GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

1823.

["Plays and Poems." 1856.]

NAY, not to thee, to nature will I tie

The gathered blame of every pettish mood;

And when thou frown'st, I'll frown upon the wood,
Saying, "How wide its gloomy shadows lie!"
Or, gazing straight into the day's bright eye,
Predict ere night a fatal second flood;
Or vow the poet's sullen solitude

Has changed my vision to a darksome dye.
But when thou smil'st, I will not look above,
To wood or sky; my hand I will not lay
Upon the temple of my sacred love,

To blame its living fires with base decay;
But whisper to thee, as I nearer move,
"Love, thou dost add another light to day!"

Where lags my mistress while the drowsy year

Wakes into Spring? Lo! Winter sweeps away
His snowy skirts, and leaves the landscape gay
With early verdure; and there's merry cheer
Among the violets, where the sun lies clear

On the south hill-sides; and at break of day
I heard the blue-bird busy at my ear;
And swallows shape their nests of matted clay

Along the eaves, or dip their narrow wings
Into the mists of evening. All the earth
Stirs with the wonder of a coming birth,

And all the air with feathery music rings.

Spring, it would crown thee with transcendent worth,
To bring my love among thy beauteous things.

Your love to me appears in doubtful signs,

Vague words, shy looks, that never touch the heart;
But to the brain a scanty hint impart

As to whose side your dear regard inclines:
Thence, forced by reason through the narrow lines
That mark and limit the logician's art,

Catching from thought to thought, my mind combines
In one idea the mystic things you start,
And coldly utters to my heart, that swells

With tardy rapture, "It is thee she loves!"
Alas! alas! that reason only proves

A fact your cautious action never tells,

That I must reach my joy by slow removes,
And guess at love as at the oracles.

I do assure thee, love, each kiss of thine

Adds to my stature, makes me more a man, Lightens my care, and draws the bitter wine That I was drugged with, while my nature ran Its slavish course. For didst thou not untwine

My cunning fetters? break the odious ban,
That quite debased me? free this heart of mine
And deck my chains with roses? While I can
I'll chant thy praises, till the world shall ring

With thy great glory; and the heaping store
Of future honours, for the songs I sing,
Shall miss thy poet, at thy feet to pour
A juster tribute, as the gracious spring
Of my abundance. Kiss me, then, once more.

I will not blazon forth thy sacred name,

Holding thee up for wonder to the mood

Of those poor fools whose darts of malice strewed might thy grave defame;

Thy path of life, and

I will but hint it dimly.

Love's pure flame

Will shine as brightly, though the spicy wood
Whereon it feeds be little understood;

For, to all light man's reverence is the same.
And if, in coming time, some lover weep

Over the sorrows of my mournful line,

Some wretch whose fortune has been sad as mine, Wondering, meanwhile, what gentle name may sleep Under my phrase, the homage shall be thine, Though my sealed lips thy mystic title keep.

All the world's malice, all the spite of fate,
Cannot undo the rapture of the past.

I, like a victor, hold these glories fast;
And here defy the envious powers, that wait

Upon the crumbling fortunes of our state,

To snatch this myrtle chaplet, or to blast
Its smallest leaf. Thus to the wind I cast
The poet's laurel, and before their date
Summon the direst terrors of my doom.

For, with this myrtle symbol of my love,
I reign exultant, and am fixed above

The petty fates that other joys consume.

As on a flowery path, through life I'll move,
As through an arch of triumph, pass the tomb.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

1808.

["The Panorama, and other Poems." 1856.]

MAUD MULLER.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast;

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay

Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!

That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,

And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.