 | Post-Laureate Idyls and other poems by Oscar Fay Adams |  |
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Lyrics, etc.
Why turn the page? There's nought o'erleaf
To hold attent your thoughtful mind.
You will? 'Tis well these lays are brief,
If to disparage you're inclined.
To hold attent your thoughtful mind.
You will? 'Tis well these lays are brief,
If to disparage you're inclined.
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THE SWEET SOUTH-WIND.
Over the fields and the waters there suddenly swept in mid-April
Something that seemed like a breath that was blown from far coasts of the sunlands.
Languorous was it and sweet as are lilies or odorous spices,
Laden with delicate hints of a summer not far in the distance.
Over the meadows and fields that, embrowned by the cold of the winter,
Lay as if dead to the spring and with never a hope of a harvest,
Silently passed the south-wind, and there suddenly sprang into being
Millions of grass blades that tossed like an emerald sea in the sunshine,
Daffodils fair as were those that gained Pluto a consort in Hades,
Buttercups golden and gleaming like gems on the hands of a maiden,
Daisies that grew near the ground and yet ever and always gazed upward,
Violets azure and yellow and white and of wonderful fragrance.
Something that seemed like a breath that was blown from far coasts of the sunlands.
Languorous was it and sweet as are lilies or odorous spices,
Laden with delicate hints of a summer not far in the distance.
Over the meadows and fields that, embrowned by the cold of the winter,
Lay as if dead to the spring and with never a hope of a harvest,
Silently passed the south-wind, and there suddenly sprang into being
Millions of grass blades that tossed like an emerald sea in the sunshine,
Daffodils fair as were those that gained Pluto a consort in Hades,
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Daisies that grew near the ground and yet ever and always gazed upward,
Violets azure and yellow and white and of wonderful fragrance.
Over the trees in the orchard and forest it breathed in its progress,
Bringing the sap from the roots to the near and the farthermost branches,
Swelling the buds till the willow was hid in a verdurous mist-cloud,
Touching the boughs of the maple that reddened with joy at the meeting,
Leaving wherever it lingered assurance and promise of summer.
Over the streams the beneficent breeze from the southland swept gently,
Filled all the waters with quick-darting life that rejoiced in the springtime,
Sent all the rivers, now freed from the grasp of the winter, exultant,
Moving in shimmering, glittering, sinuous curves that led seaward.
So on its way passed the wonderful wakening wind from the sunlands,
Driving before it the frost and the cold of the winter, reluctant,
While in their stead came the warmth and the rearoused life of the springtide,
For in the wake of the life-giving breeze flew the jubilant swallows,
Twittered the robins and wrens, while the azure-hued wing of the bluebird
Cut through the air like the scintillant blade that is famed of Toledo.
Bringing the sap from the roots to the near and the farthermost branches,
Swelling the buds till the willow was hid in a verdurous mist-cloud,
Touching the boughs of the maple that reddened with joy at the meeting,
Leaving wherever it lingered assurance and promise of summer.
Over the streams the beneficent breeze from the southland swept gently,
Filled all the waters with quick-darting life that rejoiced in the springtime,
Sent all the rivers, now freed from the grasp of the winter, exultant,
Moving in shimmering, glittering, sinuous curves that led seaward.
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Driving before it the frost and the cold of the winter, reluctant,
While in their stead came the warmth and the rearoused life of the springtide,
For in the wake of the life-giving breeze flew the jubilant swallows,
Twittered the robins and wrens, while the azure-hued wing of the bluebird
Cut through the air like the scintillant blade that is famed of Toledo.
Thus in mid-April the heart of another springtide was awakened;
Faster the blood ran along through the veins in the glorious weather,
Generous impulses quickened and waxed in the glow of the season.
Winter was banished, and with him the cold and the afternoon twilight,
And, as the wail of his storms in the north passed at last into silence,
May could be seen in the distance approaching, her lap full of blossoms.
Faster the blood ran along through the veins in the glorious weather,
Generous impulses quickened and waxed in the glow of the season.
Winter was banished, and with him the cold and the afternoon twilight,
And, as the wail of his storms in the north passed at last into silence,
May could be seen in the distance approaching, her lap full of blossoms.
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ON THE LABRADOR COAST.
(October, 1885.)
Down the coast of LabradorRode the storm-wind conqueror:
In his train the surges roared,
From black clouds the torrents poured.
Miles on miles of frowning cliffs
Marked with Time's strange hieroglyphs
Felt the waves their bases shock,
Heard strange cries that seemed to mock
With their shrill discordant glee
Sounds of human agony.
Drifting wildly with the blast
Scores of vessels southward past.
Down upon their rain-swept decks
Leaped the surges with white necks;
Thundered on their oaken sides
Angry force of mighty tides,
And through shrieking rigging tore
Fiercest gales that fled to shore.
On to land the vessels sped,
On to death the storm-wind led,
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Saw the helpless, feeble skiffs
Swung from schooners' sides and then
Oared by stout-armed fishermen,
Shattered, broken at their feet:
Heard mad waves the dirge repeat
Of the men who met their doom
Where the wildest surges boom
When along stern Labrador
Rides the storm-wind conqueror!
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WHAT'S THE SWEETEST NEWS IN SPRING?
What's the sweetest news in spring
That the blithesome swallows bring,
When from southern lands they fly
Through our cloudier northern sky
After frosts and cold succumb?
That the blithesome swallows bring,
When from southern lands they fly
Through our cloudier northern sky
After frosts and cold succumb?
April's past and May has come!
One may hear it in the hum
Of the silly bees that seek
Honey from the petals meek
Of the violet and the daisy;
See it in the curving, hazy,
Vaporous line that marks a river
Winding slow where rushes quiver;
Feel it in the thrill that stirs
All the Maytide's messengers.
One may hear it in the hum
Of the silly bees that seek
Honey from the petals meek
Of the violet and the daisy;
See it in the curving, hazy,
Vaporous line that marks a river
Winding slow where rushes quiver;
Feel it in the thrill that stirs
All the Maytide's messengers.
May is come and April's past!
Joy of spring is here at last;
One may hear it in the note
Swelling from the bluebird's throat;
See it in the rosy snow
Heaped along the orchard row;
Feel it in the odors stealing
Forth from lily-banks revealing
Mid green spears small waxen bells.
Every sense the message tells
May is come and April's past;
Summer gladness ripens fast.
Joy of spring is here at last;
One may hear it in the note
Swelling from the bluebird's throat;
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Heaped along the orchard row;
Feel it in the odors stealing
Forth from lily-banks revealing
Mid green spears small waxen bells.
Every sense the message tells
May is come and April's past;
Summer gladness ripens fast.
April's past and May is come!
Greening woods no more are dumb;
Every tree is vocal now;
Every winter-twisted bough
Hides its scars with leaf or flower.
Now is come the fairest hour
Held in fee of all the year;
Winds breathe low and skies are clear;
Neither cold nor heat can smite;
All sweet influences unite
In the Maytide hour to make
Earth seem sweeter for our sake.
Who the winter's cold remembers
Or believes in drear Novembers
When of joy this is the sum,—
April's past and May has come?
That's the sweetest news in spring
Which the happy swallows bring.
Greening woods no more are dumb;
Every tree is vocal now;
Every winter-twisted bough
Hides its scars with leaf or flower.
Now is come the fairest hour
Held in fee of all the year;
Winds breathe low and skies are clear;
Neither cold nor heat can smite;
All sweet influences unite
In the Maytide hour to make
Earth seem sweeter for our sake.
Who the winter's cold remembers
Or believes in drear Novembers
When of joy this is the sum,—
April's past and May has come?
That's the sweetest news in spring
Which the happy swallows bring.
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FRANCESCA AND PAOLO.
In that dim-lighted land where bideThe spirits who have sinned below,
One newly come saw by her glide,
In silence mournfully and slow,
That other who upon her turned
Sad eyes that alway swam in tears,
And moved dry lips that constant burned
With kisses never through the years
Of dateless æons to be kissed.
Forever doomed the one to see
Her loved Paolo near, and list
In vain for loving words; to be
Forever witness of his pain,
And look and long for aye to ease
The anguish of his heart. Sad twain!
What lovers' torments like to these?
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WHERE ARE THE PIPES OF PAN?
In these prosaic days
Of politics and trade,
When seldom Fancy lays
Her touch on man or maid,
The sounds are fled that strayed
Along sweet streams that ran;
Of song the world's afraid;
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Of politics and trade,
When seldom Fancy lays
Her touch on man or maid,
The sounds are fled that strayed
Along sweet streams that ran;
Of song the world's afraid;
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Within the busy maze
Wherein our feet are stayed,
There roam no gleesome fays
Like those which once repaid
His sight who first essayed
The stream of song to span,
Those spirits all are laid.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Wherein our feet are stayed,
There roam no gleesome fays
Like those which once repaid
His sight who first essayed
The stream of song to span,
Those spirits all are laid.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
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Dry now the poet's bays;
Of song-robes disarrayed
He hears not now the praise
Which erst those won who played
On pipes of rushes made,
Before dull days began
And love of song decayed.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Of song-robes disarrayed
He hears not now the praise
Which erst those won who played
On pipes of rushes made,
Before dull days began
And love of song decayed.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Envoy.
Prince, all our pleasures fade;
Vain all the toils of man;
And Fancy cries dismayed,
“Where are the Pipes of Pan?”
Vain all the toils of man;
And Fancy cries dismayed,
“Where are the Pipes of Pan?”
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SONG.
If you love me, come and be
In my heart of hearts and see
How I think of naught but thee!
In my heart of hearts and see
How I think of naught but thee!
If you hate me, tell me so,
I should love you still, I know,—
Hate to love will sometimes grow.
I should love you still, I know,—
Hate to love will sometimes grow.
If you neither love nor hate,
For your grace I ne'er will wait;
You will never be my fate!
For your grace I ne'er will wait;
You will never be my fate!
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TO A FRIEND WHO DELAYS TO WRITE.
Springtime goes,
Comes the rose,—
Ne'er a letter yet!
Comes the rose,—
Ne'er a letter yet!
Summer's reign
O'er again,—
Still he doth forget!
O'er again,—
Still he doth forget!
Autumn fast
Slideth past,—
Can he mean to let
Slideth past,—
Can he mean to let
Winter drear
End the year,—
End, and still forget?
End the year,—
End, and still forget?
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A VALENTINE.
There is a little maid
Of whom I'm much afraid.
Shall I confess it?
She wears a sealskin coat;
Its grace and shape I note
And needs must bless it.
Of whom I'm much afraid.
Shall I confess it?
She wears a sealskin coat;
Its grace and shape I note
And needs must bless it.
She wears a little bonnet:
A bird that's perched upon it
To fly seems ready.
My heart, not over-bold,
When her I do behold,
Goes quite unsteady.
A bird that's perched upon it
To fly seems ready.
My heart, not over-bold,
When her I do behold,
Goes quite unsteady.
She has a little muff
In which, from breezes rough,
Her hands find shelter.
My wits, when her I see
Clad all so daintily,
Fly helter-skelter.
In which, from breezes rough,
Her hands find shelter.
My wits, when her I see
Clad all so daintily,
Fly helter-skelter.
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Who is this little maid
Of whom I'm so afraid?
Dare I reveal it?
This little maid is she
Whose eyes these verses see;
I can't conceal it.
Of whom I'm so afraid?
Dare I reveal it?
This little maid is she
Whose eyes these verses see;
I can't conceal it.
But if she should divine
I'd be her valentine,
As here I sing it,
I'll dare to hope she may
Be surely mine some day.
Sweet skies, soon bring it.
I'd be her valentine,
As here I sing it,
I'll dare to hope she may
Be surely mine some day.
Sweet skies, soon bring it.
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MIDSUMMER PASSES.
With faltering step the sweet Midsummer pausedUpon the last stair of the worn July.
Behind her blushed the roses and before
The scarlet poppies shimmered in the corn.
From far-off woods a heated breath came past,
Blown from dark cedars and tall groves of pine,
Yet all its sweetness might not serve to soothe
The bitterness of fair Midsummer's pain,
Who felt her sceptre slipping from her grasp
And saw one coming with his heated brows
Girt round with wheatstraws, bold young August brown.
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FAIR FRIENDSHIP RAISED HIS PLACID MASK.
Fair Friendship raised his placid mask and showedBeneath, not brows where calm Content should reign,
Nor smiles wherein all-perfect Joy abode,
But Discord's face, distort with many a pain!
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AN EASTER GRIEF.
The Easter brightness fades away;A chill has numbed the bursting leaf;
A shadow falls across the day
And in our hearts is bitter grief.
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UNTO LATE AUTUMNTIDE.
With lurid torch October fired the woods;Brief grew the days, and long and chill the nights;
The birds flew southward and their songs made glad
No more the hours. Then changed the maple's gold
To russet brown. November's step was heard
Along the leafstrewn ways, and, blown by winds
And drenched by autumn rains, October fled
Before her down the path where summer went:
So waned the year to later autumntide.
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WITH A PRAYER-BOOK.
In Common Prayer our hearts ascend
To that white throne where angels bend.
Now grant, O Lord, that those who call
Themselves by Thy dear name may all
Show forth Thy praise in lives that tend
To that white throne where angels bend.
Now grant, O Lord, that those who call
Themselves by Thy dear name may all
Show forth Thy praise in lives that tend
To noble purpose, lofty end,
And unto us thy blessing lend
As low upon our knees we fall.
In Common Prayer.
And unto us thy blessing lend
As low upon our knees we fall.
In Common Prayer.
In this dear Book past ages blend
Their voice with ours; we do commend
Our souls, in doubt and sin held thrall,
To His fond care, and cot and hall
Alike to him petitions send
In Common Prayer.
Their voice with ours; we do commend
Our souls, in doubt and sin held thrall,
To His fond care, and cot and hall
Alike to him petitions send
In Common Prayer.
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ON TRURO SANDS.
TO W. M. F.
On Truro sands we walked, dear friend,
Slow following up that low shore's trend.
The crescent moon dipt in the sea,
Soft darkness fell on you and me
As on we wandered past the bend
Slow following up that low shore's trend.
The crescent moon dipt in the sea,
Soft darkness fell on you and me
As on we wandered past the bend
That marked the fishing hamlet's end,
And felt the breeze against us spend
Its gentle force. Ah, sweet to be
On Truro sands!
And felt the breeze against us spend
Its gentle force. Ah, sweet to be
On Truro sands!
Some Presence did our steps attend
And to that hour a blessing lend,
So one in heart, my friend, were we,
And set from selfish fancies free.
How dull were life, that hour unkenned,
On Truro sands!
And to that hour a blessing lend,
So one in heart, my friend, were we,
And set from selfish fancies free.
How dull were life, that hour unkenned,
On Truro sands!
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BEATEN.
Where is the spirit of striving that once was so strong in my heart?
And where is the lofty devotion that attended my steps at the start?
I was so full of my purpose and never gave way to a doubt,
Never looked forward to failure, whatever dark clouds were about,
Always believed in hard fighting, and never once trusted to luck,
Put my whole soul in my doing, and honest each blow that I struck.
And where is the lofty devotion that attended my steps at the start?
I was so full of my purpose and never gave way to a doubt,
Never looked forward to failure, whatever dark clouds were about,
Always believed in hard fighting, and never once trusted to luck,
Put my whole soul in my doing, and honest each blow that I struck.
What is the guerdon of labor, of honesty what the reward?
Only a pittance at most, and simplicity conquered by fraud.
Where is the joy of believing when faith is met by a sneer?
Why should we look to the future expecting the skies to be clear?
Always the strongest are prospered: why may it not be so again,
If there's a heaven hereafter reserved for the children of men?
Might has the best of us here, and may it not be so beyond?
I who am vanquished in battle have little to do but despond.
Never for me will the prospect be brightened again by a hope;
I have grown old in the conflict, and care not with evil to cope.
Only a pittance at most, and simplicity conquered by fraud.
Where is the joy of believing when faith is met by a sneer?
Why should we look to the future expecting the skies to be clear?
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If there's a heaven hereafter reserved for the children of men?
Might has the best of us here, and may it not be so beyond?
I who am vanquished in battle have little to do but despond.
Never for me will the prospect be brightened again by a hope;
I have grown old in the conflict, and care not with evil to cope.
Beaten am I in the struggle, the doom of the conquered is mine;
Darkness and clouds are about me, the morrow I may not divine.
Now I await the dread moment when I shall have done with it all,
When the long strife shall be ended, and I turn my face to the wall.
Darkness and clouds are about me, the morrow I may not divine.
Now I await the dread moment when I shall have done with it all,
When the long strife shall be ended, and I turn my face to the wall.
| Post-Laureate Idyls and other poems by Oscar Fay Adams | |