 | Songs Old and New |  |
82
THE GOLDEN AGE IN THE PRESENT.
Why sigh we for the times of yore,
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every-day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every-day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.
Nature grows never old;
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth:
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true.
Her living forms seem cold.
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth:
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true.
Her living forms seem cold.
Sigh not for ancient days with poetry rife,
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go, let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life.
Nature has still fresh founts of art
To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew
The Golden Age shines ever new.
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go, let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life.
83
To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew
The Golden Age shines ever new.
Do ocean billows foam less gladly now
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curve they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curve they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?
Sing they a song less syren-sweet,
At noon-tide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move
Murmuring words of love?
At noon-tide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move
Murmuring words of love?
Do forest-streams less freshly well,
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?
Or does the waterfall's robe silver-pale,
Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Streamed through the dark trees brightly?
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?
84
Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Streamed through the dark trees brightly?
Has evening a less golden sheen?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noonday's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noonday's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?
And when at morn in spring
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth,—
Say, are not Light and Music one again?
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth,—
Say, are not Light and Music one again?
Sigh not the old heroic ages back,
The heroes were but brave and earnest men;
Do thou but hero-like pursue thy track,
Striving, not sighing brings them back again!
The heroes were but brave and earnest men;
Do thou but hero-like pursue thy track,
Striving, not sighing brings them back again!
The hero's path is straight, to do and say
God's words and works in spite of toil and shame;
Labours enough will meet thee in thy way,
So thou forsak'st it not to seek for them.
God's words and works in spite of toil and shame;
85
So thou forsak'st it not to seek for them.
Canst thou no wrong with patient courage bear,
Strength to none weaker than thyself impart?
Rise! kindle in thyself the hero's heart,
And the heroic age is also there.
Strength to none weaker than thyself impart?
Rise! kindle in thyself the hero's heart,
And the heroic age is also there.
Sigh not for simple days of old,
The childish days of love and trust;
There never was an Age of Gold,
And faith makes gold of all earth's dust.
The Church's youthful strength grows never gray,
Herself a fadeless youth amidst the world's decay.
Canst thou not love? Has earth no room
For all thy heart would give,
With all the blessed depths of home,
And myriad hearts that weep and strive?
Are there no desolate and poor
To nourish from thy store?
No songs of joy and glowing praise
Thy voice might help to raise?
No heart long left alone
Till it grew stiff and chill
Thy voice might waken with a thrill
Of love long, long unknown?
Is earth too small to hold
The yearnings of thy love?
Is there not heaven above
As near thee as of old?
The childish days of love and trust;
There never was an Age of Gold,
And faith makes gold of all earth's dust.
The Church's youthful strength grows never gray,
Herself a fadeless youth amidst the world's decay.
Canst thou not love? Has earth no room
For all thy heart would give,
With all the blessed depths of home,
And myriad hearts that weep and strive?
Are there no desolate and poor
To nourish from thy store?
No songs of joy and glowing praise
Thy voice might help to raise?
No heart long left alone
Till it grew stiff and chill
Thy voice might waken with a thrill
Of love long, long unknown?
86
The yearnings of thy love?
Is there not heaven above
As near thee as of old?
Does He Who came at Pentecost
His presence now withhold,
That the first works should e'er be lost,
Or the first love grow cold?
Oh, fill thy heart with God, and thou shalt prove
That there is left enough to trust and love!
His presence now withhold,
That the first works should e'er be lost,
Or the first love grow cold?
Oh, fill thy heart with God, and thou shalt prove
That there is left enough to trust and love!
For what is time past but to-day
Mirrored in still pools peacefully?
The future but the same to-day
Reflected in a heaving sea?
Only the present hour has life,
The home of work, the field of strife.
Mirrored in still pools peacefully?
The future but the same to-day
Reflected in a heaving sea?
Only the present hour has life,
The home of work, the field of strife.
Choose not thy bride among the dead,
But press the Present to thy breast;
In her, thy soul shall find its bread,
Thy mind its sphere, thy heart its rest;
Till God shall speak another “Let there be,”
And Time, like darkness before light, shall be
Before the Now of His Eternity.
But press the Present to thy breast;
In her, thy soul shall find its bread,
Thy mind its sphere, thy heart its rest;
Till God shall speak another “Let there be,”
And Time, like darkness before light, shall be
Before the Now of His Eternity.
| Songs Old and New | |