Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/683

1864.] O fragile clay!

Erst white as e'er a lily of old Nile,

But now imbrowned and ambered o'er and through

With richest tints and ever-deepening hue,

Quintessence of rare essences the while

Uphoarding, as thou farest day by day,

Thou mind'st me of a genial face I knew.

At first it was but fair, nought but a face;

But as I read and learned it, wondrous grace

And beauty marvellous did grow and grow,

Till every hue of the sweet soul did show

Most beautiful from brow and lip and eye.

And thus, O clay,

Child of the sea-foam, nursed amid the spray,

Thy visage changes, ever grows more fair

As the fine spirit works expression there!

Blest be the tide that rapt thee from the roar

And cast thee on the far Danubian shore,

And blest the art that shaped thee daintily!

And thou, O fragrant tube attenuate!

No more in the sweet-blooming cherry-grove,

Where the shy bulbul plaintive mourns her love,

Shalt thou uplift thy blossoms to the sky,

Or wave them o'er the waters rippling by;

No more thy fruit shall stud with jewels red

The leafy crown thou fashionedst for thy head.

Not this thy fate.

When the swart damsel from thy parent tree

Did lop thee with thy fellows, and did strip

From off thee, bleeding, leaf and bud and blossom,

And bind the odorous fagot carefully,

And bear thee in to whom should fashion thee

And set new fruit of amber on thy tip,

More grateful than the old to eye and lip,

Ambrosial odors thou didst then exhale,

Leaving thy fragrance in her tawny bosom.

Thou still dost hold it. Nothing may avail

To rob thee of the odorous memory

Thou sweetly bearest of the cherry-grove,

Where blossoms bloom and lovers tell their love.

Bright amber, fragrant wood, enamelled clay,

Help me to burn the incense worthily!

Thou fire, assist! Promethean fire, unbound,

The azure clouds go wreathing round and round,

Float slowly up, then gently melt away;

And in their circling wreaths I dimly spy

Full many a fleeting vision's fantasy.

Alas! alas!

How bright soe'er before my view they pass,

Whether it be that Memory, pointing back,

Doth show each flower along the devious track

By which I came forth from the fields of youth,