 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
365
Of Life and Love.
The Accumulated Past.
D. G. Rossetti.
D. G. Rossetti.
367
AT MIDSUMMER.
The spacious Noon enfolds me with its peace—
The affluent Midsummer wraps me round—
So still the earth and air, that scarce a sound
Affronts the silence, and the swift caprice
Of one stray bird's lone call does but increase
The sense of some compelling hush profound,
Some spell by which the whole vast world is bound,
Till star-crowned Night smile downward its release.
The affluent Midsummer wraps me round—
So still the earth and air, that scarce a sound
Affronts the silence, and the swift caprice
Of one stray bird's lone call does but increase
The sense of some compelling hush profound,
Some spell by which the whole vast world is bound,
Till star-crowned Night smile downward its release.
I sit and dream—midway of the long day—
Midway of the glad year—midway of life—
My whole world seems, indeed, to hold its breath:—
For me the sun stands still upon his way—
The winds for one glad hour remit their strife—
Then Day, and Year, and Life whirl on toward Death.
Midway of the glad year—midway of life—
My whole world seems, indeed, to hold its breath:—
For me the sun stands still upon his way—
The winds for one glad hour remit their strife—
Then Day, and Year, and Life whirl on toward Death.
368
THE LIFE-MASK OF KEATS.
Poet to poet gave this mask, of him
Who sang the song of Rapture and Despair;
Who to the Nightingale was kin; aware
Of all the Night's enamouring—the dim
Strange ecstasy of light at the moon's rim;
The unheard melodies that subtly snare
The listening soul—Pan's wayward pipes that dare
To conjure shapes now beautiful, now grim.
Who sang the song of Rapture and Despair;
Who to the Nightingale was kin; aware
Of all the Night's enamouring—the dim
Strange ecstasy of light at the moon's rim;
The unheard melodies that subtly snare
The listening soul—Pan's wayward pipes that dare
To conjure shapes now beautiful, now grim.
He who this life-mask prized so tenderly
Might not behold the semblance that it wore,
The charm ineffable—now sweet, now sad:
But well he knew what loveliness must be
Upon the face of Keats for evermore,
And with his spirit's gaze saw and was glad.
Might not behold the semblance that it wore,
The charm ineffable—now sweet, now sad:
But well he knew what loveliness must be
Upon the face of Keats for evermore,
And with his spirit's gaze saw and was glad.
369
SOUL TO BODY.
Oh, long-time Friend, 'tis many a year since we
Took hands together, and came through the morn,
When thou and day and I were newly born—
And fair the future looked, and glad and free—
A year as long as whole Eternity—
And full of roses with no stinging thorn,
And full of joys that could not be outworn;
And time was measureless for thee and me.
Took hands together, and came through the morn,
When thou and day and I were newly born—
And fair the future looked, and glad and free—
A year as long as whole Eternity—
And full of roses with no stinging thorn,
And full of joys that could not be outworn;
And time was measureless for thee and me.
Long have we fared together, thou and I:
Thou hast grown dearer, as old friends must grow:
Small wonder if I dread to say good-by
When our long pact is over, and I go
To enter strange, new worlds beyond the sky,
Called by that Power to whom no man saith No.
Thou hast grown dearer, as old friends must grow:
Small wonder if I dread to say good-by
When our long pact is over, and I go
To enter strange, new worlds beyond the sky,
Called by that Power to whom no man saith No.
370
AT REST.
Shall I lie down to sleep, and see no more
The splendid pageantry of earth and sky—
The proud procession of the stars sweep by;
The white moon sway the sea, and woo the shore;
The morning lark to the far Heaven soar;
The nightingale with the soft dusk draw nigh;
The summer roses bud, and bloom, and die—
Will Life and Life's delight for me be o'er?
The splendid pageantry of earth and sky—
The proud procession of the stars sweep by;
The white moon sway the sea, and woo the shore;
The morning lark to the far Heaven soar;
The nightingale with the soft dusk draw nigh;
The summer roses bud, and bloom, and die—
Will Life and Life's delight for me be o'er?
Nay! I shall be, in my low silent home,
Of all Earth's gracious ministries aware—
Glad with the gladness of the risen day,
Or gently sad with sadness of the gloam,
Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care—
At rest—at rest! What better thing to say?
Of all Earth's gracious ministries aware—
Glad with the gladness of the risen day,
Or gently sad with sadness of the gloam,
Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care—
At rest—at rest! What better thing to say?
371
SHALL I COMPLAIN?
Shall I complain because the feast is o'er,
And all the banquet lights have ceased to shine?
For joy that was, and is no longer mine;
For love that came and went, and comes no more;
For hopes and dreams that left my open door;
Shall I, who hold the past in fee, repine? ...
Nay! there are those who never quaffed life's wine—
That were the unblest fate one might deplore.
And all the banquet lights have ceased to shine?
For joy that was, and is no longer mine;
For love that came and went, and comes no more;
For hopes and dreams that left my open door;
Shall I, who hold the past in fee, repine? ...
Nay! there are those who never quaffed life's wine—
That were the unblest fate one might deplore.
To sit alone and dream, at set of sun,
When all the world is vague with coming night—
To hear old voices whisper, sweet and low,
And see dear faces steal back, one by one,
And thrill anew to each long-past delight—
Shall I complain, who still this bliss may know?
When all the world is vague with coming night—
To hear old voices whisper, sweet and low,
And see dear faces steal back, one by one,
And thrill anew to each long-past delight—
Shall I complain, who still this bliss may know?
372
PARTING.
'Tis you, not I, have chosen. Love, go free!
No cry of mine shall hold you on your way.
I wept above the dead Past yesterday:—
Let it lie now where all fair dead things be,
Beneath the waves of Time's all-whelming sea.
Forget it or remember—come what may—
The time is past when one could bid it stay:
What boots it any more to you or me?
No cry of mine shall hold you on your way.
I wept above the dead Past yesterday:—
Let it lie now where all fair dead things be,
Beneath the waves of Time's all-whelming sea.
Forget it or remember—come what may—
The time is past when one could bid it stay:
What boots it any more to you or me?
It was my life—what matter?—I am dead,
And if I seem to move, or speak, or smile,
If some strange round of being still I tread
And am not buried, for a little while,
Yet, look you, Love, I am not what I seem:
I died when died my faith in that dear dream.
And if I seem to move, or speak, or smile,
If some strange round of being still I tread
And am not buried, for a little while,
Yet, look you, Love, I am not what I seem:
I died when died my faith in that dear dream.
373
VAIN FREEDOM.
So I am free whom Love held thrall so long!
Now will I flaunt my colors on the air,
And with triumphal music scale heaven's stair,
Till all those shining choirs shall hush their song,
And hark in silent wonder to the strong,
Compelling harmonies that boldly dare
To soar so high, and make the blest aware
That, free like them, I stand their ranks among.
Now will I flaunt my colors on the air,
And with triumphal music scale heaven's stair,
Till all those shining choirs shall hush their song,
And hark in silent wonder to the strong,
Compelling harmonies that boldly dare
To soar so high, and make the blest aware
That, free like them, I stand their ranks among.
Nay! but my triumph mocks me,—chills the day:
Bound would I be, and suffer, and be sad,
Rather than free, and with no heart to ache.
Strong God of Love, still hold me in thy sway!
Give back my human pain; let me go mad
With the old dreams, old tortures, for Love's sake.
Bound would I be, and suffer, and be sad,
Rather than free, and with no heart to ache.
Strong God of Love, still hold me in thy sway!
Give back my human pain; let me go mad
With the old dreams, old tortures, for Love's sake.
374
THE NEW YEAR DAWNS.
The New Year dawns—the sun shines strong and clear;
And all the world rejoices and is gay;
The city-loving birds from spray to spray
Flit busily and twitter in my ear
Their little frozen note of wintry cheer:
From ruddy children with the snow at play
Ring peals of laughter gladder than in May,
While friend greets friend, with “Happy be thy Year!”
And all the world rejoices and is gay;
The city-loving birds from spray to spray
Flit busily and twitter in my ear
Their little frozen note of wintry cheer:
From ruddy children with the snow at play
Ring peals of laughter gladder than in May,
While friend greets friend, with “Happy be thy Year!”
So would I joy, if Thou wert by my side—
So would I laugh, if Thou couldst laugh with me—
But, left alone, in Darkness I abide,
Mocked by a Day that shines no more on thee:
From this too merry world my heart I hide—
My New Year dawns not till thy face I see.
So would I laugh, if Thou couldst laugh with me—
But, left alone, in Darkness I abide,
Mocked by a Day that shines no more on thee:
From this too merry world my heart I hide—
My New Year dawns not till thy face I see.
375
ASPIRATION.
Break, ties that bind me to this world of sense,
Break, now, and loose me on the upper air:—
Those skies are blue; and that far dome is fair
With prophecy of some divine, intense,
Undreamed-of rapture. Ah, from thence
I catch a music that my soul would snare
With its strange sweetness; and I seem aware
Of Life that waits to crown this life's suspense.
Break, now, and loose me on the upper air:—
Those skies are blue; and that far dome is fair
With prophecy of some divine, intense,
Undreamed-of rapture. Ah, from thence
I catch a music that my soul would snare
With its strange sweetness; and I seem aware
Of Life that waits to crown this life's suspense.
I see—I hear—yet to this world I cling—
This fatal world of passion and unrest—
Where loss and pain jeer at each human bliss,
As autumn mocks the fleetness of the spring,
And each morn sees its sunset in the west—
Break, ties that bind me to a world like this!
This fatal world of passion and unrest—
Where loss and pain jeer at each human bliss,
As autumn mocks the fleetness of the spring,
And each morn sees its sunset in the west—
Break, ties that bind me to a world like this!
376
OH, TRAVELLER BY UNACCUSTOMED WAYS.
Oh, traveller by unaccustomed ways—
Searcher among new worlds for pleasures new—
Art thou content because the skies are blue,
And blithe birds thrill the air with roundelays,
And the fair fields with sunshine are ablaze?
Dost thou not find thy heart's-ease twined with rue,
And long for some dear bloom on earth that grew—
Some wild, sweet fragrance of remembered days?
Searcher among new worlds for pleasures new—
Art thou content because the skies are blue,
And blithe birds thrill the air with roundelays,
And the fair fields with sunshine are ablaze?
Dost thou not find thy heart's-ease twined with rue,
And long for some dear bloom on earth that grew—
Some wild, sweet fragrance of remembered days?
I send my message to thee by the stars—
Since other messenger I may not find
Till I go forth beyond these prisoning bars,
Leaving this memory-haunted world behind,
To seek thee, claim thee, wheresoe'er thou be,
Since Heaven itself were empty, lacking thee.
Since other messenger I may not find
Till I go forth beyond these prisoning bars,
Leaving this memory-haunted world behind,
To seek thee, claim thee, wheresoe'er thou be,
Since Heaven itself were empty, lacking thee.
377
GREAT LOVE.
I.
GREAT LOVE IS HUMBLE.
Humble is Love, for he is Honor's child:
He knows the worth of her he does adore,
And that high reckoning humbles him the more:
By her dear sweetness from his pain beguiled,
He would be proud because her look is mild;
But all the while he scans the oft-told score,
And his imperfectness must still deplore,
Abashed no less because on him she smiled.
He knows the worth of her he does adore,
And that high reckoning humbles him the more:
By her dear sweetness from his pain beguiled,
He would be proud because her look is mild;
But all the while he scans the oft-told score,
And his imperfectness must still deplore,
Abashed no less because on him she smiled.
To be allowed to love is Love's dear prize:
To lay his homage at Her royal feet—
To enter thus the true heart's paradise,
The name of names forever to repeat,
And read his sentence in her answering eyes—
Love should be humble—his reward is meet.
To lay his homage at Her royal feet—
To enter thus the true heart's paradise,
The name of names forever to repeat,
And read his sentence in her answering eyes—
Love should be humble—his reward is meet.
378
II.
GREAT LOVE IS PROUD.
For very humbleness Great Love is proud:
The round world were a tribute thrice too small
To render to the rightful queen of all—
Yet why should Love's least gift be disavowed—
If once her royal head the queen has bowed,
Lending her gracious ear to the low call
Of him whose glory is to be her thrall—
Who only prays his worship be allowed?
The round world were a tribute thrice too small
To render to the rightful queen of all—
Yet why should Love's least gift be disavowed—
If once her royal head the queen has bowed,
Lending her gracious ear to the low call
Of him whose glory is to be her thrall—
Who only prays his worship be allowed?
Once to have known her fairness—who is fair
Beyond the dreamer's dream, the painter's art—
This, only this, were bliss above compare:
But if he find the gateway to her heart,
Shall he not, like a king, be set apart
Who for one royal moment entered there?
Beyond the dreamer's dream, the painter's art—
This, only this, were bliss above compare:
But if he find the gateway to her heart,
Shall he not, like a king, be set apart
Who for one royal moment entered there?
379
HER YEARS.
Years come and go, each bringing in his train,
Spring fair with promise, Summer glad with bloom,
Fruit-bearing Autumn, and the Winter's gloom;
But years and seasons march for Her in vain,
Since still she strings her rosary of pain,
Catching from far some subtle, lost perfume,
Some scent of roses dying on a tomb,
Unfreshened by Spring's dew or Summer's rain.
Spring fair with promise, Summer glad with bloom,
Fruit-bearing Autumn, and the Winter's gloom;
But years and seasons march for Her in vain,
Since still she strings her rosary of pain,
Catching from far some subtle, lost perfume,
Some scent of roses dying on a tomb,
Unfreshened by Spring's dew or Summer's rain.
Why change the seasons when She cannot change?
For pomp of morn, high noon, or setting sun
What cares she? They are powerless to estrange
Her soul from Grief, who, till her day is done,
Companions her wherever she may range,
And makes her New Years old, ere yet begun.
For pomp of morn, high noon, or setting sun
What cares she? They are powerless to estrange
Her soul from Grief, who, till her day is done,
Companions her wherever she may range,
And makes her New Years old, ere yet begun.
380
MIDWINTER FLOWERS.
TO E. C. S.
I hold you to my lips and heart, fair flowers,
Dear, first-begotten children of the sun—
Whose summer lives in winter were begun;
Sweet aliens from the warm June's pleasant bowers,
Mocked at by cruel winds in desolate hours
Through which the sands of winter slowly run:
I touch your tender petals, one by one,
And miss no beauty born of summer showers.
Dear, first-begotten children of the sun—
Whose summer lives in winter were begun;
Sweet aliens from the warm June's pleasant bowers,
Mocked at by cruel winds in desolate hours
Through which the sands of winter slowly run:
I touch your tender petals, one by one,
And miss no beauty born of summer showers.
I have a friend who to Life's winter days
Will bring the warmth and splendor of the June;
From him ye come, yet need not speak his praise,
Since on my heart is written well that rune,
And the fine fragrance of his gentle deeds
Reveals his presence 'mong earth's common weeds.
Will bring the warmth and splendor of the June;
From him ye come, yet need not speak his praise,
Since on my heart is written well that rune,
And the fine fragrance of his gentle deeds
Reveals his presence 'mong earth's common weeds.
381
HER PRESENCE.
I long in vain by day, but when the night
With all its jewels stars the waiting sky,
And vagrant fireflies like stray souls flit by,
She seeks me in the tender waning light,
And sits beside me there, a Presence white;—
Her eyes yearn for me, and her dear lips sigh,
But if to clasp her cold soft hands I try
The shadows deepen, and she fades from sight.
With all its jewels stars the waiting sky,
And vagrant fireflies like stray souls flit by,
She seeks me in the tender waning light,
And sits beside me there, a Presence white;—
Her eyes yearn for me, and her dear lips sigh,
But if to clasp her cold soft hands I try
The shadows deepen, and she fades from sight.
O lost and dear!—by what strange, devious way
Does she escape? for I, too, fain would flee
From all the hollow pageantry of life,
And with her through immortal meadows stray.
The free winds mock my quest, stars laugh to see,
And I wait helpless till Death end the strife.
Does she escape? for I, too, fain would flee
From all the hollow pageantry of life,
And with her through immortal meadows stray.
The free winds mock my quest, stars laugh to see,
And I wait helpless till Death end the strife.
382
WHEN WE CONFRONT THE VASTNESS OF THE NIGHT.
When we confront the Vastness of the Night,
And meet the gaze of her eternal eyes,
How trivial seem the garnered gains we prize—
The laurel wreath we flaunt to envious sight;
The flower of Love we pluck for our delight;
The mad, sweet music of the heart, that cries
An instant on the listening air, then dies—
How short the day of all things dear and bright!
And meet the gaze of her eternal eyes,
How trivial seem the garnered gains we prize—
The laurel wreath we flaunt to envious sight;
The flower of Love we pluck for our delight;
The mad, sweet music of the heart, that cries
An instant on the listening air, then dies—
How short the day of all things dear and bright!
The Everlasting mocks our transient strife;
The pageant of the Universe whirls by
This little sphere with petty turmoil rife—
Swift as a dream and fleeting as a sigh—
This brief delusion that we call our life,
Where all we can accomplish is to die.
The pageant of the Universe whirls by
This little sphere with petty turmoil rife—
Swift as a dream and fleeting as a sigh—
This brief delusion that we call our life,
Where all we can accomplish is to die.
383
ON MEETING A SAILING VESSEL IN MID-OCEAN.
She moves on grandly 'twixt the sea and sky,
Like some gigantic bird from foreign shore;
Gray mist behind her and gray mist before,
Riding upon the waters royally.
Salt winds caress her, as they urge her by,
And we who watch shall see her nevermore;
For on she goes, to where the breakers roar
Round some far coast we never may descry.
Like some gigantic bird from foreign shore;
Gray mist behind her and gray mist before,
Riding upon the waters royally.
Salt winds caress her, as they urge her by,
And we who watch shall see her nevermore;
For on she goes, to where the breakers roar
Round some far coast we never may descry.
So on Life's tide we meet an unknown soul,
And catch a passing vision of its grace;
Just seen, then vanished, leaving us to yearn
With vain desire to follow to its goal
The revelation of the radiant face—
Then heartsick to our solitude we turn.
And catch a passing vision of its grace;
Just seen, then vanished, leaving us to yearn
With vain desire to follow to its goal
The revelation of the radiant face—
Then heartsick to our solitude we turn.
384
MIDNIGHT AT SEA.
Through the deep stillness of the awful night,
I heard the clamor of the ship's great bell—
A voice cried: “Twelve o'clock, and all is well!”
Then silence, and the solemn, watching light
Of the white moon, on billows wild and white
That yielded, to her magical, dear spell,
The stormy hearts no lesser charm could quell—
Slaves of her lamp, and powerless to affright.
I heard the clamor of the ship's great bell—
A voice cried: “Twelve o'clock, and all is well!”
Then silence, and the solemn, watching light
Of the white moon, on billows wild and white
That yielded, to her magical, dear spell,
The stormy hearts no lesser charm could quell—
Slaves of her lamp, and powerless to affright.
Ah, when across the wide, unfathomed sea
Which no chart maps, whose depth no plummet knows,
To some dim, unconjectured shore we steer,
Through that wild night, into whose depths we flee
Farther than any wind from this world blows,
May cry of “All is well” our midnight cheer!
Which no chart maps, whose depth no plummet knows,
To some dim, unconjectured shore we steer,
Through that wild night, into whose depths we flee
Farther than any wind from this world blows,
May cry of “All is well” our midnight cheer!
385
INTER MANES.
In the dim watches of the midmost night,A ghost confronts him, standing by his bed,
A lonesome ghost who walks uncomforted,
Pale child of Memory and dead Delight,
No longer fair or pleasant in his sight.
With dusky hair upon her shoulders shed,
And cypress leaves for garland on her head,
As patient as the moonlight and as white,
She stands beside him, and puts forth her hand
To lead him backward into Love's lost Land—
Sad Land which shadows people, and where wait
Memory, her sire, and dead Delight, his mate—
And standing there among the shadowy band,
He learns how Love mocks him who loves too late.
386
YET, STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL YOUR FACE I FIND.
Yet, strangely beautiful your face I find;
Your voice is like the murmur that decrees
A morn of April, and awakes the trees
To meet the soft caresses of the wind.
Like sudden light your presence makes us blind;
From your compelling spell the weak man flees,
The strong man sues you on his bended knees;
And with your golden hair their chains you bind.
Your voice is like the murmur that decrees
A morn of April, and awakes the trees
To meet the soft caresses of the wind.
Like sudden light your presence makes us blind;
From your compelling spell the weak man flees,
The strong man sues you on his bended knees;
And with your golden hair their chains you bind.
I am not of them. Not to you I kneel.
Cold is your charm—like the white moon your soul;
For something more akin to me I yearn.
You can enthrall; but, Empress, can you feel?
March on, unchallenged, to your far-off goal;
From you to some more human heart I turn.
Cold is your charm—like the white moon your soul;
For something more akin to me I yearn.
You can enthrall; but, Empress, can you feel?
March on, unchallenged, to your far-off goal;
From you to some more human heart I turn.
387
A SUMMER'S DREAM.
[I. What that dead summer was my heart knows well]
What that dead summer was my heart knows well—
Knows all it held—sad joy, and joyous pain—
For pain or joy it cannot come again,
With bitter sweetness we alone could tell:—
Time, when I only thought to say farewell,
To break the links of Love's long-during chain—
That I the stars should pass, and you remain,
Held fast to earth by some malignant spell.
Knows all it held—sad joy, and joyous pain—
For pain or joy it cannot come again,
With bitter sweetness we alone could tell:—
Time, when I only thought to say farewell,
To break the links of Love's long-during chain—
That I the stars should pass, and you remain,
Held fast to earth by some malignant spell.
Procession of long days, and longer nights—
When suns rose mocking, and the moon was cold—
When Hope and I lay dying, as I thought,
Still could I bless Love's vanishing delights,
And reach pale hands to clasp him as of old,
Though each dread hour with Death's dismay was fraught.
When suns rose mocking, and the moon was cold—
When Hope and I lay dying, as I thought,
Still could I bless Love's vanishing delights,
And reach pale hands to clasp him as of old,
Though each dread hour with Death's dismay was fraught.
388
[II. So Summer, with her slow, reluctant feet]
So Summer, with her slow, reluctant feet,
Went by, and lingering smiled, as loth to part,
While fond delusions warmed my lonesome heart:—
Though lives were severed, wingèd dreams could meet;
So met we, dear, as bodiless spirits greet—
Met, and were blind, foreseeing not the smart
Of hopes that hope not, and of tears that start
From eyes that say what lips may not repeat.
Went by, and lingering smiled, as loth to part,
While fond delusions warmed my lonesome heart:—
Though lives were severed, wingèd dreams could meet;
So met we, dear, as bodiless spirits greet—
Met, and were blind, foreseeing not the smart
Of hopes that hope not, and of tears that start
From eyes that say what lips may not repeat.
One brief day here, then gone beyond the sun—
How short the way, how soon the goal is won—
So less or more of love why need we measure?
But Fate avenges pleasant things begun,
And Retribution spares not any one,
And no Gods pity those who steal their treasure.
How short the way, how soon the goal is won—
So less or more of love why need we measure?
But Fate avenges pleasant things begun,
And Retribution spares not any one,
And no Gods pity those who steal their treasure.
389
MY MASTERS.
The first of all my masters was Delight—
I bent my knee to worship him, and sought
His ministers, and all the bliss they wrought,
In Day's large splendor, and the peace of Night,
In song, and mirth, and every goodly sight;
Until fair Love another lesson taught,
And bitter pain dearer than pleasure brought,
And my whole soul was subject to his might.
I bent my knee to worship him, and sought
His ministers, and all the bliss they wrought,
In Day's large splendor, and the peace of Night,
In song, and mirth, and every goodly sight;
Until fair Love another lesson taught,
And bitter pain dearer than pleasure brought,
And my whole soul was subject to his might.
Brief while I strove for Fame—his laurel wreath
Seemed good to wear, and dear the fleeting breath
With which men praise the idol of an hour;
But one drew nigh me clothed upon with power,
And looking in the awful eyes of Death
I knew the Master at whose touch we cower.
Seemed good to wear, and dear the fleeting breath
With which men praise the idol of an hour;
But one drew nigh me clothed upon with power,
And looking in the awful eyes of Death
I knew the Master at whose touch we cower.
390
TO PRINCE ORIC.
(SIX YEARS OLD.)
Do you remember, centuries gone by,
When you were king, and I, your subject, came
To kiss your hand, and swell the loud acclaim
Wherewith the people greeted you, and cry—
“Long life, and love, and glory, O most high
And puissant lord”? The city was aflame
With torches; banners streamed; and knight and dame
Knelt at your feet—you smiled your proud reply.
When you were king, and I, your subject, came
To kiss your hand, and swell the loud acclaim
Wherewith the people greeted you, and cry—
“Long life, and love, and glory, O most high
And puissant lord”? The city was aflame
With torches; banners streamed; and knight and dame
Knelt at your feet—you smiled your proud reply.
I think you do remember; for I caught
That same elusive smile upon your lips,
When ended was the centuries' eclipse,
And I, my sovereign found, my homage brought:
“Long life, and love, and glory, now as then!”
And you?—your smile is my reward again.
That same elusive smile upon your lips,
When ended was the centuries' eclipse,
And I, my sovereign found, my homage brought:
“Long life, and love, and glory, now as then!”
And you?—your smile is my reward again.
391
A POET'S SECOND LOVE.
[I. I share your heart with her, its former Queen]
I share your heart with her, its former Queen,
Who taught your lips the song of love to sing—
To whose high altar you were wont to bring
Such laurels as no Fair since Time hath been
Has decked her brow with. Joy was there and teen,
And reverence, as for some most sacred thing
Set high in Heaven for all men's worshipping;
Such laurels gathers no man twice, I ween.
Who taught your lips the song of love to sing—
To whose high altar you were wont to bring
Such laurels as no Fair since Time hath been
Has decked her brow with. Joy was there and teen,
And reverence, as for some most sacred thing
Set high in Heaven for all men's worshipping;
Such laurels gathers no man twice, I ween.
Your second love, ungarlanded, uncrowned—
Fit for life's daily uses, let us say—
Whose lips have never thrilled you with sweet sound,
Hears from the grave your first love's voice, to-day.
With scornful laughter mock her hope to fill
The heart ruled by its earliest sovereign still.
Fit for life's daily uses, let us say—
Whose lips have never thrilled you with sweet sound,
Hears from the grave your first love's voice, to-day.
With scornful laughter mock her hope to fill
The heart ruled by its earliest sovereign still.
392
[II. Not mine the spell to charm your lute to song]
Not mine the spell to charm your lute to song;A poet you, yet not for me your lays;
You crowned that other woman with your praise,
Lifting your voice to Heaven, triumphant, strong,
And later rhymes might do her laurels wrong;
Should you and I together tread life's ways,
An echo would pursue us from old days,
And men would say—“He loved once, well and long,
So now without great love he is content,
Since she is dead whose praise he used to sing,
And daily needs demand their aliment.” ...
Thus some poor bird, who strives with broken wing
To soar, might stoop—strength gone and glad life spent—
To any hand that his scant food would bring.
393
FAIR LIFE.
Fair Life, thou dear companion of my days—Life with the rose-red lips and shining eyes—
That led'st me through my Youth's glad Paradise,
And stand'st beside me still, in these dull ways
My older feet must tread, the tangled maze
Where cares beset me and fresh foes surprise;
On the keen wind and from the far-off skies
Is borne a whisper, which my heart dismays,
That thou and I must part. Beloved so long,
Wilt thou not stay with me, inconstant Love?
Nay, then, the cry upon the wind grows strong—
I must without thee fresh adventure prove;
And yet it may be I but do thee wrong,
And I shall find thee waiting where I rove.
394
A PLEA FOR THE OLD YEAR.
I see the smiling New Year climb the heights—
The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,
And flush the whiteness of the winter snows
Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.
The weary Old Year died when died the night,
And this new comer, proud with triumph, shows
His radiant face, and each glad subject knows
The welcome Monarch, born to rule aright.
The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,
And flush the whiteness of the winter snows
Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.
The weary Old Year died when died the night,
And this new comer, proud with triumph, shows
His radiant face, and each glad subject knows
The welcome Monarch, born to rule aright.
Yet there are graves far-off that no man tends,
Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,
The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,
The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—
These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,
Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.
Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,
The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,
The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—
These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,
Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.
395
WHEN I AM DEAD.
When I am dead and buried underground,
And your dear eyes still greet the shining day,
Will you remember—“Thus she used to say—
And thus, and thus, her low voice used to sound”?
Will memory wander like a ghost around
The well-known paths—tread the accustomed way;
Or will you pluck fresh blossoms of the May,
And waste no rose upon my burial mound?
And your dear eyes still greet the shining day,
Will you remember—“Thus she used to say—
And thus, and thus, her low voice used to sound”?
Will memory wander like a ghost around
The well-known paths—tread the accustomed way;
Or will you pluck fresh blossoms of the May,
And waste no rose upon my burial mound?
I would not have your life to sorrow wed—
Your joyous youth grief-stricken for my sake;—
Though black-winged Care her home with you should make,
Yet vain would be the scalding tears you shed;
And though your heart for love of me should break,
How could I hear, or heed, if I were dead?
Your joyous youth grief-stricken for my sake;—
Though black-winged Care her home with you should make,
Yet vain would be the scalding tears you shed;
And though your heart for love of me should break,
How could I hear, or heed, if I were dead?
396
ONE AFTERNOON.
TO LOUISA, LADY ASHBURTON.
From the dear stillness of your pines you came—
That vast Cathedral where the winds are choir,
And bear to the far heavens the soul's desire,
While the great sun burns golden, like the flame,
On some high altar, to the Highest Name—
From that dear shrine whence worldly thoughts retire—
Where hearts are hushed, and souls to Heaven aspire,
You came, as one who would God's peace proclaim.
That vast Cathedral where the winds are choir,
And bear to the far heavens the soul's desire,
While the great sun burns golden, like the flame,
On some high altar, to the Highest Name—
From that dear shrine whence worldly thoughts retire—
Where hearts are hushed, and souls to Heaven aspire,
You came, as one who would God's peace proclaim.
Now sunset broods upon these solemn hills—
The day is done, and the deep night draws nigh,
And soon the waiting stars will light the sky:—
Though You and Day have gone, your presence fills
The place, and the glad air around me thrills
As if some Heaven-sent angel had passed by.
The day is done, and the deep night draws nigh,
And soon the waiting stars will light the sky:—
Though You and Day have gone, your presence fills
The place, and the glad air around me thrills
As if some Heaven-sent angel had passed by.
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |