Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning,
It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences,
It hangs thin by the sassafras and wild-cherry and
     cat-brier under them.

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,
I heard what the singers were singing so long,
Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white
     froth and the water-blue.

Behold a woman!
She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is
     clearer and more beautiful than the sky.

She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch
     of the farmhouse,
The sun just shines on her old white head.

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen,
Her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand-
    daughters spin it with the distaff and the wheel.

The melodious character of the earth,
The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go
     and does not wish to go,
The justified mother of men.

1855 1881

THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER

HARK, some wild trumpeter, some strange musician,
Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes
     to-night.

I hear thee trumpeter, listening alert I catch thy
     notes,
Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me,
Now low, subdued, now in the distance lost.

Come nearer bodiless one, haply in thee resounds
Some dead composer, haply thy pensive life
Was fill'd with aspirations high, unform'd ideals,
Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging,
That now ecstatic ghost, close to me bending,
     thy cornet echoing, pealing,
Gives out to no one's ears but mine, but freely
     gives to mine,
That I may thee translate.

Blow trumpeter free and clear, I follow thee,
While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene,
The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of
     day withdraw,
A holy calm descends like dew upon me,
I walk in cool refreshing night the walks of Paradise,
I scent the grass, the moist air and the roses;
Thy song expands my numb'd imbonded spirit,
     thou freest, launchest me,
Floating and basking upon heaven's lake.

Blow again trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes,
Bring the old pageants, show the feudal world.

What charm thy music works! thou makest pass
     before me,
Ladies and cavaliers long dead, barons are in
     their castle halls, the troubadours are singing,
Arm'd knights go forth to redress wrongs, some
     in quest of the holy Graal;
I see the tournament, I see the contestants incased
     in heavy armor seated on stately champing horses,
I hear the shouts, the sounds of blows and smiting
     steel;

I see the Crusaders' tumultuous armies — hark,
     how the cymbals clang,
Lo, where the monks walk in advance, bearing the
     cross on high.