The rustling of a leaf hath force
  To wake the currents of my blood,
  That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood,
Hurled headlong in its fiery course.

The moaning of the wind hath power
  To stir the anthem of my soul,
  Unto a mightier thunder roll
Than ever shook a triumph hour.

Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars
  Rare truths flow from melodious lips—­
  God’s all-sublime Apocalypse—­
His awful poem writ in stars!

Each ray that spends its burning might
  In the alembic of the morn,
  Is, in the Triune splendors, born
Of the great uncreated light!

To me the meanest creeping thing
  Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue,
  Of the far climes forever young
In His all-glorious blossoming.

And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay—­
  Woven of brightest buds and flowers
  Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers,
Against the blushing face of May—­

A passion, and a power, that thrills
  My hidden nature unto strife,
  To battle bravely, for the life
Across the dim Eternal hills!

MEMORIES.

While the wild north hills are reddening
  In the sunset’s fiery glow,
And along the dreary moorlands,
  Shine the stormy drifts of snow,
Sit I in my voiceless chamber
  From the household ones apart,
And again is Memory lighting
  The pale ruins of my heart.

And again are white hands sweeping,
  Wildly, its invisible chords,
With the burden of a sorrow
  That I may not wed to words. 
Vainly I this day have striven,
  List’ning to the snow-wind’s roll,
To forget the haunting music
  That is throbbing in my soul.

Not my pleasant household duties,
  Nor the rosied light of Morn,
Nor the banners of the sunset
  On the wintry hills forlorn,
Could unclasp the starry yearning
  From my mortal, weary breast,
Nor interpret the weird meaning
  Of the phantom’s wild unrest.

All last night I heard the crickets
  Chirping on the lonely hearth,
And I thought of him that lieth
  In the embraces of the earth;
Till the lights died in the village,
  And the armies of the snow,
In the bitter woods of midnight
  Tracked the wild winds to and fro.

Oh my lover, safely folded
  In the shadow of the grave,
While about my low-roofed dwelling
  Moaning gusts of winter rave. 
Well I know thy pale hands, folded
  In the silence of long years,
Cannot give me back caresses
  For my sacrifice of tears.

Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms—­
  Ghostly memories that arise,
Keeping ever ’twixt my spirit
  And the beauty of the skies—­
Memories of a faded splendor,
  And a lost hope, long ago,
Ere my April grew to blushing
  And my heavy heart to woe.

Saw ye in your solemn marches
  From the citadel of death,
In our bridal halls of beauty
  Burning still the lamp of faith? 
Doth a watcher, pale and patient,
  Folded from the tempest’s wrath,
Wait the coming of my footsteps
  Down the grave’s long, lonesome path?