 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
223
PRELUDES
DREAMING
I dream beside that silent sea
Which yet has mystic voices low
That whisper potent words to me
From the dim, haunted long ago;
And as the waves, with measured beat,
Drift up the slow wrack to my feet,
Faces gaze from it, sad and sweet.
Which yet has mystic voices low
That whisper potent words to me
From the dim, haunted long ago;
And as the waves, with measured beat,
Drift up the slow wrack to my feet,
Faces gaze from it, sad and sweet.
So come they, as the stars appear
Even while you gaze on the blank night;
For ere you wis, lo! far and near
The dusk is all agleam with light;
A mighty host, uncalled, they come,
And without sound of trump or drum,
But yet their silence is not dumb.
Even while you gaze on the blank night;
For ere you wis, lo! far and near
The dusk is all agleam with light;
A mighty host, uncalled, they come,
And without sound of trump or drum,
But yet their silence is not dumb.
They speak to me of hopes and fears
That yet can make my bosom thrill,
As o'er the weary waste of years
The dead hands reach, and touch me still:
For that old Past still lives to me;
Its phantom faces still I see
More life-like than the living be.
That yet can make my bosom thrill,
As o'er the weary waste of years
The dead hands reach, and touch me still:
For that old Past still lives to me;
Its phantom faces still I see
More life-like than the living be.
WORK AND SPIRIT
Is it the work that makes life great and true?
Or the true soul that, working as it can,
Does faithfully the task it has to do,
And keepeth faith alike with God and man?
Or the true soul that, working as it can,
Does faithfully the task it has to do,
And keepeth faith alike with God and man?
Ah! well; the work is something; the same gold
Or brass is fashioned now into a coin,
Now into fairest chalice that shall hold
To panting lips the sacramental wine:
Or brass is fashioned now into a coin,
Now into fairest chalice that shall hold
To panting lips the sacramental wine:
Here the same marble forms a cattletrough
For brutes by the wayside to quench their thirst,
And there a god emerges from the rough
Unshapely block—yet they were twins at first.
For brutes by the wayside to quench their thirst,
And there a god emerges from the rough
Unshapely block—yet they were twins at first.
One pool of metal in the melting pot
A sordid, or a sacred thought inspires;
And of twin marbles from the quarry brought
One serves the earth, one glows with altar-fires.
A sordid, or a sacred thought inspires;
And of twin marbles from the quarry brought
One serves the earth, one glows with altar-fires.
There's something in high purpose of the soul
To do the highest service to its kind;
There's something in the art that can unroll
Secrets of beauty shaping in the mind.
To do the highest service to its kind;
There's something in the art that can unroll
Secrets of beauty shaping in the mind.
Yet he who takes the lower room, and tries
To make his cattle-trough with honest heart,
And could not frame the god with gleaming eyes,
As nobly plays the more ignoble part.
To make his cattle-trough with honest heart,
And could not frame the god with gleaming eyes,
As nobly plays the more ignoble part.
And maybe, as the higher light breaks in
And shows the meaner task he has to do,
He is the greater that he strives to win
Only the praise of being just and true.
And shows the meaner task he has to do,
He is the greater that he strives to win
Only the praise of being just and true.
For who can do no thing of sovran worth
Which men shall praise, a higher task may find,
Plodding his dull round on the common earth,
But conquering envies rising in the mind.
Which men shall praise, a higher task may find,
Plodding his dull round on the common earth,
But conquering envies rising in the mind.
And God works in the little as the great
A perfect work, and glorious over all—
Or in the stars that choir with joy elate,
Or in the lichen spreading on the wall.
A perfect work, and glorious over all—
Or in the stars that choir with joy elate,
Or in the lichen spreading on the wall.
224
CONSTRAINT
I would not that another eye should seeWhat I now write, or other ear should hear.
Then wherefore do I write it, being clear
To me, unwrit? and oh the pain to me!
I hide my heart, and yet unbare it here,
Then hide what I have writ, and mean to burn;
I gather life's grey ashes in an urn,
And brood o'er them with many a dropping tear,
Dreading to keep, yet shrinking to destroy
The treasured relics. O my Love! my bliss!
Is it all ashes now, that infinite joy?
Leaving no other joy to me but this,
That I must open the old wound, and take
This blood from it, or else my heart will break.
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