The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
He was not made for earth's tumultuous life,
For the enduring of the world's wild strife;
His proper home was Joy—in this bright sun
Alone he lived: this past, his day was done.
A rainbow glimmering on the spray-wrought wave,
Which the storms kill; sweet violets on a grave,
Which the cold frostworks nip; swift shades o'er braes,
Which the clouds dim; all glory which decays—
The wonders of the northern heavens—the bliss,
And bale of passion,—such, alas! was his!
For the enduring of the world's wild strife;
His proper home was Joy—in this bright sun
Alone he lived: this past, his day was done.
A rainbow glimmering on the spray-wrought wave,
Which the storms kill; sweet violets on a grave,
Which the cold frostworks nip; swift shades o'er braes,
Which the clouds dim; all glory which decays—
The wonders of the northern heavens—the bliss,
And bale of passion,—such, alas! was his!
Oh! there are griefs that, fastening on the heart,
No might can tear away, no force can part!
But as a mighty serpent, that doth hold
Some helpless beast in its relentless fold,
And, till the fluttering ties of life are gone,
Feeds on the heart's-blood, as it ripples down.
No might can tear away, no force can part!
But as a mighty serpent, that doth hold
Some helpless beast in its relentless fold,
And, till the fluttering ties of life are gone,
Feeds on the heart's-blood, as it ripples down.
A broken heart!—what dreadful memories crowd
At that sad word—life chronicled aloud.
A broken heart?—it seems a castle old,
Its days of grandeur o'er, its glories told!
The large halls desolate—the sounding floor
To festal merriment aroused no more:
No wreathed dance, swift-borne to martial tread—
In each gay bower the silence of the dead—
Forgetfulness, oblivion, partners led!
At that sad word—life chronicled aloud.
A broken heart?—it seems a castle old,
Its days of grandeur o'er, its glories told!
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To festal merriment aroused no more:
No wreathed dance, swift-borne to martial tread—
In each gay bower the silence of the dead—
Forgetfulness, oblivion, partners led!
The lute's lascivious note, the harp-string's thrill,
The lover's winning voice—the player's skill—
The dulcet music of gay cavalier,
Breathed like the west wind in his lady's ear,
The war-steed's noisy tramp, the vassal swarms,
The sword's swift lightning, battle's rude alarms,
The victor's proud return, whilst flowers beneath,
Strew all the ground, and beautify his path:
All these are dead—the joys of manly youth,
Ere years have come and their engender'd ruth.
The lover's winning voice—the player's skill—
The dulcet music of gay cavalier,
Breathed like the west wind in his lady's ear,
The war-steed's noisy tramp, the vassal swarms,
The sword's swift lightning, battle's rude alarms,
The victor's proud return, whilst flowers beneath,
Strew all the ground, and beautify his path:
All these are dead—the joys of manly youth,
Ere years have come and their engender'd ruth.
The heart grief-broken!—'tis a riven cloud
Where sunlight will not dwell—a gloomy shroud
Where rottenness is folded—'tis a tree
Worn by the storms, where verdure cannot be—
A hollow in the rock—a stranded wreck—
A shatter'd beach, where constant billows break!
Where sunlight will not dwell—a gloomy shroud
Where rottenness is folded—'tis a tree
Worn by the storms, where verdure cannot be—
A hollow in the rock—a stranded wreck—
A shatter'd beach, where constant billows break!
Already he was dying—the black cloud
Was closing o'er him—Death's funereal shroud;
The mists were filming o'er his radiant eye,
The damps of death were on his forehead high!—
How should I save him? shone the lovely place,
Beloved of old, where glow'd health's blooming face.
The glory of the everlasting hills
Might rouse him, shouting with a thousand rills,
And wake to youthful dreams: So we moved on,
Seeking each solitude remote from man:
Divinest aspect of each pleasant place,
The holiest lines that Nature loves to trace,
The sweetest smiles that beautify her face!
Was closing o'er him—Death's funereal shroud;
The mists were filming o'er his radiant eye,
The damps of death were on his forehead high!—
How should I save him? shone the lovely place,
Beloved of old, where glow'd health's blooming face.
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Might rouse him, shouting with a thousand rills,
And wake to youthful dreams: So we moved on,
Seeking each solitude remote from man:
Divinest aspect of each pleasant place,
The holiest lines that Nature loves to trace,
The sweetest smiles that beautify her face!
| The bard, and minor poems | |