The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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The Cry from the Ground. |
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 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
IV. The Cry from the Ground.
And Balder bends above them, glory-crown'd,
Marking them as they creep upon the ground,
Busy as ants that toil without a sound,
With only gods to mark.
Marking them as they creep upon the ground,
Busy as ants that toil without a sound,
With only gods to mark.
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But list! O list! what is that cry of pain,
Faint as the far-off murmur of the main?
Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again!
‘Lo! Death makes all things dark!’
Faint as the far-off murmur of the main?
Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again!
‘Lo! Death makes all things dark!’
Ay me, it is the earthborn souls that sigh,
Coming and going underneath the sky;
They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry—
O Balder, bend, and hark!
Coming and going underneath the sky;
They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry—
O Balder, bend, and hark!
The skies are still and calm, the seas asleep,
In happy light the mortal millions creep,
Yet listen, Balder!—still they murmur deep,
‘Lo! Death makes all things dark.’
In happy light the mortal millions creep,
Yet listen, Balder!—still they murmur deep,
‘Lo! Death makes all things dark.’
[Oh, listen! listen!] ‘Blessed is the light,
We love the golden day, the silvern night,
The cataracts leap, the woods and streams are bright,
We gladden as we mark.
We love the golden day, the silvern night,
The cataracts leap, the woods and streams are bright,
We gladden as we mark.
‘Crying we come, but soon our cheeks are dried—
We wander for a season happy-eyed,
And we forget how our gray sires have sigh'd,
“Lo! Death makes all things dark.”
We wander for a season happy-eyed,
And we forget how our gray sires have sigh'd,
“Lo! Death makes all things dark.”
‘For is the sun not merry and full of cheer?
Is it not sweet to live and feel no fear?
To see the young lambs leaping, and to hear
The cuckoo and the lark?
Is it not sweet to live and feel no fear?
To see the young lambs leaping, and to hear
The cuckoo and the lark?
‘Is toil not blest, is it not blest to be?
To climb the snows, to sail the surging sea,
To build our saeters where our flocks roam free?
But Death makes all things dark.
To climb the snows, to sail the surging sea,
To build our saeters where our flocks roam free?
But Death makes all things dark.
‘Is love not blest, is it not brave and gay
With strong right hand to bear one's bride away,
To woo her in the night time and the day
With no strange eyes to mark?
With strong right hand to bear one's bride away,
To woo her in the night time and the day
With no strange eyes to mark?
‘And blest are children, springing fair of face
Like gentle blossoms in the dwelling-place;
We clasp them close, forgetting for a space
Death makes the world so dark.
Like gentle blossoms in the dwelling-place;
We clasp them close, forgetting for a space
Death makes the world so dark.
‘And yet though life is glad and love divine,
This Shape we fear is here i' the summer shine,—
He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,
And soon he leaves us stark.
This Shape we fear is here i' the summer shine,—
He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,
And soon he leaves us stark.
‘He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep,
He finds us as we sow and as we reap,
He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—
Ah! Death makes all things dark!
He finds us as we sow and as we reap,
He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—
Ah! Death makes all things dark!
‘Yea, when afar over our nets hang we,
He walks unto us even on the sea;
The wind blows in his hair, the foam flics free
O'er many a sinking bark!
He walks unto us even on the sea;
The wind blows in his hair, the foam flics free
O'er many a sinking bark!
‘Pity us, gods, and take this god away,
Pity us, gods, who made us out of clay,
Pity us, gods, that our sad souls may say,
“Bright is the world, which Death a space made dark.”’
Pity us, gods, who made us out of clay,
Pity us, gods, that our sad souls may say,
“Bright is the world, which Death a space made dark.”’
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |