Poems By Robert Leighton: 2nd ed |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. | XV.
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| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
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 | Poems |  |
XV.
[The half of man's allotted term I've lived]
The half of man's allotted term I've lived
In glorious idleness—in work that gave,
With bread enough, rich hours of rosy eves,
Of morns with dewy eyes, of bright blue noons;
And while my compeers moil'd as if their souls
Would leave them did they bate a single jot,
My foot would be afar upon the heath
With idle winds, or with the musing tide
Upon the lazy shore; and all quaint nooks,
Green lanes, old woods, lone tarns, and forest pools,
Knew me at most untimely business hours.
Wherever I abode my heart took on
The image of the place; it grew within
Like second nature, with a soft slow growth.
In glorious idleness—in work that gave,
With bread enough, rich hours of rosy eves,
Of morns with dewy eyes, of bright blue noons;
And while my compeers moil'd as if their souls
Would leave them did they bate a single jot,
My foot would be afar upon the heath
With idle winds, or with the musing tide
Upon the lazy shore; and all quaint nooks,
Green lanes, old woods, lone tarns, and forest pools,
Knew me at most untimely business hours.
Wherever I abode my heart took on
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Like second nature, with a soft slow growth.
And then the sweet debauchery of books,
That led my soul into a trance of thought,
Without the rack of thinking!
That led my soul into a trance of thought,
Without the rack of thinking!
Blessed time!
Of all that indolence and sloth could yield,
I drank my fill; and though I often dream'd
The hand of stern necessity had snatch'd
My golden leisure, and made me a slave,
I had no faith in dreams, and still delay'd
The nobler use of leisure:—to reclaim
The wastes of mind; to bring from the unknown
The trophy of a thought; to give men's hearts
The thrill of some new beauty; to restore
The ravel that impatient hurry breeds;
To break down all oppression, and declare
The universal brotherhood of man;
To seek God's mystery, to breathe new life
In dead beliefs, and bring to fretful hearts
The heaven of peace that rests alone in God.
Of all that indolence and sloth could yield,
I drank my fill; and though I often dream'd
The hand of stern necessity had snatch'd
My golden leisure, and made me a slave,
I had no faith in dreams, and still delay'd
The nobler use of leisure:—to reclaim
The wastes of mind; to bring from the unknown
The trophy of a thought; to give men's hearts
The thrill of some new beauty; to restore
The ravel that impatient hurry breeds;
To break down all oppression, and declare
The universal brotherhood of man;
To seek God's mystery, to breathe new life
In dead beliefs, and bring to fretful hearts
The heaven of peace that rests alone in God.
Alas for precious leisure—precious now!
Now that my portion is the hour cut off
From needed sleep, the moment from a meal,
The blessed seventh day, for which thank Heaven,
Though friends in loving kindness take it all!—
Alas for leisure! I have none! The hours
Come howling round me, mad with work, till oft
I can but stand and look them all at bay:
But no—there's no abeyance—one by one,
Singly they must be taken, or I fall.
Now that my portion is the hour cut off
From needed sleep, the moment from a meal,
The blessed seventh day, for which thank Heaven,
Though friends in loving kindness take it all!—
Alas for leisure! I have none! The hours
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I can but stand and look them all at bay:
But no—there's no abeyance—one by one,
Singly they must be taken, or I fall.
Moiling and toiling from the dawn to dusk—
Toiling and moiling in the blinding gas!
Tis hard to work with only hands and brain,
Without the heart to help—the heart that longs
To bring its own loved work within its reach.
Toiling and moiling in the blinding gas!
Tis hard to work with only hands and brain,
Without the heart to help—the heart that longs
To bring its own loved work within its reach.
The hours, like noisy carriers, bring their loads
And heave them down before me, then are gone,
Uncaring for the care they leave behind.
The beat of brain within, the haste without,
The unceasing, surging roar along the streets,
The noisome vapours, and the stifled air,
With all the heartless seeking after gold—
O, memories of green and quiet fields,
But I am tired of this!—My only peace
Is not my own, but second-hand—it comes
In looking at repose:—the week-day church,
Within the rails so placid, while without
Is Babel; or the massive pillar'd hall,
That puts to shame this littleness of haste,
And with its big thought slows the passing foot;
Or Age—contented, almost vacant, age—
Sunning itself upon a garden walk,
Amid the hive of streets; or even the glimpse
Of idle alehouse scenes—fat easy men
On benches, in a canopy of smoke,
And drawling out stale sentences, 'bout—nothing.
And heave them down before me, then are gone,
Uncaring for the care they leave behind.
The beat of brain within, the haste without,
The unceasing, surging roar along the streets,
The noisome vapours, and the stifled air,
With all the heartless seeking after gold—
O, memories of green and quiet fields,
But I am tired of this!—My only peace
Is not my own, but second-hand—it comes
In looking at repose:—the week-day church,
Within the rails so placid, while without
Is Babel; or the massive pillar'd hall,
That puts to shame this littleness of haste,
And with its big thought slows the passing foot;
Or Age—contented, almost vacant, age—
Sunning itself upon a garden walk,
Amid the hive of streets; or even the glimpse
Of idle alehouse scenes—fat easy men
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And drawling out stale sentences, 'bout—nothing.
But why complain? I've had my share and more,
Though, like a foolish child, I've raked the sweets
Into the few first bites, and left the rest
Untempting, tasteless, to a stomach cloy'd.
Alas, had I but known! the plain hard fare,
Without the sweets, had rear'd a stouter heart.
Though, like a foolish child, I've raked the sweets
Into the few first bites, and left the rest
Untempting, tasteless, to a stomach cloy'd.
Alas, had I but known! the plain hard fare,
Without the sweets, had rear'd a stouter heart.
My life has fed on lonely idleness,
With varied wanderings by land and sea,
And now this daily treadmill-round of work,
This constant smother of my own idea,
And feeble working out of thoughts not mine,
Kills all the man within me.—O! to be
Again let loose into the untamed life,
Free of restraint, and vagrant as the wind!
With varied wanderings by land and sea,
And now this daily treadmill-round of work,
This constant smother of my own idea,
And feeble working out of thoughts not mine,
Kills all the man within me.—O! to be
Again let loose into the untamed life,
Free of restraint, and vagrant as the wind!
The wind itself—the free wind—moves in chains:
Within increasing circles freedom rules:
Necessity, God's mystery, bounds all.
Our highest freedom is to do the right,
As clearly and as stoutly as we may,
And wheresoe'er that leads us, still 'tis well.
Within increasing circles freedom rules:
Necessity, God's mystery, bounds all.
Our highest freedom is to do the right,
As clearly and as stoutly as we may,
And wheresoe'er that leads us, still 'tis well.
Heaven knows that, with my present eyes, I see
Wrong turnings at all stages of my life:
But did I then? Each seem'd my one best road.
Who knows but that it was; that, while it led
To disappointment, the expected good
Was gain'd in Heaven's own way? So in this slough
Through which I swelter, Heaven alone can tell
What buried treasures lie. The school-boy's task,
Which seem'd his penalty, becomes in time
His strength and blessing. In the world's great school
Our lessons are as little understood,
And even more abhorr'd. But ripening time
Brings fruit to all. What though the many die
Unblest by the fruition! If we pass
Like sunrise onward in eternal day,
A time will come for all; and who may know
What tasks and trials now do best prepare
Each for his unknown sphere? The dead dry rules
Of language, that seem'd worthless to the youth,
Are to the man the wings of living thought.
And so the work of life, that seems mean toil,
Transform'd, will soar hereafter.
Wrong turnings at all stages of my life:
But did I then? Each seem'd my one best road.
Who knows but that it was; that, while it led
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Was gain'd in Heaven's own way? So in this slough
Through which I swelter, Heaven alone can tell
What buried treasures lie. The school-boy's task,
Which seem'd his penalty, becomes in time
His strength and blessing. In the world's great school
Our lessons are as little understood,
And even more abhorr'd. But ripening time
Brings fruit to all. What though the many die
Unblest by the fruition! If we pass
Like sunrise onward in eternal day,
A time will come for all; and who may know
What tasks and trials now do best prepare
Each for his unknown sphere? The dead dry rules
Of language, that seem'd worthless to the youth,
Are to the man the wings of living thought.
And so the work of life, that seems mean toil,
Transform'd, will soar hereafter.
And so ends
My sorrow in philosophy. But shall
My hope of high achievement also end—
My life-long hankering after work in which
Head, heart, and hand might join—and I tame down
Into an unaspiring useful tool?
Is fine ambition vain, save when the act
Goes with it? And unwrought deeds, seen afar
In the despairing night, are they false stars?
If so, where be our guides, since life's dense fog
Lies all before us, our next step unknown?
O, trust thy best ideal, cherish still
The glory that the young heart burn'd to reach:
It was not there for nothing: work and wait.
My sorrow in philosophy. But shall
My hope of high achievement also end—
My life-long hankering after work in which
Head, heart, and hand might join—and I tame down
Into an unaspiring useful tool?
Is fine ambition vain, save when the act
Goes with it? And unwrought deeds, seen afar
In the despairing night, are they false stars?
If so, where be our guides, since life's dense fog
Lies all before us, our next step unknown?
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The glory that the young heart burn'd to reach:
It was not there for nothing: work and wait.
Though hard necessity of daily bread
Drive in another path, and fate and chance
And weakness all combine to cramp the hope,
Still, think towards the achievement. Living thought,
Like Nature, works all things unto its ends,
And uses up what cannot be opposed.
None ever reach'd his heart's goal in the way
Himself plann'd or desired, but in God's way;
And when 'twas reach'd, he saw the hindrances
Were steps whereby the ascent was overcome.
In lives and rivers, the impediments
Give each a voice peculiarly its own.
Be mine the brave endurance of a stream,
By countless barriers turn'd off from my course;
Yet, after toilsome windings, still come round
Upon my loved intent—my seaward way.
Drive in another path, and fate and chance
And weakness all combine to cramp the hope,
Still, think towards the achievement. Living thought,
Like Nature, works all things unto its ends,
And uses up what cannot be opposed.
None ever reach'd his heart's goal in the way
Himself plann'd or desired, but in God's way;
And when 'twas reach'd, he saw the hindrances
Were steps whereby the ascent was overcome.
In lives and rivers, the impediments
Give each a voice peculiarly its own.
Be mine the brave endurance of a stream,
By countless barriers turn'd off from my course;
Yet, after toilsome windings, still come round
Upon my loved intent—my seaward way.
| Poems | |