The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) Selected and revised by the author. Copyright edition. In two volumes |
 | I. |
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| II. |
 | The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) |  |
129
THE BURIED HEART.
This heart, you would not have,
I laid up in a grave
Of song: with love enwound it,
And set wild fancies blowing round it.
I laid up in a grave
Of song: with love enwound it,
And set wild fancies blowing round it.
Then I to others gave it;
Because you would not have it.
Because you would not have it.
‘See you keep it well,’ I said,
‘This heart's sleeping—is not dead—
But will wake some future day.
Keep and guard it while you may.’
‘This heart's sleeping—is not dead—
But will wake some future day.
Keep and guard it while you may.’
All great Sorrows,—sceptred some,
With gold crowns upon their heads,
Others that bare-footed roam,
Sadly telling cypress beads,
Pilgrims with no settled home,
Poorly clad in Palmer's weeds,
These from dismal dongeons come,
Faint and wan for want of food,
Those by many a bitter dart
From lost battlefields pursued,
—Each one clad in his own mood,
Each one claiming his own part,—
A forlorn and famisht brood,—
Came to take my heart.
With gold crowns upon their heads,
Others that bare-footed roam,
Sadly telling cypress beads,
Pilgrims with no settled home,
Poorly clad in Palmer's weeds,
These from dismal dongeons come,
Faint and wan for want of food,
Those by many a bitter dart
From lost battlefields pursued,
130
Each one claiming his own part,—
A forlorn and famisht brood,—
Came to take my heart.
Then, in holy ground they set it,
With melodious weepings wet it,
And revered it, as they found it,
With wild fancies blowing round it.
With melodious weepings wet it,
And revered it, as they found it,
With wild fancies blowing round it.
And this heart (you would not have)
Being not dead, though in the grave,
Work'd miracles and marvels strange,
And heal'd many maladies:
Giving sight to seal'd-up eyes,
And legs to lame men sick for change.
Being not dead, though in the grave,
Work'd miracles and marvels strange,
And heal'd many maladies:
Giving sight to seal'd-up eyes,
And legs to lame men sick for change.
The fame of it grew great and greater.
Then did you bethink you, later,
‘How hath this heart, I would not take,
—This weak heart, a child might break—
Such glory gotten? Me he gave it:
Mine this heart, and I will have it.’
Then did you bethink you, later,
‘How hath this heart, I would not take,
—This weak heart, a child might break—
Such glory gotten? Me he gave it:
Mine this heart, and I will have it.’
Ah, too late! For crowds exclaim'd
‘Ours 'tis now: and hath been claim'd.
Moreover, where it lies, the spot
Is holy ground: so enter not.
None but men of mournful mind—
Men to darken'd days resign'd;
Equal scorn of Saint and Devil;
Poor and outcast; halt and blind;
Exiles from Life's golden revel;
Gnawing at the bitter rind
Of old griefs; or else, confined
In proud cares, to serve and grind—
May enter: whom this heart shall cure.
But go thou by: thou art not poor:
Nor defrauded of thy lot.
Bless thyself: but enter not!’
‘Ours 'tis now: and hath been claim'd.
Moreover, where it lies, the spot
Is holy ground: so enter not.
None but men of mournful mind—
Men to darken'd days resign'd;
Equal scorn of Saint and Devil;
Poor and outcast; halt and blind;
131
Gnawing at the bitter rind
Of old griefs; or else, confined
In proud cares, to serve and grind—
May enter: whom this heart shall cure.
But go thou by: thou art not poor:
Nor defrauded of thy lot.
Bless thyself: but enter not!’
| The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) | |