 | Orta-undis, and other poems |  |
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FLOWERS IN ASHES.
Where, with unruffled surface wide,
The waters of the river glide
Between the arches dimly in the early dawn descried;
The waters of the river glide
Between the arches dimly in the early dawn descried;
While musing, Sweet, of thee,—once more
I crossed the bridge as oft of yore,
I saw a shallop issue from the shadow of the shore.
I crossed the bridge as oft of yore,
I saw a shallop issue from the shadow of the shore.
With practised ease the boatman stood,
And dipped his paddle in the flood:
And so the open space was gained, and left behind the wood.
And dipped his paddle in the flood:
And so the open space was gained, and left behind the wood.
The dripping blade, with measured stroke,
In ripples soft the surface broke;
As once Apollo, kissing oft, the nymph Cyrene woke.
In ripples soft the surface broke;
As once Apollo, kissing oft, the nymph Cyrene woke.
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And, fast pursuing in his wake,
I heard the dimpling eddies break
In murmurs faint, as if they said—Herefrom example take.
I heard the dimpling eddies break
In murmurs faint, as if they said—Herefrom example take.
Unruffled as this river, lies
The stream of life to youthful eyes;
On either bank a wood and mart, and overhead God's skies.
The stream of life to youthful eyes;
On either bank a wood and mart, and overhead God's skies.
Behind thee slopes the pleasant shore,
The tumult of the town before,
And thou, who standest in the stern, hast in thy hand an oar.
The tumult of the town before,
And thou, who standest in the stern, hast in thy hand an oar.
Oh son of toil, whose poet's heart
Grieves from thy quiet woods to part,
And yet whose birthright high it is, to labor in the mart,
Grieves from thy quiet woods to part,
And yet whose birthright high it is, to labor in the mart,
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To thee, a child, the bloom was sweet;
But manhood loves the crowded street,
And where in closes, loud and clear, the forging hammers beat.
But manhood loves the crowded street,
And where in closes, loud and clear, the forging hammers beat.
But even there may bloom for thee
The blossoms childhood loved to see;
And in the cinders of thy toil, God's fairest flowers be.
The blossoms childhood loved to see;
And in the cinders of thy toil, God's fairest flowers be.
1847.
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