Classic Poem

I

A perfume that all sense delights
Enchants us most on summer nights,
And music, Nature's kindest boon,
Is sweetest 'neath the summer moon:
For summer night and moonlight give
Quiet and grace, in which we live;
In which alone the prisoned soul
Finds, if not words, at least control,
And, for a moment, lifts us far
To realms where saints and angels are.
So friendship's soft and tender voice
Sounds clearest when our hearts rejoice:
For, when contentment warms the heart,
Dull thoughts and sordid cares depart, —
By love exhaled, — and in their place
Burns the rich glow of peace and grace.
And then we see each other clear;
The voice within the voice we hear;
And deep thoughts surge to eye and cheek,
Nor words, nor smiles, nor tears can speak!
The old love-ditties that were sung,
The whispered vows, when we were young,
The silken touch of fragrant tress,
The maiden's awful loveliness,
Starlight and sea-breeze, beach and spray,
The sunshine of some sacred day,
A mother's kiss on lip and brow,
The tones of loved ones, silent now,
The light that nevermore will gleam,
The broken hope, the vanished dream, —
All these come thronging through the brain,
Till, half with joy and half with pain,
Our souls break loose from common things,
And soar aloft on angel wings;
Out of the tumult and the glare,
The fretful strife, the feverish care,
To that great life of peace and grace
That waits the suffering human race;
That larger life than sight or sound,
Wherewith great Nature folds us round. —
This is the magic, this the power,
That thrills and crowns the festal hour!

II

'Tis summer, and the moon is bright,
And perfect gladness rules the night,
And through our rapture, gracious, free,
A silver voice, across the sea,
In tender accents whispers sweet, —
" Be kind to him whom now you greet!
At England's fireside altar-stone
His fame is prized, his virtue known:
To England's heart his name is dear;
To him she gives her smile, her tear;
She loves him for his rosy mirth;
She loves him for his manly worth;
She knows him bright as morning dew;
She knows him faithful, tender, true;
Her hope comes with him o'er the deep,
With him to smile, with him to weep.
Ah, give him friendship that endures,
And take him from her heart to yours!"

III

That voice is heard. By deed and cheer,
We give him loyal welcome here!
In Art's fair garden, where we stand,
We take him by the strong right hand;
In Friendship's cup the pledge we drain,
And bind him fast in Friendship's chain.
Honor the man, whate'er his stage,
Who wields the arts to cheer the age!

IV

Ah, comrades, if I could but say,
To point and close this humble lay,
What other voices float to me,
Across another, darker sea,
What words of cheer are wafted through
My fancy's realm, to him and you, —
A music then indeed might flow,
Should make your hearts and pulses glow!
For then would ring out, rich and deep,
The royal tones of some who sleep, —
The brilliant and the wise, too soon
Snatched from our side, in manhood's noon,
Ere genius half her vigil kept,
For whom our hearts and morning wept:
And these a welcome, without stint, —
My feeble words can only hint, —
Should give this friend and comrade, come
So far from kindred and from home.
But, this denied, I prattle on, —
The echo, when the music's gone;
With yet the hope that words well-meant
May find a grace for good intent,
With you, companions, tried and dear,
With him, the guest that's honored here.
Nor will I think he views with scorn
These rhymes of welcome, lowly born;
These wild-wood roses, faint but sweet, —
In kindness scattered at his feet.