 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
417
Rondels and Rondeaux.
With pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man.
Austin Dobson.
Of old made music sweet for man.
Austin Dobson.
Like echo of an old refrain
That long within the mind has lain.
Canon Bell.
That long within the mind has lain.
Canon Bell.
419
VAGRANT LOVE.
O vagrant Love! do you come this way?
I hear you knock at the long-closed door
That turned too oft on its hinge before—
I am stronger now; I can say you Nay.
I hear you knock at the long-closed door
That turned too oft on its hinge before—
I am stronger now; I can say you Nay.
The vague, sweet smile on your lips to-day,
Its meaning and magic I know of yore:
O vagrant Love, do you come this way?
I hear your knock at the long-closed door.
Its meaning and magic I know of yore:
O vagrant Love, do you come this way?
I hear your knock at the long-closed door.
But why your summons should I obey?
I listened once till my heart grew sore—
Shall I listen again, and again deplore?
Nay! Autumn must ever be wiser than May—
And the more we welcome the more you betray—
O vagrant Love, would you come this way?
I listened once till my heart grew sore—
Shall I listen again, and again deplore?
Nay! Autumn must ever be wiser than May—
And the more we welcome the more you betray—
O vagrant Love, would you come this way?
420
THOUGH WE REPENT.
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair—
Turn false to true, and carelessness to care
And let us find again what now we lack?
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair—
Turn false to true, and carelessness to care
And let us find again what now we lack?
Oh, once, once more to tread the old-time track,
The flowers we threw away once more to wear—
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair?
The flowers we threw away once more to wear—
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair?
Who can repulse a stealthy ghost's attack—
Silence a voice that doth the midnight dare—
Make fresh hopes spring from grave-sod of despair—
Set free a tortured soul from memory's rack?
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair?
Silence a voice that doth the midnight dare—
Make fresh hopes spring from grave-sod of despair—
Set free a tortured soul from memory's rack?
Though we repent, can any God give back
The dear, lost days we might have made so fair?
421
THE SPRING IS HERE.
I feel the kindness of the lengthening days—
I warm me at the strong fire of the sun—
I know the year's glad course is well begun—
Ah, what awaits me in its devious ways?
I warm me at the strong fire of the sun—
I know the year's glad course is well begun—
Ah, what awaits me in its devious ways?
What strange, new bliss shall thrill me with amaze?
What prize shall I rejoice that I have won?
I feel the kindness of the lengthening days—
I warm me at the strong fire of the sun.
What prize shall I rejoice that I have won?
I feel the kindness of the lengthening days—
I warm me at the strong fire of the sun.
Yet I behold the phantom that dismays—
The face of Grief that spares not any one—
Rewards come not until the task is done,
And there are minor chords in all earth's lays;—
Nay! Trust the kindness of the lengthening days—
I'll warm me at the strong fires of the sun.
The face of Grief that spares not any one—
Rewards come not until the task is done,
And there are minor chords in all earth's lays;—
Nay! Trust the kindness of the lengthening days—
I'll warm me at the strong fires of the sun.
422
TO THE GHOST OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
Fair, ruthless Ghost, I know you well!
High poets praised you with their lays,
Yet could not half your beauty tell;
So, now, your loveliness dismays
High poets praised you with their lays,
Yet could not half your beauty tell;
So, now, your loveliness dismays
My rhyme, and mocks my poor essays
To hint, in words, its magic spell.
Ah, witching Queen, strange woes befell
The bards who served you in old days!
To hint, in words, its magic spell.
Ah, witching Queen, strange woes befell
The bards who served you in old days!
Sweet, ruthless Ghost, their songs of praise
Like warning music with me dwell,
And bid me to beware your plays
With love and death—your charm repel.
You smile again! that smile betrays
Hearts still are playthings: Fare you well.
Like warning music with me dwell,
And bid me to beware your plays
With love and death—your charm repel.
You smile again! that smile betrays
Hearts still are playthings: Fare you well.
423
AFTER SUPPING WITH A POET.
TO E. G.
You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas,
And heard the wraiths of vagrant melodies;
And Joys and Hopes from some dim shade came back.
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas,
And heard the wraiths of vagrant melodies;
And Joys and Hopes from some dim shade came back.
What blithe feet walked upon a grass-grown track!
What glad winds gossiped under summer trees!
You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas.
What glad winds gossiped under summer trees!
You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas.
This wine, from strange grapes pressed, upon my track
Let loose the band of Ancient Memories:
Now this sole cup my waywardness can please;
All other brews some fine distinction lack—
You called your magic draught Canary sack!
Let loose the band of Ancient Memories:
Now this sole cup my waywardness can please;
All other brews some fine distinction lack—
You called your magic draught Canary sack!
424
ROSAMOND'S ROSE.
Rosamond gave me a rose,
Rose-red and alive in the sun:
Ah, what was its secret? Who knows?—
Her garden held only that one.
Rose-red and alive in the sun:
Ah, what was its secret? Who knows?—
Her garden held only that one.
Now alive in my heart it glows;
By its magic my peace is undone—
There are spells that the wise should shun—
Rosamond gave me a rose.
By its magic my peace is undone—
There are spells that the wise should shun—
Rosamond gave me a rose.
But where is my old repose?
She calls—to her feet I run:
Oh, who shall the secret disclose?
Or how was my bondage begun?—
Rosamond gave me a rose,
Rose-red and alive in the sun.
She calls—to her feet I run:
Oh, who shall the secret disclose?
Or how was my bondage begun?—
Rosamond gave me a rose,
Rose-red and alive in the sun.
425
TO A FAIR LADY.
Fair Lady, you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met,
And never shall my heart forget
The vision of that August night.
When first your gentle eyes I met,
And never shall my heart forget
The vision of that August night.
With the pale moon's transcendent light,
You shone, in your clear heaven set;
Fair Lady, you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met.
You shone, in your clear heaven set;
Fair Lady, you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met.
Bend, Moon of Women, from your height,
Soothe with your smile earth's care and fret,
Let us be happy in your debt,
Since you Love's varied charms unite;
Your soul and you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met.
Soothe with your smile earth's care and fret,
Let us be happy in your debt,
Since you Love's varied charms unite;
Your soul and you were clad in white
When first your gentle eyes I met.
426
TWO THRUSHES MET.
FOR M. E. S.
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee:
... “And I am I, dear heart, and you are she
Whose tender note beguiled me on my way!”
And sang a simple song of love and glee:
... “And I am I, dear heart, and you are she
Whose tender note beguiled me on my way!”
They did not heed that all the sky was gray,
And not a neighbor leaf on any tree—
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.
And not a neighbor leaf on any tree—
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.
They did not miss the brightness of the May,
Or long the Summer's lavish wealth to see.
“April,” he chirped, “is fair enough for me,
And when you sing, lo, Spring is on the way”—
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.
Or long the Summer's lavish wealth to see.
“April,” he chirped, “is fair enough for me,
And when you sing, lo, Spring is on the way”—
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.
427
LOVE MAKES THE SPRING.
Has Spring come back? Is this the May
That makes the air so bland to-day?
The wild sweet winds are glad to know—
The waiting flowers begin to blow,
Green things are blithe along the way.
That makes the air so bland to-day?
The wild sweet winds are glad to know—
The waiting flowers begin to blow,
Green things are blithe along the way.
“What happy spell,” I hear them say,
“Has turned the Winter into May?”
Each to the other—“Do you know?
Has Spring come back?”
“Has turned the Winter into May?”
Each to the other—“Do you know?
Has Spring come back?”
Ah, Love is he who warms the day,
And turns the Winter into May—
And happy things begin to grow,
Alive with Love's glad overflow,
And answer to his ardent ray—
“Spring has come back.”
And turns the Winter into May—
And happy things begin to grow,
Alive with Love's glad overflow,
And answer to his ardent ray—
“Spring has come back.”
428
LIFE'S DAY.
TO ONE WHO ASKS ME FOR A MERRY SONG.
Oh, could I know how long Life's day—
How near its end, or far away—
What space for mirth, what room for tears—
Then might I put aside my fears,
And for a little while be gay.
How near its end, or far away—
What space for mirth, what room for tears—
Then might I put aside my fears,
And for a little while be gay.
But now, I think, Death soon may stray
Hereward, and find me at my play,
And mock my laughter with his jeers—
Ah, could I know!
Hereward, and find me at my play,
And mock my laughter with his jeers—
Ah, could I know!
And so I tremble 'neath the sway
Of that arch Foe, who at me peers,
And hour by hour my covert nears,
Yet mocks me when I bid him say
How long for me may be Life's day.
Of that arch Foe, who at me peers,
And hour by hour my covert nears,
Yet mocks me when I bid him say
How long for me may be Life's day.
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |