 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
AN EAGLE'S NEST.
An eagle's nest,
Built on the waving tops of wooded hills,
Where shadows rest,
And the deep heart of Nature throbs and thrills
With thunderous rapture, when the demon wakes
That music makes
Of broken branches, and the wounded pines
His arm entwines;
Where wanton wandering winds can never sleep,
And shakes its shrouded form,
With stammering lips that madly laugh and weep,
The storm.
Built on the waving tops of wooded hills,
Where shadows rest,
And the deep heart of Nature throbs and thrills
With thunderous rapture, when the demon wakes
That music makes
Of broken branches, and the wounded pines
His arm entwines;
Where wanton wandering winds can never sleep,
And shakes its shrouded form,
With stammering lips that madly laugh and weep,
The storm.
On rocky perch,
Rich with the memories of its many years,
The hoary church,
A beacon light its rugged belfry rears,
A wrinkled shape that now for centuries seven
Still points to Heaven,
And tells the crowded dead that round it lie
Love cannot die;
And for the children whom its worship charms,
Beneath that sacred dome,
Spreads in the Sabbath of its ancient arms
A home.
Rich with the memories of its many years,
The hoary church,
A beacon light its rugged belfry rears,
A wrinkled shape that now for centuries seven
Still points to Heaven,
And tells the crowded dead that round it lie
Love cannot die;
802
Beneath that sacred dome,
Spreads in the Sabbath of its ancient arms
A home.
With poet's heart,
A shy and cloistered man the Rector lives
His reverend part,
And of his scanty substance freely gives
What he can hardly spare, and precious thought
None ever bought,
And pearls of wisdom from the ocean mines
That wit refines;
And works in secret kindness (as he prays)
Which humbly yet he hides,
Among the souls his wisdom gently sways
And guides.
A shy and cloistered man the Rector lives
His reverend part,
And of his scanty substance freely gives
What he can hardly spare, and precious thought
None ever bought,
And pearls of wisdom from the ocean mines
That wit refines;
And works in secret kindness (as he prays)
Which humbly yet he hides,
Among the souls his wisdom gently sways
And guides.
Along the road,
Sesquipedalian tower, the doctor swings,
And bears the load
Of others' pangs, that sickness daily brings—
A landmark quite—who lends a ready ear
To every fear,
And has a pleasant word for weaker clay
In cottage gray;
His portly presence breathes a cheery balm
From his own vital health,
And sheds on trembling shades the blessed calm
Of health.
Sesquipedalian tower, the doctor swings,
And bears the load
Of others' pangs, that sickness daily brings—
A landmark quite—who lends a ready ear
To every fear,
And has a pleasant word for weaker clay
In cottage gray;
His portly presence breathes a cheery balm
From his own vital health,
And sheds on trembling shades the blessed calm
Of health.
The foundry here,
By day a cloud, at night a pillared fire,
Its lurid sphere
Torments, as looks to Heaven some large desire,
That born in gloom breaks with its burning hope
The envelope
Of darkness, leaping to its native light,
The inner sight;
And there the forge the stirring strain it knows
For ever grimly chants,
While like a thing in pain the furnace glows
And pants.
By day a cloud, at night a pillared fire,
Its lurid sphere
Torments, as looks to Heaven some large desire,
That born in gloom breaks with its burning hope
The envelope
Of darkness, leaping to its native light,
The inner sight;
And there the forge the stirring strain it knows
For ever grimly chants,
While like a thing in pain the furnace glows
And pants.
The master smith,
A rugged man, hewn as of granite rock
With iron pith,
Fronts the whole world and bears unmoved the shock;
Just, self-reliant, brave, and strong in right
Whereon his might
Is centred, he plants steadfast feet on earth
Whose moorland dearth
He turns to power and plenty, while his heart
In music dwells and clings
To sacred Sion's peaks, in praise apart,
And sings.
A rugged man, hewn as of granite rock
With iron pith,
Fronts the whole world and bears unmoved the shock;
Just, self-reliant, brave, and strong in right
Whereon his might
Is centred, he plants steadfast feet on earth
Whose moorland dearth
803
In music dwells and clings
To sacred Sion's peaks, in praise apart,
And sings.
The farmer plods
About the stony fields his patience tames,
That grudging clods
Sweats into gold which yet his voice disclaims;
Cumbered with serving, yet a genial man
Of prudent plan,
He orders, rules, his teams and toilers bends
To prosperous ends;
In spite of dreadful times and falling wheat,
A costly cart he drives,
Or in the County Council holds a seat,
And thrives.
About the stony fields his patience tames,
That grudging clods
Sweats into gold which yet his voice disclaims;
Cumbered with serving, yet a genial man
Of prudent plan,
He orders, rules, his teams and toilers bends
To prosperous ends;
In spite of dreadful times and falling wheat,
A costly cart he drives,
Or in the County Council holds a seat,
And thrives.
The labourer, still
And stalwart, buckles to his daily task,
A stubborn will
Concealed behind a smug and smiling mask;
Though underfed and underpaid, big thews
He yet renews
With stern robustness, in the dreary round
Of prison bound;
If sometimes through his poor ill-furnished brain,
Moves in the murmuring dark,
From blaze of frantic schemes of future gain,
A spark.
And stalwart, buckles to his daily task,
A stubborn will
Concealed behind a smug and smiling mask;
Though underfed and underpaid, big thews
He yet renews
With stern robustness, in the dreary round
Of prison bound;
If sometimes through his poor ill-furnished brain,
Moves in the murmuring dark,
From blaze of frantic schemes of future gain,
A spark.
Old Grannie Gray,
The nurse, Lucina, friend of rich and poor,
Her kindly way
Pursues, and welcome finds at every door;
The children kiss her seamed and trembling hand,
And staring stand,
Attentive to the stories none can tell
So wisely well
As she, who saw the giants in her youth,
And, wakeful in strange posts,
Snatched awful visions of forgotten truth,
And ghosts.
The nurse, Lucina, friend of rich and poor,
Her kindly way
Pursues, and welcome finds at every door;
The children kiss her seamed and trembling hand,
And staring stand,
Attentive to the stories none can tell
So wisely well
As she, who saw the giants in her youth,
And, wakeful in strange posts,
Snatched awful visions of forgotten truth,
And ghosts.
Here scandal's track
Is marked and measured by the filthy tale,
Whose creeping clack
At first a whisper, then a winter gale,
Goes scattering seeds of poison, that take root
And deadly fruit
Bear; till, beneath each flower and bower of bliss
The serpent's hiss
Is darkly heard; and still, where all is fair,
Its murderous trade it plies,
And even in virgin breast it makes its lair
Of lies.
Is marked and measured by the filthy tale,
Whose creeping clack
At first a whisper, then a winter gale,
Goes scattering seeds of poison, that take root
And deadly fruit
Bear; till, beneath each flower and bower of bliss
The serpent's hiss
804
Its murderous trade it plies,
And even in virgin breast it makes its lair
Of lies.
The children lift
Sweet piping trebles, at their simple games,
And rudely rift
The veil of silence with shrill sharp-edged names;
Or, at their lessons in the crowded school,
Against the rule,
Low voices hum, as wind among the trees,
Or swarming bees;
And there the Rector's feet are often set,
Who loves the Scripture hour,
Unknown, unhonoured by the world, and yet
A power.
Sweet piping trebles, at their simple games,
And rudely rift
The veil of silence with shrill sharp-edged names;
Or, at their lessons in the crowded school,
Against the rule,
Low voices hum, as wind among the trees,
Or swarming bees;
And there the Rector's feet are often set,
Who loves the Scripture hour,
Unknown, unhonoured by the world, and yet
A power.
Rise rounded heights,
That carry beeches to their very tops,
And catch the lights,
In splendid splashes or in twinkling drops,
And gently slope tier behind tier, in mist
Of amethyst
Or rose to sunset, as they fade and fly
Into the sky;
A forest land, that in its winding scrolls
The hills with foliage frames,
While through the valley it enriches rolls
The Thames.
That carry beeches to their very tops,
And catch the lights,
In splendid splashes or in twinkling drops,
And gently slope tier behind tier, in mist
Of amethyst
Or rose to sunset, as they fade and fly
Into the sky;
A forest land, that in its winding scrolls
The hills with foliage frames,
While through the valley it enriches rolls
The Thames.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |