 | Poems (1885) |  |
245
REST.
His Mother was a Prince's child,
His Sire a crownëd King;
There lacked not to his splendid lot
What power or wealth could bring;
Great nobles served him, bending low,
Strong captains wrought his will;
Fair fortune!—but it wearied him,
His spirit thirsted still!
His Sire a crownëd King;
There lacked not to his splendid lot
What power or wealth could bring;
Great nobles served him, bending low,
Strong captains wrought his will;
Fair fortune!—but it wearied him,
His spirit thirsted still!
For him the glorious music rang
Of singers, silent long;
Grave histories told, in scrolls of old,
The strife of right and wrong;
For him Philosophy unveil'd
Athenian Plato's lore,
Might these not serve to fill a heart?
Not these! he sigh'd for more!
Of singers, silent long;
Grave histories told, in scrolls of old,
The strife of right and wrong;
246
Athenian Plato's lore,
Might these not serve to fill a heart?
Not these! he sigh'd for more!
He loved!—the truest, newest lip
That ever lover pressed,
The queenliest mouth of all the south
Long love for him confessed:
Round him his children's joyousness
Rang silverly and shrill,
Thrice happy! save that happiness
Missed something—something still!
That ever lover pressed,
The queenliest mouth of all the south
Long love for him confessed:
Round him his children's joyousness
Rang silverly and shrill,
Thrice happy! save that happiness
Missed something—something still!
To battle all his spears he sent,
In streams of winding steel;
On breast and head of foeman dead
His warhorse set its heel;
The jewell'd housings of its flank
Swung wet with blood of kings;
Yet the rich victory seemed rank
With the blood-guilt it brings!
In streams of winding steel;
On breast and head of foeman dead
His warhorse set its heel;
The jewell'd housings of its flank
Swung wet with blood of kings;
Yet the rich victory seemed rank
With the blood-guilt it brings!
247
The splendid passion seized his soul,
To heal, by statutes sage,
The ills that bind our hapless kind,
And chafe to crime and rage;
And dear the people's blessing was,
The praising of the poor;
But evil stronger is than thrones,
And darkness doth endure!
To heal, by statutes sage,
The ills that bind our hapless kind,
And chafe to crime and rage;
And dear the people's blessing was,
The praising of the poor;
But evil stronger is than thrones,
And darkness doth endure!
He laid aside the sword and pen,
And lit the lamp, to wrest
From nature's range the secrets strange,
The treasures of her breast;
And wisdom deep his guerdon was,
And wondrous things he knew;
Yet from each vanquish'd mystery
Some harder marvel grew!
And lit the lamp, to wrest
From nature's range the secrets strange,
The treasures of her breast;
And wisdom deep his guerdon was,
And wondrous things he knew;
Yet from each vanquish'd mystery
Some harder marvel grew!
No pause! no respite! no sure ground,
To stay the spirit's quest!
In all around not one thing found
So good as to be “best;”
Not even love proved quite divine;
Therefore his search did cease,
Lord of all gifts that life can give
Save the one sweet gift—Peace!
To stay the spirit's quest!
In all around not one thing found
So good as to be “best;”
248
Therefore his search did cease,
Lord of all gifts that life can give
Save the one sweet gift—Peace!
Then came it!—crown, sword, wreath—each lay,
An unregarded thing!
The funeral sheet from head to feet,
Was mantle to that king!
And, strange!—Love, learning, statecraft, sway,
Look'd always on before,
But those pale, happy, lips of clay,
Asked nothing!—nothing more!
An unregarded thing!
The funeral sheet from head to feet,
Was mantle to that king!
And, strange!—Love, learning, statecraft, sway,
Look'd always on before,
But those pale, happy, lips of clay,
Asked nothing!—nothing more!
| Poems (1885) | |