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A chamber in a tower. PRINCE HENRY, sitting alone,ill and restless. Prince Henry. I cannot sleep! my fervid brainCalls up the vanished Past again,And throws its misty splendors deepInto the pallid realms…
The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral Night and storm. LUCIFER, with the Powers of theAir, trying to tear down the Cross. Lucifer. HASTEN! hasten!O ye spirits!From its station drag the ponderousCross of iron, that…
Christus: A Mystery LUCIFER. I. Not in the lightning’s flash, nor in the thunder, Not in the tempest, nor the cloudy storm, …
JOHN THE BAPTIST. REPENT! repent! repent!For the kingdom of God is at hand,And all the landFull of the knowledge of the Lord shall be As the waters cover the sea, And encircle the continent! Repent! repent! repent! For lo, the…
The ANGEL bearing the PROPHET HABAKKUK through the air. PROPHET.WHY dost thou bear me aloft, O Angel of God, on…
October 22, 1838. Neglected record of a mind neglected,Unto what “lets and stops” art thou subjected!The day with all its toils and occupations,The night with its reflections and sensations,The future, and the present, and the past,—All I remember, feel, and hope at last,All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass,—Find but a dusty image in this glass. August 18, 1847. O faithful, indefatigable tides,That evermore upon God’s errands go,—Now seaward bearing tidings of the land,—Now landward bearing tidings of the sea,—And filling every frith and estuary,Each arm of the great sea, each little creek,Each thread and filament of water-courses,Full with your ministration of delight!Under the rafters of this wooden bridgeI see you come and go; sometimes in hasteTo reach your journey’s end, which being doneWith feet unrested ye return againAnd recommence the never-ending task;Patient, whatever burdens ye may bear,And fretted only by the impeding rocks. December 18, 1847. Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes;White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields;Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among themWeareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind. August 4, 1856. A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun, the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming. …
What say the Bells of San BlasTo the ships that southward pass From the harbor of Mazatlan?To them it is nothing moreThan the sound of surf on the shore,— Nothing more to master or man. But to me, a dreamer of dreams,To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same,—The Bells of San Blas to meHave a strange, wild melody, And are something more than a name. For bells are the voice of the church;They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old;One sound to all, yet eachLends a meaning to their speech, And the meaning is manifold. They are a voice of the Past,Of an age that is fading fast, Of a power austere and grand,When the flag of Spain unfurledIts folds o’er this western world, And the Priest was lord of the land. The chapel that once looked downOn the little seaport town Has crumbled into the dust;And on oaken beams belowThe bells swing to and fro, And are green with mould and rust. “Is, then, the old faith dead,”They say, “and in its stead Is some new faith proclaimed,That we are forced to remainNaked to sun and rain, Unsheltered and ashamed? “Once, in our tower aloof,We rang over wall and roof Our warnings and our complaints;And round about us thereThe white doves filled the air, Like the white souls of the saints. “The saints! Ah, have they grownForgetful of their own? Are they asleep, or dead,That open to the skyTheir ruined Missions lie, No longer tenanted? “Oh, bring us back once moreThe vanished days of yore, When the world with faith was filled;Bring back the fervid zeal,The hearts of fire and steel, The hands that believe and build. “Then from our tower againWe will send over land and main Our voices of command,Like exiled kings who returnTo their thrones, and the people learn That the Priest is lord of the land!” O Bells of San Blas in vainYe call back the Past again; The Past is deaf to your prayer!Out of the shadows of nightThe world rolls into light; It is daybreak everywhere.
O traveller, stay thy weary feet;Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet; It flows for rich and poor the same.Then go thy way, remembering stillThe wayside well beneath the hill, The cup of water in his name.
When I compareWhat I have lost with what I have gained,What I have missed with what attained, Little room do I find for pride. I am awareHow many days have been idly spent;How like an arrow the good intent Has fallen short or been turned aside. But who shall dareTo measure loss and gain in this wise?Defeat may be victory in disguise; The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
Awake! arise! the hour is late! Angels are knocking at thy door!They are in haste and cannot wait, And once departed come no more. Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm Loses its strength by too much rest;The fallow land, the untilled farm Produces only weeds at best.