The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | II. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
46
ONE PRAYER
I
And now must I lose thee, O dark-eyed love, O darling?Will the bright eyes of Spring greet thrush and lark and starling,
But shall I not greet thee?
I will not sing again. What is the worth of singing
When thus thy farewell voice around my path is ringing?
Let the great silence deepen around me.
II
I will not sing again. For years and years I, early,When all the morning clouds were washed in gold and pearly,
Have sung to the morning light,—
And through the midday heat I still have sung, and followed
The song-god till in gloom the purple meads were swallowed:
And then the stars have heard me, through the night.
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III
Summer has heard my song, and Winter too has listened,And the soft eyes of Spring have wept at times and glistened
At some sad passionate strain:
And flowers I've twined in the hair of Autumn round her flowing,
And with red leaves of song have carpeted her going;
But now,—love, love,—I shall not sing again!
IV
Pang follows upon pang, and spear on spear hath sought me.Never one day hath dawned but that day's hands have brought me
New sorrow, untried grief:
And now if I lose thee—ah God! if I must follow
The old wild griefward track once more,—why let Apollo
Henceforward flaunt his uncontested leaf!
V
In the far early Spring of life my lady faltered,And sweet youth's passionate hopes and ardent dreams were altered,
But life was then so young!
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Towards a high throne of fame, and with my laurel gifted.
Love had been cruel: still love must be sung.
VI
But now that years on years to songs on songs have hearkened:Now that the solemn path has narrowed in and darkened:
Now that the flowers are gone:
Now that my sunset through the forest black trees flashes
And lights the grim fir-trunks already with red splashes,—
How can the old light song-stream ripple on?
VII
O God! God! spare me this. I who not oft beseech theeCome now with this one prayer. Oh, let its passion reach thee!
Not often do I ask.
But now that, this once more, I have the silence broken,
And from my very soul of souls have once more spoken,
Is thy response, God, all too hard a task?
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VIII
By all the pangs of years: by bright days turned to weeping:By the sad eyes of old far-off pale lost dreams sleeping:
By all my love and pain:
God, spare me this one pang. I, once too proud to implore thee,
Do from my soul entreat that this cloud fall not o'er me!
For, if it fall, I cannot sing again.
IX
The young have all their life in front. The days may darken;But still to May's glad birds their sorrowing hearts may hearken;
Yea, still the May-flower blows
For these. Bright loves in front wave hands and beckon onward.
Through lanes festooned with green their pathway stretches sunward.
They faint not at the death of the first rose.
X
But, when long years have done their dreary work and vanished,—50
When age hath set its mark
Upon the spirit, and when all things have changed their fashion,—
Then to love once again with manhood's stormy passion
And lose,—this is to see the sun grow dark.
XI
God! spare me this. I have borne thy darts without a murmur:I mortal have endured immortal torture, firmer
Than stern rock set at sea:
Yet,—here I tremble. I own I dread the keen sword hanging,
God, at thy side. I dread to hear thy scabbard clanging.
God with the sword, deal graciously with me.
XII
Spare me this final pang.—I am no croaking ravenFlying around thy towers with prayers perpetual,—craven
And coward of heart and weak.
So hear me when I come,—and let thy great heart soften
In that I clamour not and ask not audience often.
This once I look thee in the eyes and speak.
Nov. 5, 1882.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |