Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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CONTENTMENT IN THE DARK.
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82
X
CONTENTMENT IN THE DARK.
We asked not to be born: 'tis not by will
That we are here beneath the battle-smoke,
Without escape; by good things as by ill,
By facts and mysteries enchained: no cloak
Of an Elijah, no stairs whereupon
Angels ascending and descending shine
Over the head here pillowed on a stone,
Anywhere found;—so say they who repine.
But each year hath its harvest, every hour
Some melody, child-laughter, strengthening strife,
For mother Earth still gives her child his dower,
And loves like doves sit on the boughs of life.
That we are here beneath the battle-smoke,
Without escape; by good things as by ill,
By facts and mysteries enchained: no cloak
Of an Elijah, no stairs whereupon
Angels ascending and descending shine
Over the head here pillowed on a stone,
Anywhere found;—so say they who repine.
But each year hath its harvest, every hour
Some melody, child-laughter, strengthening strife,
For mother Earth still gives her child his dower,
And loves like doves sit on the boughs of life.
Ought we to have whate'er we want, in sooth?
To build heaven-reaching towers, find Jacob's stair;
Alchemists' treasures, everlasting youth,
Or aught that may not stand our piercing air?
Nay, even these are ours, but only found
By Poet in those fabulous vales, due east,
Where grows the amaranth in charmèd ground;
And he it was thenceforth became the Priest,
And raised Jove's altar when the world was young:
He too it was, in Prophet's vesture stoled,
Spake not but sang until life's roof-tree rung,
And we who hear him still are crowned with gold.
To build heaven-reaching towers, find Jacob's stair;
Alchemists' treasures, everlasting youth,
Or aught that may not stand our piercing air?
83
By Poet in those fabulous vales, due east,
Where grows the amaranth in charmèd ground;
And he it was thenceforth became the Priest,
And raised Jove's altar when the world was young:
He too it was, in Prophet's vesture stoled,
Spake not but sang until life's roof-tree rung,
And we who hear him still are crowned with gold.
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