 | Poems of the day and year |  |
113
FOLLOW NOW
I
One morning of the breezy spring,
With jocund hearts and free,
We met old Time a-wandering
By the shores of the Great Sea;
The waters dashed before the wind,
Onwards he still did fare:
He seemed a beggar old and blind,
With neither joy nor care.
With jocund hearts and free,
We met old Time a-wandering
By the shores of the Great Sea;
The waters dashed before the wind,
Onwards he still did fare:
He seemed a beggar old and blind,
With neither joy nor care.
We knew not our Arch-enemy,
For we were heedless boys;
So we called to join our revelry
The Lord of tears and sighs;
‘Father,’ our wanton voices sung,
‘With us thou shalt abide;
Upon the shoulders of the young
Full swiftly shalt thou ride.’
For we were heedless boys;
So we called to join our revelry
The Lord of tears and sighs;
114
‘With us thou shalt abide;
Upon the shoulders of the young
Full swiftly shalt thou ride.’
He sped not for our merriment,
He sped not for our laughter;
With frolic steps we forward went
Old Time he laboured after;
At last a voice like broken thunder
Came rolling on the wind;
Still we stood 'twixt fear and wonder—
He spake—his words were kind.
He sped not for our laughter;
With frolic steps we forward went
Old Time he laboured after;
At last a voice like broken thunder
Came rolling on the wind;
Still we stood 'twixt fear and wonder—
He spake—his words were kind.
‘Children, my pace is old and slow,
My blood is thin and cold;
Have pity on me—haste not so—
Have mercy on the old;
My songs and tales ye cannot hear
If ye leave me here behind’—
But we laughed and fled when he came near,
And his voice went down the wind.
My blood is thin and cold;
Have pity on me—haste not so—
Have mercy on the old;
My songs and tales ye cannot hear
If ye leave me here behind’—
115
And his voice went down the wind.
‘Know ye not I have magic charms
Hid in my wallet here?
Wizard spells to save from harms,
And spoils of every year?
Rare essences, green leaves of truth,
Elixirs, gems, and gold?
Odours and balmy drops for youth,
And balsams for the old?’
Hid in my wallet here?
Wizard spells to save from harms,
And spoils of every year?
Rare essences, green leaves of truth,
Elixirs, gems, and gold?
Odours and balmy drops for youth,
And balsams for the old?’
The image of the rising sun
Fled o'er the glittering sands,
And running seemed to bid us run,
And catch him in our hands;
It seemed the very fire of joy,
Wherewith our hearts ran o'er,
Made visible unto the eye,
And dancing on before.
Fled o'er the glittering sands,
And running seemed to bid us run,
And catch him in our hands;
It seemed the very fire of joy,
Wherewith our hearts ran o'er,
Made visible unto the eye,
And dancing on before.
116
‘Come, father, come and make us game,’
We shouted, nought afraid;
And, thinking he was blind and lame,
Snares in his path we laid;
Onward he stept, and took no harm
From any ills we planned,
But he seized us with his mighty arm
And flung us on the sand.
We shouted, nought afraid;
And, thinking he was blind and lame,
Snares in his path we laid;
Onward he stept, and took no harm
From any ills we planned,
But he seized us with his mighty arm
And flung us on the sand.
A wild rose chain, in frolic freak,
With linked woodbines tied,
We wove, and cast it o'er his neck,
The blind old man to guide;
We pulled him on with all our might;
The flower links snapt in twain;
The roses scattered left and right,
But we joined the links again.
With linked woodbines tied,
We wove, and cast it o'er his neck,
The blind old man to guide;
We pulled him on with all our might;
The flower links snapt in twain;
The roses scattered left and right,
But we joined the links again.
All day the giant made us merry;
And at the set of day
Still joyous all were we, nor weary
For all our sunny play:
Lightly we coursed, and from the brow
Of a primrose-covered hill
We shouted, ‘Father, follow now!’
But his steps were slower still.
And at the set of day
117
For all our sunny play:
Lightly we coursed, and from the brow
Of a primrose-covered hill
We shouted, ‘Father, follow now!’
But his steps were slower still.
II
Again we met, but it was noon—
And now the unruffled sea
Basked in the full midsummer sun,
And proud as noon were we;
The dewy ripples to the sand
In pleasant murmurs rolled;
One came, and took us by the hand,
A traveller blithe and bold.
And now the unruffled sea
Basked in the full midsummer sun,
And proud as noon were we;
The dewy ripples to the sand
In pleasant murmurs rolled;
One came, and took us by the hand,
A traveller blithe and bold.
He said, ‘When last ye walked with me,
In the springtime long ago,
As swift as antelopes were ye,
While I was faint and slow;
I have thrown by my crutched staff,
And ye have gat ye strength,
So I can run and leap and laugh,
And race with ye at length.
In the springtime long ago,
118
While I was faint and slow;
I have thrown by my crutched staff,
And ye have gat ye strength,
So I can run and leap and laugh,
And race with ye at length.
We cried, ‘Art thou that blind old man
We met beside this sea,
Who couldst not follow when we ran,
Or make us walk with thee?
Oh! thou art changed!’ ‘Not I,’ he said,
‘Who am for ever strong;
Ye thought me old in infancy,
In youth ye think me young.’
We met beside this sea,
Who couldst not follow when we ran,
Or make us walk with thee?
Oh! thou art changed!’ ‘Not I,’ he said,
‘Who am for ever strong;
Ye thought me old in infancy,
In youth ye think me young.’
He seemed as one 'twixt youth and age;
Cheeks dark with toil, but bright;
His eyes, his brow, a mystic page,
His limbs of knotty might:
His locks were rich as autumn trees,
But touched with frosts of ill;
Lips smiling with accustomed ease,
Or locked with iron will.
Cheeks dark with toil, but bright;
His eyes, his brow, a mystic page,
His limbs of knotty might:
119
But touched with frosts of ill;
Lips smiling with accustomed ease,
Or locked with iron will.
‘My life is not as yours,’ he said,
‘My growth is not the same—
Ye see my wrinkled hoary head,
Ye hear my hollow name;
Ye think that I am ever old,
An idle, useless hack;
But thus it is—when ye go on,
My children, I go back!’
‘My growth is not the same—
Ye see my wrinkled hoary head,
Ye hear my hollow name;
Ye think that I am ever old,
An idle, useless hack;
But thus it is—when ye go on,
My children, I go back!’
And then he bade us race with him,
As we had bade him once,
When our young limbs were light and slim
And his but weary bones:
But he kept pace with us, and ran
Along that well-known shore;
‘O friend,’ we cried, ‘O mighty man,
We cannot mock thee more!
As we had bade him once,
When our young limbs were light and slim
And his but weary bones:
But he kept pace with us, and ran
Along that well-known shore;
120
We cannot mock thee more!
‘Forgive us; we outran thee then—
But tell us, whence hast thou
Gat thee this strength and speed, and when
Those dark locks on thy brow?’
‘When ye were babes ye thought me old:
Farewell again,’ he said;
‘I shall return; farewell!’ behold
He waved his hand and fled!
But tell us, whence hast thou
Gat thee this strength and speed, and when
Those dark locks on thy brow?’
‘When ye were babes ye thought me old:
Farewell again,’ he said;
‘I shall return; farewell!’ behold
He waved his hand and fled!
III
And now the summer afternoon
Flamed in the golden west;
The dying airs were soft and boon,
Like sighings for their rest;
Our feet were slow upon the shore
Where we so oft had run;
And now the day had little more
Before the setting sun.
Flamed in the golden west;
The dying airs were soft and boon,
Like sighings for their rest;
Our feet were slow upon the shore
Where we so oft had run;
121
Before the setting sun.
And one came bounding from the hills,
A bugle in his hand;
Shouting he leapt the little rills,
And stood upon the strand.
He blew his horn, he called his hounds,
Less wearied he than they;
His dark curls hid his forehead round,
But ours were fleckt with grey.
A bugle in his hand;
Shouting he leapt the little rills,
And stood upon the strand.
He blew his horn, he called his hounds,
Less wearied he than they;
His dark curls hid his forehead round,
But ours were fleckt with grey.
‘Hail, friends, young friends of mine, I ween!
What have ye done this day?
Among the mountains I have been,
And marked the eaglets play;
And yet I bid you to a race
Again on these smooth shores
And ye shall weary of my pace
As once I did of yours!’
What have ye done this day?
Among the mountains I have been,
And marked the eaglets play;
And yet I bid you to a race
Again on these smooth shores
And ye shall weary of my pace
As once I did of yours!’
122
‘Boast not!’ we said, for we were tried
To anger by his taunt;
‘Thou hast not beaten yet,’ we cried;
‘Let who shall vanquish vaunt:’
And stretching on with struggling might
We gained a step or two;
But he came up as swift as light,
And shouted ‘Follow now!’
To anger by his taunt;
‘Thou hast not beaten yet,’ we cried;
‘Let who shall vanquish vaunt:’
And stretching on with struggling might
We gained a step or two;
But he came up as swift as light,
And shouted ‘Follow now!’
IV
The sun was sunk, the day was done:
Th'horizon far away
In mighty rivers seemed to run
Heart's blood of dying day:
A star or two shone over all—
The full moon, like a wraith,
Rose ghastly on the mountain wall;
I felt its icy breath.
Th'horizon far away
In mighty rivers seemed to run
Heart's blood of dying day:
A star or two shone over all—
The full moon, like a wraith,
Rose ghastly on the mountain wall;
I felt its icy breath.
123
I saw my image shadowed there
Upon the moonlit sands,
My sunken brows, my snowy hair,
My lean and trembling hands:
And then I thought upon that morn,
Midday, and afternoon,
Ere those dear friends were from me borne
Whom I shall follow soon.
Upon the moonlit sands,
My sunken brows, my snowy hair,
My lean and trembling hands:
And then I thought upon that morn,
Midday, and afternoon,
Ere those dear friends were from me borne
Whom I shall follow soon.
I sighed, and near me stood a child,
Like me, on that fair day
When we with merriment beguiled
The pilgrim old and grey:
I looked—oh! was it magic art
That showed me that young elf?
The form alike in every part
To that was once myself?
Like me, on that fair day
When we with merriment beguiled
The pilgrim old and grey:
I looked—oh! was it magic art
That showed me that young elf?
The form alike in every part
To that was once myself?
The roses on the lip, the gold
Upon the flowing hair,
The supple limbs of gracious mould?
All, all were living there:
The silver tongue, the truthful face,
The artless, early words
Stirred me, like echoes in the bass
Of a harp's treble chords.
Upon the flowing hair,
124
All, all were living there:
The silver tongue, the truthful face,
The artless, early words
Stirred me, like echoes in the bass
Of a harp's treble chords.
And with a quaint smile he began:
‘Old man, wilt run with me,
As once ye bade that ancient man
Ye met beside the sea?’
‘And who art thou?’ I asked in fear,
‘Who seest thro' my heart?
Thou wert not born when he was here;
Oh! tell me who thou art?’
‘Old man, wilt run with me,
As once ye bade that ancient man
Ye met beside the sea?’
‘And who art thou?’ I asked in fear,
‘Who seest thro' my heart?
Thou wert not born when he was here;
Oh! tell me who thou art?’
And still his words they were the same—
‘Old man, wilt run with me?
Come, father, come and make me game,
As once he did to thee!
‘My child,’ I said, ‘my pace is slow,
My blood is thin and cold;
Have pity on me, haste not so—
Have mercy on the old!’
‘Old man, wilt run with me?
Come, father, come and make me game,
As once he did to thee!
125
My blood is thin and cold;
Have pity on me, haste not so—
Have mercy on the old!’
He laughed a moment; then he stood
As one prepared for flight;
His aspect took an awful mood,
His frame a giant's might:
He spread forth wings, I saw his eyes,
Like starlight throb and glow—
And, as he rose into the skies,
He thundered ‘Follow now!’
As one prepared for flight;
His aspect took an awful mood,
His frame a giant's might:
He spread forth wings, I saw his eyes,
Like starlight throb and glow—
And, as he rose into the skies,
He thundered ‘Follow now!’
| Poems of the day and year | |