating down the sunset’s tide,
Where there is no sign of sail,
Neither any promised gale.
Flames about on every side,
Every hope from me denied.
Even the clouds I can not hail;
As they drift,
Their cinders sift
On the water where they float,
Like a freighted, burning boat.
Oh! the sweet, yet lonesome journey
That I always take alone!
Back into the vanished past,
Where the sunshine runneth fast.
There the rose is open blown,
There I hear a loving tone,
There no twilight shades are cast;
But complete
And very sweet
Is the dawn, when, like a child,
Love looked in my heart and smiled.
Oh! the happy, happy journey,
With my loved one near my side!
Open stands the prison room;
We forget its chilly tomb.
Over fields of grain we glide,
Over rivers broad we ride,
Drinking up the earth’s perfume;
Like a thought
The muses taught--
Onward o’er the world we fly,
Like twin clouds born of the sky.
Oh! the swift, inspiring journey,
Far away in unknown space!
Where my castles stand complete,
And the gardens full and sweet;
Where the moonlight weaves its lace,
And a friend’s is every face,
And this land, need I repeat,
Is of dreams?
Here crystal streams
Lose their way, as from the throne,
In this country all my own.
Oh! the elevating journey!
Toward the zenith now I bend,
Far above the mundane sphere,
Stars like mighty worlds appear.
Losing sight of home and friends,
Higher still the path ascends.
Heaven is dawning very near;
But I pause,
Alas! because
To a mortal such as I,
Heaven an entrance must deny.
The Lost Poem.
Long ago beside my window, with an open manuscript,
I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped,
Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees,
When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze.
Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept,
And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept:
“Stop!” I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street,
“I will give you thirty shillings if you’ll bring me back that
sheet.”
But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite,
And I watched it sally upward, fading faster from my sight;
Then I said unto a swallow that flew by on rapid wing,
“Open wide I’ll throw the granary if my poem back you’ll bring.”
But he only flew the faster, and was soon beyond my sight;
And the daylight vanished from me, and to mock me sent the night.
O! there’s naught can daunt a spirit when the inner heart’s afire,
And the darkness sent upon me only did my aim inspire.
So I sought an humble dwelling, to a fortune-teller went,
And I tarried with the gipsy till the night was almost spent,
But I left her door disheartened; for she only said to me:
“Take this, search, and when you’ve found it, send or fetch again
the key.”
“But,” said I, “’tis lost in nature, in the sky or hills among,”
And the key back in her shanty with an angry word I flung;
For prophetic seemed her language, and my purposes were mocked,
If henceforth the heart of nature, Fate against my own had locked.
“Take it, search,” again she muttered, as I started to depart;
“And be careful how you use it; for it fits the human heart.”
In her hand I dropped a coin, and before the eye of day
Peeped from out the morning’s cradle I was far upon my way.
Like the breath of early roses, like the whisper of a bird,
From a little maiden passing, a sweet laugh methought I heard.
“She has found it,” I repeated, “there’s no use for any key.”
Said the pretty little damsel, “My heart’s open, don’t you see?”
Yes, I saw, and there were treasures such as kings would love to
own,
Who would sacrifice to gain them e’en a jeweled crown and throne--
Buds and blossoms, song and laughter, humming-birds and butterflies,
Singing brooks and sparkling fountains there, and peaceful were the
skies.
But the poem it was missing; so I journeyed slow along,
Till I heard a mother singing to her babe a cradle song;
And I tried to get permission in her heart to fit the key,
But the lullaby continued: “Do not interrupt,” said she.
Next I hailed a youth that passed me, and his face was wond’rous
fair,
And I searched long through his heart’s book, but the poem was not
there;
“It is lost!” I cried with sorrow, as Despair held out her cup,
And I quaffed the bitter liquid, and the idle search gave up.
* * * * *
Years have passed, and just this morning I was called beside a bed,
Where the sheet lay still and sober over an old lover spread;
Sad and pallid were his features, clever, too, Death’s new disguise,
But I read the old, old secret, even in his half-closed eyes.
Then a thought--“The key,” I whispered, lest I should be overheard,
And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem--every word.
Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame;
And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name.
O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim,
I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame;
But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead,
So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head.
* * * * *
Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name,
Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame.
A Maple Leaf.