 | [Compensation, in] The spirit of the fair. Friday, April 8, 1864. No 4 |  |
44
COMPENSATION.
All day the clash and the struggle—
Thousands of hurrying feet
Thronging to market and forum,
Where lucre and lust will meet.
There are blows to be given and taken,
Battles to lose and to win,—
A man's heart to stay the faint-hearted,
A man's arm to strike through the din.
Thousands of hurrying feet
Thronging to market and forum,
Where lucre and lust will meet.
There are blows to be given and taken,
Battles to lose and to win,—
A man's heart to stay the faint-hearted,
A man's arm to strike through the din.
Rage on, O conflict of mammon,
But through all the blare and the bray,
A little bird lights amid blossoms
And sings me a roundelay.
Leap madly, O wild waste of waters,
I reck not your wrath, for I know
Where a little lake smiles in the sunshine
And lilies are whiter than snow.
But through all the blare and the bray,
A little bird lights amid blossoms
And sings me a roundelay.
Leap madly, O wild waste of waters,
I reck not your wrath, for I know
Where a little lake smiles in the sunshine
And lilies are whiter than snow.
The day charges on into twilight:
Dear dreaming may follow brave deed,
Now a sharp ringing heel on the pavement,
A snort from my iron-shod steed,
A plunge through the glittering darkness,
A tramp on the white-gleaming sod,
And I pass through the shadowy gateway
Of Eden, the Garden of God.
Dear dreaming may follow brave deed,
Now a sharp ringing heel on the pavement,
A snort from my iron-shod steed,
A plunge through the glittering darkness,
A tramp on the white-gleaming sod,
And I pass through the shadowy gateway
Of Eden, the Garden of God.
Hatred, and Malice, and Envy,
Hither you cannot come,
Anger and base Ambition,
Here must your lips be dumb.
No clamor shall mar with its discord,
The song of my little bird,
By no fierce breath of the Northwind
Shall my little lake be stirred.
Hither you cannot come,
Anger and base Ambition,
Here must your lips be dumb.
No clamor shall mar with its discord,
The song of my little bird,
By no fierce breath of the Northwind
Shall my little lake be stirred.
Eyes, are they blue, are they hazel?
Nay their color I cannot see
For the love-light shining through them,
And shining alone for me.
Lips—nay I limn not their curving,
But once a low whisper I heard,
And I thought the angels in Heaven
Could utter no sweeter word.
Nay their color I cannot see
For the love-light shining through them,
And shining alone for me.
Lips—nay I limn not their curving,
But once a low whisper I heard,
And I thought the angels in Heaven
Could utter no sweeter word.
45
Here are flowers I have brought, my darling,
Pansies for thoughts—of you;
Rosemary, that's for remembrance,
Violets, heaven's own blue.
Daisies that hold the spring's sweetness—
Ah! fairer by far than these
Is the flower I wear in my bosom,
The herb that is called heart's-ease.
Pansies for thoughts—of you;
Rosemary, that's for remembrance,
Violets, heaven's own blue.
Daisies that hold the spring's sweetness—
Ah! fairer by far than these
Is the flower I wear in my bosom,
The herb that is called heart's-ease.
Dear Christ! that such grace should be given
To me, beyond hope, beyond prayer!
Be my pledge for the trust that my angel
I entertain not unaware.
The lips on which her lips have rested
Shall never work shame with a lie;
The breast she has leant on, I swear it,
Shall be pure as her own native sky.
To me, beyond hope, beyond prayer!
Be my pledge for the trust that my angel
I entertain not unaware.
The lips on which her lips have rested
Shall never work shame with a lie;
The breast she has leant on, I swear it,
Shall be pure as her own native sky.
So the fable of eld is reversed,
No longer shines Merope dim,
But bending to bless her earth-lover
She gives a new glory to him;
Thrice happy if favored of Heaven,
He enters the Beautiful Land,
To know he found guidance and courage
In the clasp of this little white hand.
No longer shines Merope dim,
But bending to bless her earth-lover
She gives a new glory to him;
Thrice happy if favored of Heaven,
He enters the Beautiful Land,
To know he found guidance and courage
In the clasp of this little white hand.
| [Compensation, in] The spirit of the fair. Friday, April 8, 1864. No 4 | |