Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O night! divorce our sun and sky apart Never our lips, our hands. ____ 1876. ----------------------------------------------------------------- | "A Sunrise Song" leads a group of seven short poems | | overlooked in earlier editions. Six of these, beginning with | | "On a Palmetto", were unrevised pencillings of late date, | | excepting the lines of 1866 to J. D. H. | ----------------------------------------------------------------- A Sunrise Song. Young palmer sun, that to these shining sands Pourest thy pilgrim's tale, discoursing still Thy silver passages of sacred lands, With news of Sepulchre and Dolorous Hill, Canst thou be he that, yester-sunset warm, Purple with Paynim rage and wrack desire, Dashed ravening out of a dusty lair of Storm, Harried the west, and set the world on fire? Hast thou perchance repented, Saracen Sun? Wilt warm the world with peace and dove-desire? Or wilt thou, ere this very day be done, Blaze Saladin still, with unforgiving fire? ____ Baltimore, 1881. On a Palmetto. Through all that year-scarred agony of height, Unblest of bough or bloom, to where expands His wandy circlet with his bladed bands Dividing every wind, or loud or light, To termless hymns of love and old despite, Yon tall palmetto in the twilight stands, Bare Dante of these purgatorial sands That glimmer marginal to the monstrous night. Comes him a Southwind from the scented vine, It breathes of Beatrice through all his blades, North, East or West, Guelph-wind or Ghibelline, 'Tis shredded into music down the shades; All sea-breaths, land-breaths, systol, diastol, Sway, minstrels of that grief-melodious Soul. ____ 1880. Struggle. My soul is like the oar that momently Dies in a desperate stress beneath the wave, Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea: Each second I'm new-born from some new grave. Control. O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness thee And make thee harrow all my spirit's glebe. Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet He made a wolf to plow his land. To J. D. H. (Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.) . . . . . Dear friend, forgive a wild lament Insanely following thy flight. I would not cumber thine ascent Nor drag thee back into the night; But the great sea-winds sigh with me, The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old, And I would that I might lie with thee There in the grave so cold, so cold! Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee, And the round skies are far and steep; A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe, Pain is proud and scorns to weep.