 | Benoni |  |
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VULCAN VICTORIOUS.
Behold, he comes: a staid prosaic Life,—
Manly, and grave, and grand,—but of most gaunt
And icy presence—with a cold small eye
Level and unperceiving, like a stream
Of aimless light shot thro' the chinks—with grim
And austere footsteps crunching as he moves
The crisp starr'd frost-blooms from the unkiss'd snow
Of morning—treading all unhappy flowers
Into their shadows on the path: ah me!
I feel his coming, and my heart begins
To thicken with fat brawn, rank and obese,
Impervious—or wrinkles shrivelling up
For lack of moisture, like strain'd sodden pulp
Of some discarded fruit, juicy and plump
With yielding ripeness once, but now thrown by
For ever—or it stiffens, whilst thin flakes
Of callous bone freeze horribly along
The surface, hardening inwards into one.
Manly, and grave, and grand,—but of most gaunt
And icy presence—with a cold small eye
Level and unperceiving, like a stream
Of aimless light shot thro' the chinks—with grim
And austere footsteps crunching as he moves
The crisp starr'd frost-blooms from the unkiss'd snow
Of morning—treading all unhappy flowers
Into their shadows on the path: ah me!
I feel his coming, and my heart begins
To thicken with fat brawn, rank and obese,
Impervious—or wrinkles shrivelling up
For lack of moisture, like strain'd sodden pulp
Of some discarded fruit, juicy and plump
With yielding ripeness once, but now thrown by
For ever—or it stiffens, whilst thin flakes
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The surface, hardening inwards into one.
Now Heaven be with thee, tender jewell'd thing,
Shut in the fossil-rock for evermore!—
But is there such a thing? Is there aught left
To gasp a choking life i' the solid mass
I grow to?
Shut in the fossil-rock for evermore!—
But is there such a thing? Is there aught left
To gasp a choking life i' the solid mass
I grow to?
O sweet nurse and cherisher
Of young spring-nests in the dry leaves of eld,—
Whether thou hearkenest at the name of Love—
Whatever blessings between parted lips
Fall at the mention of thine excellence—
Who whisperest dreaming buds to wake and bloom
Far out of season, somewhere in the snows—
Who sprinklest the green shadows delicate
Of moist angelic flowers endearingly
On some soil'd coverlet—or dost prepare
Love-wreaths to twine about the sacred cross
Hallowing a grave:—May there not haply be
'Mid curdling juices and thick-clotted gums
And clammy festering ooze, that seem at first
To have soak'd the whole spirit up, to be in-wrought
And kneaded with its essence utterly,—
May there not still, thro' timid viewless veins
Bursting at times, in scanty jets but pure
As erst, be some dear remnant, keeping fresh
The very kernel of its better self,—
Some sweet poetic spirit, at the core?
Of young spring-nests in the dry leaves of eld,—
Whether thou hearkenest at the name of Love—
Whatever blessings between parted lips
Fall at the mention of thine excellence—
Who whisperest dreaming buds to wake and bloom
Far out of season, somewhere in the snows—
Who sprinklest the green shadows delicate
Of moist angelic flowers endearingly
On some soil'd coverlet—or dost prepare
Love-wreaths to twine about the sacred cross
Hallowing a grave:—May there not haply be
'Mid curdling juices and thick-clotted gums
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To have soak'd the whole spirit up, to be in-wrought
And kneaded with its essence utterly,—
May there not still, thro' timid viewless veins
Bursting at times, in scanty jets but pure
As erst, be some dear remnant, keeping fresh
The very kernel of its better self,—
Some sweet poetic spirit, at the core?
| Benoni | |