Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/690

 674 CORA MITCHELL DOWNS. [1850-60. O ! the gentle, gentle memories Of earlier, happier years ! How my heart goes out to meet them, Beyond the mist of tears ! And down upon the mossy banks I sit again, and see How the moonlight and the ripples meet By the Old Elm Tree! THE SPIRIT'S CALL. Why thrill like harp-chords 'neath the stormy sweep Of some grand master's hand, oh, soul of mine? Why rouse thee from thy careless dreams and sleep, And shake thy fettered wings with strength divine? What burning words from human lips hath woke Thy charmed slumbers in a single hour ? What tones of high command could thus invoke The palsied pulse of years to deeds of power ? Thou know'st thy destiny — thy hope is strong ; So where the eternal mountain-cliffs arise, Leave thy fair dreams in burning words of song. Thy memory lettered in immortal dyes. Not here, my spirit! fold thine eagle wings. When gath'ring clouds of coming fears in- form; Thine eyrie seek 'mid loftier, nobler things. Light gleiams beyond — and God is in the storm ! On a high purpose stand, and from that height Gaze out upon the future far and sure ; So shall thy strength renew for nobler flight. And thy calm faith like pillar'd rocks endure. Though far beneath lie gentle love and trust, And all the golden dreams of earlier days — Though dearer hopes are bleeding in the dust. Thou wilt not turn aside thy steadfast gaze. Perchance an arrow from a bow unseen, May strike thy soaring wing at dawn of day; And the Pale Angel come with brow serene To take thy meed, thy glorious gift away. Wliat then? the swan its death-song sweet- est sings. Pouring its thrilling notes on twilight air; So thou, my sphit! fold thy drooping wings. And breathe thy life out in wild requiem there ! Thy pinions bleed and weary with the strife. Beating against their iron links of care ; While golden hills loom up in fairer life, And in the distance mock thy chill despair. Chained to the rocks of petty ills, art thou! Beneath the Lethean river ebbs and flows. Promethean patience on thy stainless brow, And thine — an immortality of woes !