PUNCH SONG.
(TO BE SUNG IN NORTHERN COUNTRIES.)

 
   On the mountain's breezy summit,
    Where the southern sunbeams shine,
   Aided by their warming vigor,
    Nature yields the golden wine.
 
 
   How the wondrous mother formeth,
    None have ever read aright;
   Hid forever is her working,
    And inscrutable her might.
 
 
   Sparkling as a son of Phoebus,
    As the fiery source of light,
   From the vat it bubbling springeth,
    Purple, and as crystal bright;
 
 
   And rejoiceth all the senses,
    And in every sorrowing breast
   Poureth hope's refreshing balsam,
    And on life bestows new zest.
 
 
   But their slanting rays all feebly
    On our zone the sunbeams shoot;
   They can only tinge the foliage,
    But they ripen ne'er the fruit.
 
 
   Yet the north insists on living,
    And what lives will merry be;
   So, although the grape is wanting,
    We invent wine cleverly.
 
 
   Pale the drink we now are offering
    On the household altar here;
   But what living Nature maketh,
    Sparkling is and ever clear.
 
 
   Let us from the brimming goblet,
    Drain the troubled flood with mirth;
   Art is but a gift of heaven,
    Borrowed from the glow of earth.
 
 
   Even strength's dominions boundless
    'Neath her rule obedient lie;
   From the old the new she fashions
    With creative energy.
 
 
   She the elements' close union
    Severs with her sovereign nod;
   With the flame upon the altar,
    Emulates the great sun-god.
 
 
   For the distant, happy islands
    Now the vessel sallies forth,
   And the southern fruits, all-golden,
    Pours upon the eager north.
 
 
   As a type, then, — as an image,
    Be to us this fiery juice,
   Of the wonders that frail mortals
    Can with steadfast will produce!
 

THE COMPLAINT OF CERES. ¹⁵

 
   Does pleasant spring return once more?
    Does earth her happy youth regain?
   Sweet suns green hills are shining o'er;
    Soft brooklets burst their icy chain:
   Upon the blue translucent river
    Laughs down an all-unclouded day,
   The winged west winds gently quiver,
    The buds are bursting from the spray;
   While birds are blithe on every tree;
    The Oread from the mountain-shore
   Sighs, "Lo! thy flowers come back to thee —
    Thy child, sad mother, comes no more!"
 
 
   Alas! how long an age it seems
    Since all the earth I wandered over,
   And vainly, Titan, tasked thy beams
    The loved — the lost one — to discover!
   Though all may seek — yet none can call
    Her tender presence back to me
   The sun, with eyes detecting all,
    Is blind one vanished form to see.
   Hast thou, O Zeus! hast thou away
    From these sad arms my daughter torn?
   Has Pluto, from the realms of day,
    Enamored — to dark rivers borne?
 
 
   Who to the dismal phantom-strand
    The herald of my grief will venture?
   The boat forever leaves the land,
    But only shadows there may enter. —
   Veiled from each holier eye repose
    The realms where midnight wraps the dead,
   And, while the Stygian river flows,
    No living footstep there may tread!
   A thousand pathways wind the drear
    Descent; — none upward lead to-day; —
   No witness to the mother's ear
    The daughter's sorrows can betray.
 
 
   Mothers of happy human clay
    Can share at least their children's doom;
   And when the loved ones pass away,
    Can track — can join them — in the tomb!
   The race alone of heavenly birth
    Are banished from the darksome portals;
   The Fates have mercy on the earth,
    And death is only kind to mortals! ¹⁶
Oh, plunge me in the night of nights,
    From heaven's ambrosial halls exiled!
   Oh, let the goddess lose the rights
    That shut the mother from the child!
 
 
   Where sits the dark king's joyless bride,
    Where midst the dead her home is made;
   Oh that my noiseless steps might glide,
    Amidst the shades, myself a shade!
   I see her eyes, that search through tears,
    In vain the golden light to greet;
   That yearn for yonder distant spheres,
    That pine the mother's face to meet!
   Till some bright moment shall renew
    The severed hearts' familiar ties;
   And softened pity steal in dew,
    From Pluto's slow-relenting eyes!
 
 
   Ah, vain the wish, the sorrows are!
    Calm in the changeless paths above
   Rolls on the day-god's golden car —
    Fast are the fixed decrees of Jove!
   Far from the ever-gloomy plain,
    He turns his blissful looks away.
   Alas! night never gives again
    What once it seizes as its prey!
   Till over Lethe's sullen swell,
    Aurora's rosy hues shall glow;
   And arching through the midmost hell
    Shine forth the lovely Iris-bow!
 
 
   And is there naught of her; no token —
    No pledge from that beloved hand?
   To tell how love remains unbroken,
    How far soever be the land?
   Has love no link, no lightest thread,
    The mother to the child to bind?
   Between the living and the dead,
    Can hope no holy compact find?
   No! every bond is not yet riven;
    We are not yet divided wholly;
   To us the eternal powers have given
    A symbol language, sweet and holy.
 
 
   When Spring's fair children pass away,
    When, in the north wind's icy air,
   The leaf and flower alike decay,
    And leave the rivelled branches bare,
   Then from Vertumnus' lavish horn
    I take life's seeds to strew below —
   And bid the gold that germs the corn
    An offering to the Styx to go!
   Sad in the earth the seeds I lay —
    Laid at thy heart, my child — to be
   The mournful tokens which convey
    My sorrow and my love to thee!
 
 
   But, when the hours, in measured dance,
    The happy smile of spring restore,
   Rife in the sun-god's golden glance
    The buried dead revive once more!
   The germs that perished to thine eyes,
    Within the cold breast of the earth,
   Spring up to bloom in gentler skies,
    The brighter for the second birth!
   The stem its blossom rears above —
    Its roots in night's dark womb repose —
   The plant but by the equal love
    Of light and darkness fostered — grows!
 
 
   If half with death the germs may sleep,
    Yet half with life they share the beams;
   My heralds from the dreary deep,
    Soft voices from the solemn streams, —
   Like her, so them, awhile entombs,
    Stern Orcus, in his dismal reign,
   Yet spring sends forth their tender blooms
    With such sweet messages again,
   To tell, — how far from light above,
    Where only mournful shadows meet,
   Memory is still alive to love,
    And still the faithful heart can beat!
 
 
   Joy to ye children of the field!
    Whose life each coming year renews,
   To your sweet cups the heaven shall yield
    The purest of its nectar-dews!
   Steeped in the light's resplendent streams,
    The hues that streak the Iris-bow
   Shall trim your blooms as with the beams
    The looks of young Aurora know.
   The budding life of happy spring,
    The yellow autumn's faded leaf,
   Alike to gentle hearts shall bring
    The symbols of my joy and grief.
 

THE ELEUSINIAN FESTIVAL

 
   Wreathe in a garland the corn's golden ear!
    With it, the Cyane ¹⁷ blue intertwine
   Rapture must render each glance bright and clear,
    For the great queen is approaching her shrine, —
   She who compels lawless passions to cease,
    Who to link man with his fellow has come,
   And into firm habitations of peace
    Changed the rude tents' ever-wandering home.
 
 
   Shyly in the mountain-cleft
    Was the Troglodyte concealed;
   And the roving Nomad left,
    Desert lying, each broad field.
   With the javelin, with the bow,
    Strode the hunter through the land;
   To the hapless stranger woe,
    Billow-cast on that wild strand!
 
 
   When, in her sad wanderings lost,
    Seeking traces of her child,
   Ceres hailed the dreary coast,
    Ah, no verdant plain then smiled!
   That she here with trust may stay,
    None vouchsafes a sheltering roof;
   Not a temple's columns gay