The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
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THE BOWER OF PEACE. |
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THE BOWER OF PEACE.
I
When Hope's illusions all have waned,And silence broods above the dead,
When Sorrow's gloomy clouds have rain'd
Full oft on man's devoted head,—
The time-taught spirit loves to wend
Back through the past its mazy way,
And see the early larks ascend
Up to the gates of day:
While earth, outspread to childhood's glance,
Glow'd like a dream of bright romance.
II
'Twas in the depth of dazzling May,When bland the air and blue the skies,
When groves in blossom'd pride were gay,
And flow'rets of innumerous dyes
Gemm'd Earth's green carpet, that I stray'd,
On a salubrious morning bright,
Out to the champaign, and survey'd,
With thrillings of delight,
Landscapes around my path unfurl'd,
That made an Eden of this world.
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III
I listen'd to the blackbird's song,That from the covert of green trees
Came like a hymn of Heaven along,
Borne on the bloom-enamour'd breeze:
I listen'd to the birds that trill'd,
Each in its turn, some witching note;
With insect swarms the air was fill'd,
Their wintry sleep forgot;
Such was the summer feeling there,
God's love seem'd breathing every where.
IV
The water-lilies in the wavesRear'd up their crowns all freshly green,
And, bursting forth as from their graves,
King-cups and daffodils were seen;
The lambs were frisking in the mead;
Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut tree
The ox reclin'd his stately head,
And bent his placid knee;
From brakes the linnets carol'd loud,
While larks responded from the cloud.
V
I stood upon a high green hill,On an oak stump mine elbow laid,
And, pondering, leant to gaze my fill
Of glade and glen, in pomp array'd.
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A peaceful dwelling I espied,
Girt with its orchard branches round,
And bearing on its side
Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white
Half robb'd the windows of their light:—
VI
There dozed the mastiff on the green—His night-watch finished; and, elate,
The strutting turkey-cock was seen,
Arching his fan-like tail in state.
There was an air of placid rest
Around the spot so blandly spread,
That sure the inmates must be blest,
Unto my soul I said;
Sin, strife, or sorrow cannot come,
To desolate so sweet a home!
VII
Far from the hum of crowds remote,From life's parade and idle show,
'Twould be an enviable lot
Life's silent tenor here to know;
To banish every thought of sin,
To gaze with pure and blameless eyes;
To nurse those holy thoughts within
Which fit us for the skies,
And to regenerate hearts dispense
A bliss akin to innocence.
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VIII
We make our sorrows; Nature knowsAlone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes
And hydra-pangs that never cease:
Is it not so? And yet we blame
Our fate for frailties all our own,
Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name
To what is fault alone:
Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream
To rise unsullied from such stream?
IX
Vain thought! far better, then, to shunThe turmoils of the rash and vain,
And pray the Everlasting One
To keep the heart from earthly stain;
Within some sylvan home like this,
To hear the world's far billows roll;
And feel, with deep contented bliss,
They cannot shake the soul,
Or dim the impress bright and grand,
Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand.
X
When round this bustling world we look,What treasures observation there?
Doth it not seem as man mistook
This passing scene of toil and care
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This cloud-land were his final home;
And that he mock'd the great belief
Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith were built in these?
Many years ago, in sauntering through the Abbey burialground of Melrose, the Author was much struck with the following inscription on a small but venerable tombstone—
“The Earth walks upon the earth, glistering like gold;The Earth goeth to the earth sooner than it wold;
The Earth builds upon the earth temples and tow'rs;
But the earth sayeth to the Earth all shall be ours!”
He has since learned that the original appertains to a churchyard in Gloucestershire, from which the above is only a transcription.
XI
To Power he says—“I trust in thee!”As if terrestrial strength could turn
The avenging shafts of Destiny,
And disappoint the funeral urn:
To Pride—“Behold, I must, and can!”
To Fame—“Thou art mine idol-god!”
To Gold—“Thou art my talisman
And necromantic rod!”
Down Time's far stream he darts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.
XII
Oh, fool, fool, fool!—and is it thusThou feed'st of vanity the flame?
The great, the good, are swept from us,
And only live in deed or name.
From out the myriads of the past,
Two only have been spared by Death;
“Christians looking on death not only as the sting, but the
period and end of sin, the horizon and isthmus between this
life and a better, and the death of this world but as the nativity
of another, do contentedly submit unto the common necessity,
and envy not Enoch nor Elias.”
—Sir Thomas Browne's Letter to a Friend.
And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast
To deprecate his wrath?
Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride,
By threats to turn his scythe aside?
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XIII
Where are the warrior-chiefs of old?Where are the realms on which they trod?
While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd,
And man proclaim'd himself a god!
Where are the sages and their saws,
Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams?
The legislators, and their laws,
What are they now but dreams?
The prophets, do they still forebode?
Our fathers, where are they?—with God!
XIV
Our fathers! We ourselves have seenThe days when vigour arch'd each brow—
Our fathers!!—are they aught, I ween,
But household recollections now?
Our fathers!!!—nay, the very boys,
Who, with ourselves, were such at school,
When, nectar-sweet, life's cup of joys
Felt almost over-full,
Although one parish gave them birth,
Their graves are scatter'd o'er the earth!
XV
Where are the blazon'd dreams of Youth,And where the friends on whom we leant,
Whose feelings—ay! whose hearts of truth,
Fraternal, with our own were blent?
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In which the universe was drest,
As Evening, like a city on fire,
Burn'd down along the West,
Leaving the enchanted eastern sky
To the round moon's calm argentry?
XVI
Alas! with care we sow the wind,To reap the whirlwind for our pains;
On the dark day of need to find
Each proffer'd ransom Time disdains:
All that was once our idle boast,
Weigh'd in the balance dust shall be;
Death knocks—frail man gives up the ghost—
He dies—and where is he?
Vanish'd for ever and forgot,
The place that knew him knows him not!
XVII
Ho! wanderer, ho!—eschew the wrong,To reason turn, from error cease;
And list the words of wisdom's tongue,
The still small tongue that whispers peace:
Withhold the heart from worldly strife—
Do good—love mercy—evil fly;
And know that, from this dream call'd life,
We wake but when we die;—
Unto the eager to be pure
The path is straight—the palm is sure!
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XVIII
For ne'er hath prodigal come round,Subdued in heart and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found
Forgiveness in the Saviour's face;
At contrite hearts he will not scoff—
Whoever knocks, an entrance wins:
Then let us at the Cross throw off
The burden of our sins;
And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make—has made them white!
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |