Tho’ ocean currents by me purled, The sails of my desire were furled. What pilgrims crave, three acres gave; And I, Aglaus, have seen the world! AN AUDITOR. WHY chide me that mutely I listen, ah, jester? For either thou knowest Too much, or thou knowest not aught of this aching vexed planet down-whirling: Thou knowest?--Thy wit is but fortitude; would’st have me laugh in its presence? Thou knowest not?--Laugh I can never, for innocence also is sacred. THE WATER-TEXT. WATCHING my river marching overland, By mighty tides, transfigured and set free,-- My river, lapped in idle-hearted mirth, Made at a touch a glory to the earth, And leaving, wheresoever falls his hand, The balm and benediction of the sea,-- O soon, I know, the hour whereof we dreamed, The saving hour miraculous, arrives! When, ere to darkness winds our sordid course, Some glad, new, potent, consecrating force Shall speed us, so uplifted, so redeemed, Along the old worn channel of our lives. CYCLAMEN. ON me, thro’ joy’s eclipse, and inward dark, First fell thy beauty like a star new-lit; To thee my carol now! albeit no lark Hath for thy praise a throat too exquisite. O would that song might fit These harsh north slopes for thine inhabiting, Or shelter lend thy loveliest laggard wing, Thou undefiled estray of earth’s o’ervanished spring! Here is the sunless clime, the fallen race; Down our green dingles is no peer of thee: Why art thou such, dear outcast, who hadst place With shrine, and bower, and olive-silvery Peaked islets in mid-sea? Thou seekest thine Achaian dews in vain, And osiered nooks jocose, at summer’s wane, With gossip spirit-fine of chill and widening rain. Thou wert among Thessalia’s hoofy host, Their radiant shepherd stroked thee with a sigh; When falchioned Perseus spied the Æthiop coast, Unto his love’s sad feet thy cheek was nigh; And all thy blood beat high With woodland Rhœcus at the brink of bliss; Thy leaf the Naiad plucked by Thyamis, And she, the straying maid, the bride beguiled of Dis. These, these are gone. The air is wan and cold, The choric gladness of the woods is fled: But thou, aye dove-like, rapt in memories old, Inclinest to the ground thy fragile head, In ardor and in dread. Searcher of yesternight! how wilt thou find In any dolven aisle or cavern blind, In any ocean-hall, the glory left behind?