Hay,--I once said the Antipodes were tributary to me, not
thinking that I should ever become tributary to the Antipodes. But such
is the case; since, partly through my instrumentality, that enterprising
individual has been located in their vicinity, where diamonds are not to
be had for the asking, and the greatest rogue is not a Baron.
* * * * *
HAMLET AT THE BOSTON.
We sit before the row of evening lamps,
Each in his chair,
Forgetful of November dusks and damps,
And wintry air.
A little gulf of music intervenes,
A bridge of sighs,
Where still the cunning of the curtain screens
Art's paradise.
My thought transcends those viols' shrill delight,
The booming bass,
And towards the regions we shall view to-night
Makes hurried pace:
The painted castle, and the unneeded guard
That ready stand;
The harmless Ghost, that walks with helm unbarred
And beckoning hand;
And, beautiful as dreams of maidenhood,
That doubt defy,
Young Hamlet, with his forehead grief-subdued,
And visioning eye.
O fair dead world, that from thy grave awak'st
A little while,
And in our heart strange revolution mak'st
With thy brief smile!
O beauties vanished, fair lips magical,
Heroic braves!
O mighty hearts, that held the world in thrall!
Come from your graves!
The Poet sees you through a mist of tears,--
Such depths divide
Him, with the love and passion of his years,
From you, inside!
The Poet's heart attends your buskined feet,
Your lofty strains,
Till earth's rude touch dissolves that madness sweet,
And life remains:
Life that is something while the senses heed
The spirit's call,
Life that is nothing when our grosser need
Engulfs it all.
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