 | The Autumn Garden |  |
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Aubrey de Vere
1814-1902.
In the far romantic morning, when the bards in golden weather,
Ringed with dew and light and music, struck their giant lyres together,
Came a child and stood beside them, gazed adoring in their eyes,
Hushed his little heart in worship of a race so calm and wise.
Ringed with dew and light and music, struck their giant lyres together,
Came a child and stood beside them, gazed adoring in their eyes,
Hushed his little heart in worship of a race so calm and wise.
They are gone, those gods and giants, caught Elijah-like to glory,
Now their triumphs and their sorrows are a part of England's story;
Years and years agone they vanished; but the child who loved them well,
Still has held the ear of mortals with a far-off tale to tell.
Now their triumphs and their sorrows are a part of England's story;
Years and years agone they vanished; but the child who loved them well,
Still has held the ear of mortals with a far-off tale to tell.
Theirs were voices heard like harps above the congregated thunder;
His, a trembling hymn to beauty, or a breath of whispered wonder;
When the world's tongue spoke, he faltered; but above the turmoil rolled
Fragments of romantic rapture, echoes of the age of gold.
His, a trembling hymn to beauty, or a breath of whispered wonder;
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Fragments of romantic rapture, echoes of the age of gold.
Others stun the years to homage with their novelty and splendour;
He was shy and backward-gazing, but his noiseless soul was tender.
When he sang, the birds sang louder, for his accents, low and clear,
Never hushed a mourning cushat, never scared a sunning deer.
He was shy and backward-gazing, but his noiseless soul was tender.
When he sang, the birds sang louder, for his accents, low and clear,
Never hushed a mourning cushat, never scared a sunning deer.
Now the last of all who communed with the mighty bards has perished;
He is part of that eternity he prophesied and cherished;
Now the child, the whisperer passes now extremity of age
Shuts the pure memorial volume, turns the long and stainless page.
He is part of that eternity he prophesied and cherished;
Now the child, the whisperer passes now extremity of age
Shuts the pure memorial volume, turns the long and stainless page.
Where some westward-hurrying river to the bright Atlantic dashes,
In some faint enchanted Celtic woodland hide this poet's ashes,
That the souls of those old singers whom the clans of song hold dear,
Nightly may return to hover o'er the grave of their De Vere.
In some faint enchanted Celtic woodland hide this poet's ashes,
That the souls of those old singers whom the clans of song hold dear,
Nightly may return to hover o'er the grave of their De Vere.
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