The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| XVII. |
LOVE AND TIME
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
170
LOVE AND TIME
No true love passes.—Does the night
Steal all its glory from the day?
When once the sun is put to flight,
Are all the heavens for ever grey?
Nay! through the heights and depths of space
The fiery-prowed wild star-ships race,
The Armadas of immensity:
The waves gleamed blue beneath the sun,
But, now the golden day is done,
The silver moon may kiss the sea.
Steal all its glory from the day?
When once the sun is put to flight,
Are all the heavens for ever grey?
Nay! through the heights and depths of space
The fiery-prowed wild star-ships race,
The Armadas of immensity:
The waves gleamed blue beneath the sun,
But, now the golden day is done,
The silver moon may kiss the sea.
There is no end to time or space.
New suns beyond our sun will rise:
Life cannot alter true love's face,
Nor dim the glory in love's eyes.
Love is eternal, ever-new:
Just as the waves each morn are blue;
Just as the skies each morn are fair;
Just as each autumn's golden sheaves
Shine out afresh, and golden leaves
Glitter each autumn through the air.
New suns beyond our sun will rise:
Life cannot alter true love's face,
Nor dim the glory in love's eyes.
171
Just as the waves each morn are blue;
Just as the skies each morn are fair;
Just as each autumn's golden sheaves
Shine out afresh, and golden leaves
Glitter each autumn through the air.
But all else passes. Thrones must pass;
The lordliest shrines and temples fall:
Death's sickle gathers in the grass;
No loiterer can escape his call.
The gods whom man has made and crowned
Lie pale, dismembered, on the ground:
Man bade them reign; Time bids them flee;—
Where once were prisons, now is corn;
Where blossoms smiled, are wastes forlorn;
Where rivers rippled, roars the sea.
The lordliest shrines and temples fall:
Death's sickle gathers in the grass;
No loiterer can escape his call.
The gods whom man has made and crowned
Lie pale, dismembered, on the ground:
Man bade them reign; Time bids them flee;—
Where once were prisons, now is corn;
Where blossoms smiled, are wastes forlorn;
Where rivers rippled, roars the sea.
The Roman Caesars had their hour:
The Roman legions poured along,
Beheld the English woods a-flower,
And heard the English billows' song.
Where are they now? The waves that saw
Their legions land with little awe
Watch iron-armoured fleets to-day:
The waves reck little for they know
That nations, like the whirling snow,
Melt into nought, and pass away.
The Roman legions poured along,
Beheld the English woods a-flower,
And heard the English billows' song.
Where are they now? The waves that saw
Their legions land with little awe
172
The waves reck little for they know
That nations, like the whirling snow,
Melt into nought, and pass away.
The Gallic Caesar's empire rose;
The whole world trembled at his tread:
He gave the thunder no repose;
At his sole word the streams ran red.
He changed his sceptre for a sword;
He longed to say, “I am the lord
Of every land beneath the sun.
There were two Rulers—God and I;
We threw with dice for sovereignty;
Jehovah lost: Napoleon won!”
The whole world trembled at his tread:
He gave the thunder no repose;
At his sole word the streams ran red.
He changed his sceptre for a sword;
He longed to say, “I am the lord
Of every land beneath the sun.
There were two Rulers—God and I;
We threw with dice for sovereignty;
Jehovah lost: Napoleon won!”
Yet in the lonely sea-beat isle
The second Caesar passed away,
And once again the world might smile,
And once again keep holiday.
The corn was red at Waterloo,
But there to-day the sky is blue:
Two spectres pass. The flowers have heard
One whisper, “I am Wellington!”
And one, “I am Napoleon!”
Their soldiers rise not at their word.
The second Caesar passed away,
And once again the world might smile,
And once again keep holiday.
The corn was red at Waterloo,
But there to-day the sky is blue:
Two spectres pass. The flowers have heard
One whisper, “I am Wellington!”
173
Their soldiers rise not at their word.
Time watched pale Cleopatra's kiss
Thrill Antony with sweet despair:
Time heard the small smooth aspick hiss;
Time saw the towers of Ilium flare.
In pre-historic dateless hours
Among great white unnamed strange flowers
Time saw the kiss of bird and bird:
When dying Jesus raised his eyes
Fast-darkening to the lurid skies
Time caught his last heart-broken word.
Thrill Antony with sweet despair:
Time heard the small smooth aspick hiss;
Time saw the towers of Ilium flare.
In pre-historic dateless hours
Among great white unnamed strange flowers
Time saw the kiss of bird and bird:
When dying Jesus raised his eyes
Fast-darkening to the lurid skies
Time caught his last heart-broken word.
Time saw the first fair woman's eyes
Glitter with love when life was young;
When young stars watched from cloudless skies,
And ruby-throated songsters sung.
Time saw the first kiss, and the last
Will see when passion's moods are past
And blind oblivion waits for man—
Time, who beheld the pencil seized
By God's swift hand when he well-pleased
Sketched out our planet's primal plan.
Glitter with love when life was young;
When young stars watched from cloudless skies,
And ruby-throated songsters sung.
Time saw the first kiss, and the last
Will see when passion's moods are past
And blind oblivion waits for man—
Time, who beheld the pencil seized
By God's swift hand when he well-pleased
Sketched out our planet's primal plan.
174
The fair white city on the Seine
That heard the chief of poets sing,—
That watched the triumph and the pain
Of Hugo, and that crowned him king,—
That, at the last wild century's close,
Watched Revolution as it rose
Sea-like with blood-besprinkled surge,—
That saw the untrembling guillotine
Cleave through the white neck of a queen.
And heard the tocsin's cruel dirge,—
That heard the chief of poets sing,—
That watched the triumph and the pain
Of Hugo, and that crowned him king,—
That, at the last wild century's close,
Watched Revolution as it rose
Sea-like with blood-besprinkled surge,—
That saw the untrembling guillotine
Cleave through the white neck of a queen.
And heard the tocsin's cruel dirge,—
This city too, shall change and pass;
Of all things earthly nought abides:
Be walls of iron or beaten brass
Yet Time surmounts them and derides.
One day the glory of the Czar
Was glory as of sun or star,
A splendour measureless, sublime:
The next day at his feet the shell
Burst madly, and the White Czar fell,
'Mid laughter from the lips of Time!
Of all things earthly nought abides:
Be walls of iron or beaten brass
Yet Time surmounts them and derides.
One day the glory of the Czar
Was glory as of sun or star,
A splendour measureless, sublime:
The next day at his feet the shell
Burst madly, and the White Czar fell,
'Mid laughter from the lips of Time!
But love abides, though all things change,
Though nations plunge into the night;
Though all around wax dim and strange;
Though aging stars give little light.—
We float along our century's stream,
We sing and toil, and love and dream,
But lo! we near the ocean's marge:
Our river-century soon will end
And, swelling into waves, descend
Into the sea-waves fierce and large.
Though nations plunge into the night;
175
Though aging stars give little light.—
We float along our century's stream,
We sing and toil, and love and dream,
But lo! we near the ocean's marge:
Our river-century soon will end
And, swelling into waves, descend
Into the sea-waves fierce and large.
Then what shall last? What thing shall be?
What shall the twentieth century bear?
What ships shall sail upon its sea?
What new stars sparkle through its air?
We know not: only this we know,—
That love, though wild years come and go,
Will wander calm-eyed, gathering flowers;—
A thousand centuries are as one
Day to the never-dying sun
And unto love a few short hours.
What shall the twentieth century bear?
What ships shall sail upon its sea?
What new stars sparkle through its air?
We know not: only this we know,—
That love, though wild years come and go,
Will wander calm-eyed, gathering flowers;—
A thousand centuries are as one
Day to the never-dying sun
And unto love a few short hours.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |