II.

If we forget in after years, My comrade, all the hopes and fears That hovered all our walks around When ent'ring on that mystic ground Of ghostly legends, where one hears By bandit towers the chase that nears Thro' cracking woods, the oaths and cheers Of demon huntsman, horn and hound; If we forget.

Lenora's lover and her tears, Fierce Wallenstein, satanic sneers Of the red devil Goethe bound,-- Why then, forsooth, they soon are found In burly stoops of German beers, If we forget!

MORNING AND NIGHT.

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC."

... Fresh from bathing in orient fountains, In wells of rock water and snow, Comes the Dawn with her pearl-brimming fingers O'er the thyme and the pines of yon mountain; Where she steps young blossoms fresh blow....

And sweet as the star-beams in fountains, And soft as the fall of the dew, Wet as the hues of the rain-arch, To me was the Dawn when on mountains Pearl-capped o'er the hyaline blue, Saint-fair and pure thro' the blue, Her spirit in dimples comes dancing, In dimples of light and of fire, Planting her footprints in roses On the floss of the snow-drifts, while glancing Large on her brow is her tire, Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.

But sweet as the incense from altars, And warm as the light on a cloud, Sad as the wail of bleak woodlands, To me was the Night when she falters In the sorrowful folds of her shroud, In the far-blowing black of her shroud,

O'er the flower-strewn bier of her lover, The Day lying faded and fair In the red-curtained chambers of air. When disheveled I've seen her uncover Her gold-girdled raven of hair-- All hooped with the gold of the even-- And for this sad burial prepare, The spirit of Night in the heaven To me was most wondrously fair, So fair that I wished it were given To die in the rays of her hair, Die wrapped in her gold-girdled hair.

THE TOLL-MAN'S DAUGHTER.

Once more the June with her great moon Poured harvest o'er the golden fields; Once more her days in hot, bright shields She bore from morn to drooping noon. A rhymer, sick of work and rhyme, Disheartened by a poor success, I sought the woods to loll the time In one long month of quietness. It was the time when one will thrill For indolent fields, serener skies; For Nature's softening subtleties Of higher cloud and gullied rill.

When crumpled poppies strew the halls Of all the East, where mounts the Dawn, And in the eve the skyey lawn Gold kingcups heap 'neath Night's gray walls. The silver peace of distant wolds, Of far-seen lakes a glimmering dance, Fresh green of undulating hills, Old woodlands silent with romance. Intenser stars, a lazier moon, The moonlit torrent on the peak, And at one's side a maiden meek And lovely as the balmy June.

The toll-gate stood beside the road, The highway from the city's smoke; Its long, well white-washed spear-point broke The clean sky o'er the pike and showed The draught-horse where his rest should be. The locusts tall with shade on shade The trough of water cool beneath, From heat and toil a Sabbath made. Beyond were pastures where the kine Would browse, and where a young bull roared; And here would pass a peeping hoard Of duck and brood in waddling line.

A week flew by on wings of ease. I walked along a rutty lane; I stopped to list some picker's strain Sung in a patch of raspberries. Upon the fence's lanky rails I leaned to stare into great eyes Glooming beneath a bonnet white Bowed 'neath a chin of dimpled prize. Phoebe, the toll-man's daughter she; I knew her by a slow, calm smile, Whose source seemed distant many a mile, Brimming her eyes' profundity.

Elastic as a filly's tread Her modest step, and full and warm The graceful contour of her form Harmonious swelled from foot to head. And such a head!--You'd thought that there The languid night, in frowsy bliss, Had curled brown rays for her deep hair And stained them with the starlight's kiss. A face as beautiful and bright, As crystal fair as twilight skies, Lit with the stars of hazel eyes, And lashed with black of dusky night.

She stood waist-deep amid the briers; Above in twisted lengths were rolled The sunset's tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the West's mist-fueled fires. A shuddering twilight dashed with gold Down smouldering hills the fierce day fell, And bubbling over star on star The night's blue cisterns 'gan to well, With the dusk crescent of his wings A huge crane cleaves the wealthy West, While up the East a silver breast Of chastity the full moon brings.

For her, I knew, where'er she trod, Each dew-drop raised a limpid glass To flash her beauty from the grass; That wild flowers bloomed along the sod, Or, whisp'ring, murmured when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hark her song, Or, all enamored, from his wild Before her feet flew flutt'ring long. The brook droned mystic melodies, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst Of waters stained by blooming trees.

THE BERRIERS.

MORN.

Down silver precipices drawn The red-wine cataracts of dawn Pour soundless torrents wide and far, Deluging each warm, floating star. A sound of winds and brooks and wings, Sweet woodland-fluted carolings, Star radiance dashed on moss and fern, Wet leaves that quiver, breathe, and burn; Wet hills, hung heavily with woods, Dew-drenched and drunken solitudes Faint-murmuring elfin canticles; Sound, light, and spicy boisterous smells, And flowers and buds; tumultuous bees, Wind-wafts and genii of the trees. Thro' briers that trammel, one by one, With swinging pails comes laughing on A troop of youthful berriers, Their wet feet glitt'ring where they pass Thro' dew-drop studded tufts of grass: And oh! their cheers, their merry cheers, Wake Echo on her shrubby rock, Whom dale and mountain answering mock With rapid fairy horns, as if Each mossy hill and weedy cliff Had its imperial Oberon, Who, seeking his Titania hid In bloomy coverts him to shun, In kingly wrath had called and chid.

EVENING.

Cloud-feathers oozing rich with light, Slow trembling in the locks of Night, Her dusky waist with sultry gold Girdled and buckled fold on fold. High stars; a sound of bleating flocks; Gray, burly shadows fall'n 'mid rocks, Like giant curses overthrown By some Arthurian champion; Soft-swimming sorceries of mist Haunting glad glens of amethyst; Low tinklings in dim clover dells Of bland-eyed kine with brazen bells; And where the marsh in reed and grass Burns angry as a shattered glass.

The flies blur sudden blasts of shine, Like wasted draughts of amber wine Spun high by reeling Bacchanals When Bacchus bredes his curling hair With vine-leaves, and from ev'ry lair Voluptuous Mænads lovely calls. They come, they come, a happy throng, The berriers with gibe and song; Deep pails brimmed black to tin-white eaves With luscious fruit kept cool with leaves Of aromatic sassafras, 'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips, Like laughter, from the purple mass, Wine swollen as Silenus' lips.

HARVESTING.