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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
Hark that chime
Rolled from St. Peter's! 'Tis Saint Peter's Day!
Listen! Again that rush of countless feet!
All Rome makes speed to greet her great Apostle!
Hasten we, too:—my letter first: 'tis writ!
Irené, take these tablets to my Master:
These lines—there are but three—may win his smile:
Likewise these presents three; the Armillœ first,
War-bracelets clasping none but conquering arms:
Doubtless some warrior of our house, long dead,
Won them by merit. Heavier blows by far
This athlete of God's Church hath dealt her foes,
Too fiercely dealt them Roman priests aver;
But then they fear his haughty strength and looks
Still heated from the desert. Give him next
These two young doves so loving and so mild;
And, last, this basket heaped with early cherries.
The hour he sat here first I gave him such!
Three years have passed since then. Smiling he spake
‘The gift is meet: cherries, like little maids,
Are fresh and pure; a blushful gleam without;
Hard heart within.’ I think he will remember!
Rolled from St. Peter's! 'Tis Saint Peter's Day!
Listen! Again that rush of countless feet!
173
Hasten we, too:—my letter first: 'tis writ!
Irené, take these tablets to my Master:
These lines—there are but three—may win his smile:
Likewise these presents three; the Armillœ first,
War-bracelets clasping none but conquering arms:
Doubtless some warrior of our house, long dead,
Won them by merit. Heavier blows by far
This athlete of God's Church hath dealt her foes,
Too fiercely dealt them Roman priests aver;
But then they fear his haughty strength and looks
Still heated from the desert. Give him next
These two young doves so loving and so mild;
And, last, this basket heaped with early cherries.
The hour he sat here first I gave him such!
Three years have passed since then. Smiling he spake
‘The gift is meet: cherries, like little maids,
Are fresh and pure; a blushful gleam without;
Hard heart within.’ I think he will remember!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |