 | Forest Songs and Other Poems |  |
49
EVENING PRIMROSE.
Sweet as a dream of one beloved, yon star,
Sole in the skies, the placid Evening Star
Floats glimmering o'er the sunset-lighted pines
Upon the mountain's brow, and trembling drinks
The ether cool, and blends its trembling ray
With evening's colours in the stream. I hear
The vale's serenest voice, in murmurs low
From rivulets dim, and in the rippling tune
Of cowbells, as the gathering herds flow down
From upland pastures home—a gurgling brook
Of cool and silver sound. The wild, sad, sweet
Accords that chime at fitful intervals,
As wills it wanton chance, wake in my heart's
Most lonely cave its melancholy spring,
Whose waters, trembling into gloomy peace,
Image delights more deep than ever grew
By mortal mere, or brook the eager hands
Of passionate desire.
Sole in the skies, the placid Evening Star
Floats glimmering o'er the sunset-lighted pines
Upon the mountain's brow, and trembling drinks
The ether cool, and blends its trembling ray
With evening's colours in the stream. I hear
The vale's serenest voice, in murmurs low
From rivulets dim, and in the rippling tune
Of cowbells, as the gathering herds flow down
From upland pastures home—a gurgling brook
Of cool and silver sound. The wild, sad, sweet
Accords that chime at fitful intervals,
As wills it wanton chance, wake in my heart's
Most lonely cave its melancholy spring,
Whose waters, trembling into gloomy peace,
Image delights more deep than ever grew
By mortal mere, or brook the eager hands
Of passionate desire.
But now the voice
Of the glad vale, the vision of its peace,
Fade from my brooding sense—grow but a vague
And distant dream; such alien forms arise,
Born of my reading of to-day, between;
And baleful as a murderer's sudden torch,
Scaring the moon upon a night of joy,
And making love-dilated eyes to shrink,
Another scene grows vivid to my view.
50
Fade from my brooding sense—grow but a vague
And distant dream; such alien forms arise,
Born of my reading of to-day, between;
And baleful as a murderer's sudden torch,
Scaring the moon upon a night of joy,
And making love-dilated eyes to shrink,
Another scene grows vivid to my view.
The star of love has vanished in the glare
Of Eastern noon; the golden pine-woods fade
In sun-baked steppes and bleak Tartarian hills;
For thronging cows, the kneeling camels clank
A few harsh bells; and for the valley's voice
Are heard wild shouts, and laughter, and the din
Of a victorious host. The conquerors feast
In silken luxury in a royal tent,
While on their mirth a gory head looks down
From a spear planted in the doorway. That
Is the defeated Khan's head. All around
Fierce Turcomans divide the spoil of war—
Horses and camels, victuals, raiment, arms,
And bleeding captives. On a basking rock,
A bowshot off, stray vultures, come too late
To gorge their fill of slaughter, one by one
Light heavily and wait; for in the sun,
Unpitied, scoffed at, cursed at, spit upon,
Hang, maddening in their horrible agony,
Six Mollahs, each impaled upon his stake.
Here is a dell of Evening Primroses,
Of Eastern noon; the golden pine-woods fade
In sun-baked steppes and bleak Tartarian hills;
For thronging cows, the kneeling camels clank
A few harsh bells; and for the valley's voice
Are heard wild shouts, and laughter, and the din
Of a victorious host. The conquerors feast
In silken luxury in a royal tent,
While on their mirth a gory head looks down
From a spear planted in the doorway. That
Is the defeated Khan's head. All around
Fierce Turcomans divide the spoil of war—
Horses and camels, victuals, raiment, arms,
And bleeding captives. On a basking rock,
A bowshot off, stray vultures, come too late
To gorge their fill of slaughter, one by one
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Unpitied, scoffed at, cursed at, spit upon,
Hang, maddening in their horrible agony,
Six Mollahs, each impaled upon his stake.
Which bow their heads, like weeping Magdalens,
Around the cross-foot of a carven Christ
Upon the edge of a wood. O loveliest flower,
Whose delicate petals, tinctured like yon sky,
Faint twilight lemon, rival thy sweet breath
In tender salutation of the sense!
Fosterer of gentle dreams! why look'st thou now
Like a soft incarnation of Love's soul,
Like Mercy pleading at the gate of Hell,
Like new-born Pity in the ugly world
Of human misery? Perhaps when dawned
The day of woman's hope, and women brought
Their children to their Saviour, those blest eyes
Pitied thy faint, sweet blossoms, as they fell
Withering from infant hands. Perhaps his tears
Were rained upon them ere he knelt by night,
Drinking, for man, the inevitable cup
Of Earth's despair in lone Gethsemane.
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