 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
101
ST. AUGUSTINE BY THE ITALIAN LAKES
Sometimes at morning, or at eventide,
Augustine look'd upon the lake and sky—
Not there the glory of light for which he sigh'd
In all the autumn heaven of Italy.
‘Poor shadows are ye—yea, but dimly bright
To me remembering my Afric light.
Augustine look'd upon the lake and sky—
Not there the glory of light for which he sigh'd
In all the autumn heaven of Italy.
‘Poor shadows are ye—yea, but dimly bright
To me remembering my Afric light.
‘Ah, light! with its attendants all day long,
Soothing and charming with a magic touch.
It passes not like every measured song,
Its vast and variegated train is such,
Its omnipresent tide of silver flow,
The queen of all the colours of the bow.
Soothing and charming with a magic touch.
It passes not like every measured song,
Its vast and variegated train is such,
Its omnipresent tide of silver flow,
The queen of all the colours of the bow.
102
‘O light! which Isaac and which Jacob saw
Falling upon the dim prophetic scroll,
When with closed eyes they taught the holiest law,
The light that radiates from the luminous soul—
True light thou art of an unsetting sun,
And all who see thee and who love are one.
Falling upon the dim prophetic scroll,
When with closed eyes they taught the holiest law,
The light that radiates from the luminous soul—
True light thou art of an unsetting sun,
And all who see thee and who love are one.
‘And they who turn away and this disdain
Dwell in the flesh as in a shady place;
And yet of this whatever doth remain,
Whate'er half-glooming glimmer touch their face,—
Yea, all that charms—is overflow divine,
And circumfulgence of that light of Thine.
Dwell in the flesh as in a shady place;
And yet of this whatever doth remain,
Whate'er half-glooming glimmer touch their face,—
Yea, all that charms—is overflow divine,
And circumfulgence of that light of Thine.
‘Yet even here, upon this lawn of rest,
I miss the splendour of my own far ocean,
The various robes which wondrously invest
The evanescent moods of his emotion—
Green of a hundred shades and the fine fall
Of azure tint and pomp purpureal.
I miss the splendour of my own far ocean,
The various robes which wondrously invest
The evanescent moods of his emotion—
Green of a hundred shades and the fine fall
Of azure tint and pomp purpureal.
103
‘Fair are these waters as these hills are fair,
A fit enfolding for a rustic home;
But who their narrow beauty may compare
With that majestic amplitude of foam?
These azure reaches where the reeds scarce shake
The long calm silver of the Lombard lake,
A fit enfolding for a rustic home;
But who their narrow beauty may compare
With that majestic amplitude of foam?
These azure reaches where the reeds scarce shake
The long calm silver of the Lombard lake,
‘They cannot thunder with a voice like his,
They cannot show the immeasurable line,
They have no smoke of white foam o'er the abyss,
No distances that infinitely shine,
No beat of a great heart, no pendulous swing,
No angry flap as of an eagle's wing.
They cannot show the immeasurable line,
They have no smoke of white foam o'er the abyss,
No distances that infinitely shine,
No beat of a great heart, no pendulous swing,
No angry flap as of an eagle's wing.
‘He has the magic swell, the tinkling fall,
In drowsy days of truce, when skies are pure,
Monotonous, incessant, musical;
And when his trumpets sound for war, the obscure
Æonian eloquence, the vast replies
Voluminous, the interminable sighs.
In drowsy days of truce, when skies are pure,
Monotonous, incessant, musical;
And when his trumpets sound for war, the obscure
Æonian eloquence, the vast replies
Voluminous, the interminable sighs.
104
‘The fierceness of him no man shall refrain—
See him with all his water-floods astir,
Like a great king, nigh dispossess'd of his reign,
Staggering with fated hosts, a traveller
Against the wind upon his shoreward track,
His torn white hair tormentedly blown back.
See him with all his water-floods astir,
Like a great king, nigh dispossess'd of his reign,
Staggering with fated hosts, a traveller
Against the wind upon his shoreward track,
His torn white hair tormentedly blown back.
‘They have but one sweet look and steadfast tone:
Save when the tempest's battle may be set,
The war of their white passion passes soon;
His the great epic, theirs the canzonet,
And the brief storm-bursts like an angry ode,
And the floods flashing like an episode.’
Save when the tempest's battle may be set,
The war of their white passion passes soon;
His the great epic, theirs the canzonet,
And the brief storm-bursts like an angry ode,
And the floods flashing like an episode.’
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |