 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
Song— The Hours
Brown, gipsy hours, with white teeth laughing gay,
Came trooping by me, when a child at play,
And with their coaxing stole my life away
Where bird in bush was idling all the day.
Came trooping by me, when a child at play,
And with their coaxing stole my life away
Where bird in bush was idling all the day.
Soft, roguish hours, that in the gloaming peep
At woodland nooks a dewy tryste to keep,
Stole my young life away, and in a heap
Of rose leaves, sweetly smelling, hid it deep.
At woodland nooks a dewy tryste to keep,
Stole my young life away, and in a heap
Of rose leaves, sweetly smelling, hid it deep.
Dark, robber hours, like burglars in the night,
They broke into my house, by cunning sleight,
And bound me fast, as with a spell of might,
And reft my life away ere morning light.
They broke into my house, by cunning sleight,
And bound me fast, as with a spell of might,
And reft my life away ere morning light.
The idle bird is silent on the tree,
The rose leaves withered now and scentless be,
The spell is broken; lo! mine eyes can see—
O thievish hours that stole my life from me!
The rose leaves withered now and scentless be,
The spell is broken; lo! mine eyes can see—
O thievish hours that stole my life from me!
Lost, lost! and now the mists, low trailing, screen
The visioned glories that I once have seen,
And all the hours are grey and cold and mean—
Lost, lost my life—and oh, the might have been!
The visioned glories that I once have seen,
And all the hours are grey and cold and mean—
Lost, lost my life—and oh, the might have been!
So the young soul to darkness is hopelessly wending—
And this is the dream that I dreamt, and its ending!
But why was it ever dreamt? How could I spirt
The froth of that dead sea, or stir up its dirt?
Ah! we strike a few chords ere the music we play,
Preluding the strain, as if light fingers stray
Dreamily over the keys, till they find
The melody shape itself clear in the mind;
So we dream, and from dreaming we glide into act,
And our life is the dream in a rhythm of hard fact.
And can this be the prelude to mine, like the moan
Of the sea as it laps the curved sand or the stone
In the moon-glimmered bay, while its far depths are stirred
By the throes of the storm that is coming? I've heard
That the knight, ere he buckled giltspur to his heel,
Or belted his thigh with the good sword of steel,
Laid his arms on the altar, helmet and shield,
Breastplate and banner, and watched there, and kneeled
All the long night on the pavement of stone,
All the long night in the darkness alone,
All the long night, while fiends in the air
Plied him with terrors, or strove to ensnare;
But I, what a watch have I kept!
And this is the dream that I dreamt, and its ending!
But why was it ever dreamt? How could I spirt
The froth of that dead sea, or stir up its dirt?
Ah! we strike a few chords ere the music we play,
Preluding the strain, as if light fingers stray
97
The melody shape itself clear in the mind;
So we dream, and from dreaming we glide into act,
And our life is the dream in a rhythm of hard fact.
And can this be the prelude to mine, like the moan
Of the sea as it laps the curved sand or the stone
In the moon-glimmered bay, while its far depths are stirred
By the throes of the storm that is coming? I've heard
That the knight, ere he buckled giltspur to his heel,
Or belted his thigh with the good sword of steel,
Laid his arms on the altar, helmet and shield,
Breastplate and banner, and watched there, and kneeled
All the long night on the pavement of stone,
All the long night in the darkness alone,
All the long night, while fiends in the air
Plied him with terrors, or strove to ensnare;
But I, what a watch have I kept!
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |