Yes, something won;
The harvest of our tears—
Something unfading, plucked from fading years;
Something to blossom on beyond the sun,
From Sorrow won.
The agony,
So hopeless now of balm,
Shall sleep at last, in light as pure and calm,
As that wherewith the stars look down on thee,
Gethsemane.
Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate;
The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring,
But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait,
For storms and tears that seasoned excellence bring;
And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate
In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing.
Youth sues to Fame: coldly she answers, "Toil!"
He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve
Responds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil."
Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,—
Thee only, blissful Love." With proud recoil
The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well—deserve!"
As when the imperial bird wide-circling soars
From his lonely eyry, towered above the seas
That wash the wild and rugged Hebrides,
A force which he unconsciously adores
Bounds the majestic flight that heaven explores,
And droops his haughty wing,—as when the breeze
Tempts to o'erleap their changeless boundaries
The waves that tumble, foaming, to those shores,—
So thou, my soul! impatient of restriction,
With deathless hopes and longings all aglow,
Aspirest still, and still the stern prediction
Stays thee, as them, "No further shalt thou go!"
But, ah! the eagle feels not thine affliction,
Nor can the broken waves thy disappointment know.
I woke and heard the thrushes sing at dawn,—
A strangely blissful burst of melody,
A chant of rare, exultant certainty,
Fragrant, as springtime breaths, of wood and lawn.
Night's eastern curtains were still closely drawn;
No roseate flush predicted pomps to be,
Or spoke of morning loveliness to me.
But, for those happy birds, the night was gone!
Darkling they sang, nor guessed what care consumes
Man's questioning spirit; heedless of decay
They sang of joy and dew-embalmed blooms.
My doubts grew still, doubts seemed so poor while they,
Sweet worshipers of light, from leafy glooms
Poured forth transporting prophecies of day.
Didst thou rejoice because the day was fair,—
Because, in orient splendor newly dressed,
On flowering glebe and bloomless mountain-crest
The sun complacent smiled? Ah! didst thou dare
The careless rapture of that bird to share
Which, soaring toward the dawn from dewy nest,
Hailed it with song? From Ocean's treacherous breast
Didst borrow the repose mild-mirrored there?
Thou foolish heart! Behold! the light is spent;
Rude thunders shake the crags; songs timorous cease;
Lo! with what moan and mutinous lament
Ocean his pent-up passions doth release!
O thou who seeketh sure and fixed content,
Search in thy soul: there find some source of peace.
"Respect the Future, which belongs to me!"
So speak thy yearning and imperious will,
Making the Present distant faiths fulfil,
And raised from falling kingdoms—Germany.
No idle name, no doubtful dream to thee
That Future: actual, its clasp grown chill,
It led thee, and thy soul sublimed it still,—
Heir of a more than earthly dynasty!
O didst thou think, untimely called to rest,
The preparation of a life o'erthrown—
To lose what thou so bravely didst resign?
Forevermore the Fatherland shall own
Her nobler liberties thy dear bequest:
The future thy great spirit saw—was thine!
