 | St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems |  |
129
A THOUGHT FOR THE ROYAL BRIDAL.
All winter long
I tarried in a strange, monotonous land,
Among pine forests—an eternal throng
Of green plumes, changeless o'er the changeless sand,
Whereto the ocean singeth one sole song,
Heard swinging heavily by sun or star,
On its Biscayan bar.
I tarried in a strange, monotonous land,
Among pine forests—an eternal throng
Of green plumes, changeless o'er the changeless sand,
Whereto the ocean singeth one sole song,
Heard swinging heavily by sun or star,
On its Biscayan bar.
But with the spring
I see the mountains topp'd with sunny white,
Like silver clouds beyond imagining,
Rise in the cloudless blue, and, day or night,
'Tis sweet to hear clear-water'd Adour sing,
And watch the shadows which far forests throw
On Pyrenean snow.
I see the mountains topp'd with sunny white,
Like silver clouds beyond imagining,
Rise in the cloudless blue, and, day or night,
'Tis sweet to hear clear-water'd Adour sing,
And watch the shadows which far forests throw
On Pyrenean snow.
All the year through
There hung a grand monotony of grief
O'er England, ever quiet, ever true.
Speeches and elegies perchance were brief,
But voices faltered, till the whole world knew
She mourn'd her Prince—from evil tongues secure
Because his heart was pure.
There hung a grand monotony of grief
O'er England, ever quiet, ever true.
Speeches and elegies perchance were brief,
But voices faltered, till the whole world knew
She mourn'd her Prince—from evil tongues secure
Because his heart was pure.
130
Worthy to bear
Half the Crown's crushing burden in the State
Where monarchy but cometh forth more fair
From fires of revolution, where to fate
The king may yield; but still the throne is there,
As drops that make the rainbow on the river
Perish—the rainbow never!
Half the Crown's crushing burden in the State
Where monarchy but cometh forth more fair
From fires of revolution, where to fate
The king may yield; but still the throne is there,
As drops that make the rainbow on the river
Perish—the rainbow never!
But lo! with spring
(I will not say our grief hath fled for good,
But it is time-touch'd to a gentler thing),
The Princess comes whose noble womanhood
Is better than the circlet of a king:
Surely young grass and flowers are clothing now
The furrows of God's plough.
(I will not say our grief hath fled for good,
But it is time-touch'd to a gentler thing),
The Princess comes whose noble womanhood
Is better than the circlet of a king:
Surely young grass and flowers are clothing now
The furrows of God's plough.
Ah! Princess, come!
Come, Princess! in the war-ship, o'er the wave;
Come, Princess! o'er the favourable foam;
With blazing streets, with banners of the brave,
With arches they will hail thee to thy home;
With these, and the long thunders of the cheers
Falling in rain of tears.
Come, Princess! in the war-ship, o'er the wave;
Come, Princess! o'er the favourable foam;
With blazing streets, with banners of the brave,
With arches they will hail thee to thy home;
With these, and the long thunders of the cheers
Falling in rain of tears.
In tears!—in tears!—
Remembering who, with pageantry as grand,
Pass'd through the acclaim of people and of peers,
When, with her princely spouse at her right hand,
She went in state among the endless cheers,
And “let her people see her” as she rolled
On, in a cloud of gold.
Remembering who, with pageantry as grand,
Pass'd through the acclaim of people and of peers,
When, with her princely spouse at her right hand,
She went in state among the endless cheers,
And “let her people see her” as she rolled
On, in a cloud of gold.
Sweet lady! pass
On to St. George's Chapel. Wear as free
The royal jewels, in a starry mass
Clustered, as doth some bride of low degree
Her wreath from orchard or from meadow-grass.
Surely when joy so trembles to a tear
The dead are strangely near.
On to St. George's Chapel. Wear as free
The royal jewels, in a starry mass
131
Her wreath from orchard or from meadow-grass.
Surely when joy so trembles to a tear
The dead are strangely near.
From where his true
Heart-love of beauty feeds on the uncreated
And ancient Beauty that is ever new;
Where his deep thirst for purity is sated,
And his high soul hath found a work to do
Sublimer than the work on earth he wrought,
And full of nobler thought;
Heart-love of beauty feeds on the uncreated
And ancient Beauty that is ever new;
Where his deep thirst for purity is sated,
And his high soul hath found a work to do
Sublimer than the work on earth he wrought,
And full of nobler thought;
Surely one spirit,
Full of a tender care that is not dread,
Full of sweet love that doth no touch inherit
Of fear or woe—one of the living dead,
Stoled in the robe made white by Christ's dear merit,
With benediction for the princely pair,
Stands on the altar stair.
Full of a tender care that is not dread,
Full of sweet love that doth no touch inherit
Of fear or woe—one of the living dead,
Stoled in the robe made white by Christ's dear merit,
With benediction for the princely pair,
Stands on the altar stair.
Here, missing sore
Old England, and her streets ablaze with lights,
The illumination, when the day is o'er,
Shall be the splendours that on starry nights
From silver snows stream to heaven's silver floor;
And for a nation's cheers, the silent prayer
Breath'd on the mountain air.
Old England, and her streets ablaze with lights,
The illumination, when the day is o'er,
Shall be the splendours that on starry nights
From silver snows stream to heaven's silver floor;
And for a nation's cheers, the silent prayer
Breath'd on the mountain air.
Bagnères de Bigorre, 1861.
| St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems | |