The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
 |
| I. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
|
|
|
|
NOTHING IS LOST. |
|
|
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
154
NOTHING IS LOST.
Nothing is lost; the drop of dew
That trembles on the leaf or flower
Is but exhaled, to fall anew
In summer's thunder-shower:
Perchance to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day;
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.
That trembles on the leaf or flower
Is but exhaled, to fall anew
In summer's thunder-shower:
Perchance to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day;
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.
Nought lost, for even the tiniest seed,
By wild birds borne or breezes blown,
Finds something suited to its need,
Wherein 'tis sown and grown;
Perchance finds sustenance and soil
In some remote and desert place,
Or 'mid the crowded homes of toil
Sheds usefulness and grace.
By wild birds borne or breezes blown,
Finds something suited to its need,
Wherein 'tis sown and grown;
Perchance finds sustenance and soil
In some remote and desert place,
Or 'mid the crowded homes of toil
Sheds usefulness and grace.
The little drift of common dust,
By the March winds disturbed and tossed,
Though scattered by the fitful gust,
Is changed, but never lost;
It yet may bear some sturdy stem,
Some proud oak battling with the blast,
Or crown with verdurous diadem
Some ruin of the past.
By the March winds disturbed and tossed,
Though scattered by the fitful gust,
Is changed, but never lost;
It yet may bear some sturdy stem,
Some proud oak battling with the blast,
Or crown with verdurous diadem
Some ruin of the past.
155
The furnace quenched, the flame put out,
Still cling to earth or soar in air,
Transformed, diffused, or blown about,
To burn again elsewhere;
Haply to make the beacon-blaze
That gleams athwart the briny waste,
Or light the social lamp, whose rays
Illume the home of taste.
Still cling to earth or soar in air,
Transformed, diffused, or blown about,
To burn again elsewhere;
Haply to make the beacon-blaze
That gleams athwart the briny waste,
Or light the social lamp, whose rays
Illume the home of taste.
The touching tones of minstrel art,
The breathings of some mournful flute
(Which we have hard with listening heart),
Are not extinct when mute:
The language of some household song,
The perfume of some cherished flower,
Though gone from outward sense, belong
To memory's after hour.
The breathings of some mournful flute
(Which we have hard with listening heart),
Are not extinct when mute:
The language of some household song,
The perfume of some cherished flower,
Though gone from outward sense, belong
To memory's after hour.
So with our words, or harsh, or kind,
Uttered, they are not all forgot,
But leave some trace upon the mind,
Pass on, yet perish not.
As they are spoken, so they fall
Upon the spirit spoken to,
Scorch it like drops of burning gall,
Or soothe like honey dew.
Uttered, they are not all forgot,
But leave some trace upon the mind,
Pass on, yet perish not.
As they are spoken, so they fall
Upon the spirit spoken to,
Scorch it like drops of burning gall,
Or soothe like honey dew.
So with our deeds, for good or ill
They have their power, scarce understood;
Then let us use our better will
To make them rife with good.
Like circles on a lake they go,
Ring within ring, and never stay;
Oh, that our deeds were fashioned so
That they might bless alway.
They have their power, scarce understood;
Then let us use our better will
To make them rife with good.
Like circles on a lake they go,
Ring within ring, and never stay;
Oh, that our deeds were fashioned so
That they might bless alway.
156
Then since these lesser things ne'er die,
But work beyond our poor control,
Say, shall that suppliant for the sky,
The greater human soul?
Ah, no! it yet will spurn the past,
And search the future for its rest,
Joyful, if it be found at last
'Mong the redeemed and blest!
But work beyond our poor control,
Say, shall that suppliant for the sky,
The greater human soul?
Ah, no! it yet will spurn the past,
And search the future for its rest,
Joyful, if it be found at last
'Mong the redeemed and blest!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |