 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
34
PEACE
Along the lonely valley's grassy floor
I wandered long; the seaward breeze blew cool
Over the grey stones and the windswept moor;
And foaming down from pool to emerald pool
The clear stream leapt; on either side the high
Grey bastions steadfast hung; how still the vale!
No sound save rustling grasses, or the cry
Of sheep on bare hill-ledges, or the wail
Of gulls aloft, on vague and aimless quest that sail.
I wandered long; the seaward breeze blew cool
Over the grey stones and the windswept moor;
And foaming down from pool to emerald pool
The clear stream leapt; on either side the high
Grey bastions steadfast hung; how still the vale!
No sound save rustling grasses, or the cry
Of sheep on bare hill-ledges, or the wail
Of gulls aloft, on vague and aimless quest that sail.
Yet here at length is peace, or seeming peace;—
Elsewhere the world may change, but ah, not here!
Far to the South the shameless towns increase,
Their smoke-stained fronts the rumbling factories rear,
Yet here, it seems, a thousand years ago,
The dreaming mind no difference might descry;
Even so the hills were silent; even so
The crisp grass clung—the wistful wind crept by,
The dimpled pool lay smiling at the stainless sky.
Elsewhere the world may change, but ah, not here!
Far to the South the shameless towns increase,
Their smoke-stained fronts the rumbling factories rear,
Yet here, it seems, a thousand years ago,
The dreaming mind no difference might descry;
Even so the hills were silent; even so
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The dimpled pool lay smiling at the stainless sky.
Higher I mount, thridding the trackless hill,
O'er tumbled cataracts of shapeless stones,
Till now the streams are silent, where the chill
And shivering mountain shows his haggard bones.
I gain the peak; and lo, the fertile land
Lies like a chart; the river wanders wide
In shining loops; on yellow leagues of sand
Soft creeps the white-rimmed sea—and, far descried,
The shadowy hills of hope beyond the golden tide!
O'er tumbled cataracts of shapeless stones,
Till now the streams are silent, where the chill
And shivering mountain shows his haggard bones.
I gain the peak; and lo, the fertile land
Lies like a chart; the river wanders wide
In shining loops; on yellow leagues of sand
Soft creeps the white-rimmed sea—and, far descried,
The shadowy hills of hope beyond the golden tide!
From hamlet roofs, embowered deep in wood,
The blue smoke rising hangs; the burdened heart
Saith softly to itself, “'twere surely good
Within yon quiet land to dwell apart!”
Yet there poor hearts are restless, even there
They pine for love, they scheme for simple gain,
And some are sunk in heavy-eyed despair,
And weary life of lasting rest is fain,
And fevered sufferers count the sad slow hours of pain.
The blue smoke rising hangs; the burdened heart
Saith softly to itself, “'twere surely good
Within yon quiet land to dwell apart!”
Yet there poor hearts are restless, even there
They pine for love, they scheme for simple gain,
And some are sunk in heavy-eyed despair,
And weary life of lasting rest is fain,
And fevered sufferers count the sad slow hours of pain.
“Nay, nay, not thus,” the ardent mind replies,
“Long is delight and short the hour of woe;
Warm hearts are glad with children's happy cries,
And lovers linger when the light is low.”
Ah me, I know it—but the brightness done,
The failing life its darkening harbour nears,—
A heap of mouldering turf, a carven stone,
A lonely grief that fades, through faithful tears,
Fades to a gentle tale among the shadowy years.
“Long is delight and short the hour of woe;
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And lovers linger when the light is low.”
Ah me, I know it—but the brightness done,
The failing life its darkening harbour nears,—
A heap of mouldering turf, a carven stone,
A lonely grief that fades, through faithful tears,
Fades to a gentle tale among the shadowy years.
I am not weary of the kindly earth,
Nay, I am fain of honour and delight;
I bless the patient hour that gave me birth,
I shudder at the nearer-creeping night;
But I have dreams of something deeper yet,
A steadfast joy that daily should increase,
Warm glowing 'neath the ashes of regret;
Not dull content that comes when ardours cease,
But peace divinely bright, unconquerable peace.
Nay, I am fain of honour and delight;
I bless the patient hour that gave me birth,
I shudder at the nearer-creeping night;
But I have dreams of something deeper yet,
A steadfast joy that daily should increase,
Warm glowing 'neath the ashes of regret;
Not dull content that comes when ardours cease,
But peace divinely bright, unconquerable peace.
Each morn I would arise with tranquil heart,
Not boding ill unknown, and simply take
The burden of the day, and play my part
As not for self, but for some loved one's sake;
For love makes light of trouble, if it gain
The smile of the Beloved, if it know
That One is spared the lightest touch of pain;
For this is life's best guerdon, to forego
Light pleasure, if it serve the Best-beloved so.
Not boding ill unknown, and simply take
The burden of the day, and play my part
As not for self, but for some loved one's sake;
For love makes light of trouble, if it gain
The smile of the Beloved, if it know
That One is spared the lightest touch of pain;
For this is life's best guerdon, to forego
Light pleasure, if it serve the Best-beloved so.
37
Life is not life, if in inglorious sloth
The dull days pass, the years unheeded roll;
The grievous message comes, the friend is wroth,
And little slights must sting the aching soul;
Tho' I be bent on service, even then
Rich gratitude for heedless favours given,
Impatient deeds, that win from patient men
Much thanks, upbraid me, who so ill have striven,
Yet give me gracious glimpses of the mind of Heaven.
The dull days pass, the years unheeded roll;
The grievous message comes, the friend is wroth,
And little slights must sting the aching soul;
Tho' I be bent on service, even then
Rich gratitude for heedless favours given,
Impatient deeds, that win from patient men
Much thanks, upbraid me, who so ill have striven,
Yet give me gracious glimpses of the mind of Heaven.
Not here nor there is peace to be achieved,
The mind must change, and not the earthly scene;
And how shall he who once hath truly grieved
Gain hope and strength to be secure, serene?
Not by forgetting shall such rest be earned,
Nor with closed eyes that dare not see the light,
But facing loss and death, and having learned
What hope remains, what heritage of might—
Then on the fearful heart dawns the unhoped-for light.
The mind must change, and not the earthly scene;
And how shall he who once hath truly grieved
Gain hope and strength to be secure, serene?
Not by forgetting shall such rest be earned,
Nor with closed eyes that dare not see the light,
But facing loss and death, and having learned
What hope remains, what heritage of might—
Then on the fearful heart dawns the unhoped-for light.
And not in youth can this be inly seen,
Not till the years have dimmed the dinted shield;
Not till the stern thought of what might have been
Hath pierced the spirit, and the wound is healed.
Youth dreams of love and conquest, generous dreams,
Nought is too high but he shall dare to climb;
Then, when in mid ascent the summit seems
More steep than Heaven itself, more old than Time,
Then dawns the light, and makes the broken life sublime.
Not till the years have dimmed the dinted shield;
Not till the stern thought of what might have been
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Youth dreams of love and conquest, generous dreams,
Nought is too high but he shall dare to climb;
Then, when in mid ascent the summit seems
More steep than Heaven itself, more old than Time,
Then dawns the light, and makes the broken life sublime.
Then falls the stress of battle, which shall prove
What spirit best inspired the ardent dream;
And only he that based his hope in love
Shall reach the height where dawns the fitful gleam;
For one is marred in sickness, one in health,
And one is fettered with a chain of care,
And one is spent in piling useless wealth,
And one in petty triumphs, thin as air,
And few set foot upon the upward-climbing stair.
What spirit best inspired the ardent dream;
And only he that based his hope in love
Shall reach the height where dawns the fitful gleam;
For one is marred in sickness, one in health,
And one is fettered with a chain of care,
And one is spent in piling useless wealth,
And one in petty triumphs, thin as air,
And few set foot upon the upward-climbing stair.
But he that hath not bound his clouded mind
With care, or foolish hope, or vile desire,
He shall be strong, and resolute to find
True gold in ashes of the sinking fire;
He, if the world shall call him, simply great,
Shall do high deeds, and care not for the praise;
Or be high place denied, not less elate,
In some green corner shall live out his days,
And lavish all his best in simple seemly ways.
With care, or foolish hope, or vile desire,
He shall be strong, and resolute to find
True gold in ashes of the sinking fire;
He, if the world shall call him, simply great,
Shall do high deeds, and care not for the praise;
Or be high place denied, not less elate,
In some green corner shall live out his days,
And lavish all his best in simple seemly ways.
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Then when the sands of life fall rare and light,
Then when the spent keel grates upon the sand,
No matter whether victor in the fight
Or vanquished, so the fight was greatly planned!
His soul shall be all lit with golden gleams,
As when, between the darkness and the day,
The sinking sun, with thrice-ennobling beams,
Gilds with unearthly grace and richer ray
Familiar fields and trees, covert and winding way.
Then when the spent keel grates upon the sand,
No matter whether victor in the fight
Or vanquished, so the fight was greatly planned!
His soul shall be all lit with golden gleams,
As when, between the darkness and the day,
The sinking sun, with thrice-ennobling beams,
Gilds with unearthly grace and richer ray
Familiar fields and trees, covert and winding way.
Peace, Peace, what art thou? Is it truth they hold
Who deem that in the world thou art not found?
I know indeed thou art not bought or sold,
But I have seen thee, robed in sight and sound;
An hour ago, where yonder glimmering pool
Gleams in the brown moor like a silver isle,
I sate to hear the water lapping cool;
She came, my dreaming spirit to beguile,
Finger on lip, and downcast eyes that seemed to smile.
Who deem that in the world thou art not found?
I know indeed thou art not bought or sold,
But I have seen thee, robed in sight and sound;
An hour ago, where yonder glimmering pool
Gleams in the brown moor like a silver isle,
I sate to hear the water lapping cool;
She came, my dreaming spirit to beguile,
Finger on lip, and downcast eyes that seemed to smile.
Nay, she is near us yet—'tis only we
Have lost the skill to hear her shyly pass,
When she with swift and viewless mystery
Fleets like the breeze across the bending grass;
Not in the gaps of profitable toil,
Not in weak intervals of feverish haste
May she be wooed; but when from stain and soil
Our hands are free, and weakness proudly faced,
Then may the gracious form be sisterly embraced.
Have lost the skill to hear her shyly pass,
When she with swift and viewless mystery
Fleets like the breeze across the bending grass;
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Not in weak intervals of feverish haste
May she be wooed; but when from stain and soil
Our hands are free, and weakness proudly faced,
Then may the gracious form be sisterly embraced.
Ah—unsubstantial prize, ah, faint reward!
Is then the cold gift of thy temperate hand
No carnal triumph of the empurpled sword,
No fiery thought that thrills the awestruck land?
But quiet hours, and sober silent truth,
That not in envy, not in acrid scorn,
Can set aside the elvish dreams of youth,
The haggard fears, of age and languor born,
Patient with both, and if alone yet not forlorn?
Is then the cold gift of thy temperate hand
No carnal triumph of the empurpled sword,
No fiery thought that thrills the awestruck land?
But quiet hours, and sober silent truth,
That not in envy, not in acrid scorn,
Can set aside the elvish dreams of youth,
The haggard fears, of age and languor born,
Patient with both, and if alone yet not forlorn?
While thus I mused, the day as though in pain
Turned pale and shivered; soon the west was cold.
The glancing stonechat piped his thin refrain,
And made the hills more silent, grey, and old.
Swiftly I went, and leaping downwards gained
The green trim valley, leaving sad and stern
The huge rock-ramparts, scarred and torrent-stained,
And bursting swiftly through the crackling fern,
Saw through the tree-stems black the orange sunset burn.
Turned pale and shivered; soon the west was cold.
The glancing stonechat piped his thin refrain,
And made the hills more silent, grey, and old.
Swiftly I went, and leaping downwards gained
The green trim valley, leaving sad and stern
The huge rock-ramparts, scarred and torrent-stained,
And bursting swiftly through the crackling fern,
Saw through the tree-stems black the orange sunset burn.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |