The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO A POET OF THE EMPIRE.

Dear singing Brother, who so long
Wore Galahad's white robe of Fame,
And kept it stainless like thy name
Thro' dreary days of doubting song;

Who blest the seasons as they fell,
Contented with the flowers they bring,
Nor soar'd to Heaven on Milton's wing,
Nor walked with Dante's ghost thro' Hell,

But rather chose to dream at ease
With Keats' mid ways thy gardener plan'd
Beside a mimic lake to stand
And see, just glimpsing thro' the trees,

Thy marble statues brought from far,
Dryad and Naiad white and still,
And o'er the mead. above the hill,
The twinkle of the Cyprian star;

And on those plots of garden ground,
Calm in thy sorrow and thy mirth,
Leal to the Lords of Heaven and Earth,
Thou dwelledst grave and laurel-crown'd;

And peering down with curious eye,
Polish'd with gentle art and long
Thy faultless diamonds of song,
And let the windy world go by;

And heeded not the long despair
Of souls that never see the sun,
But to thy Maker cried ‘Well done,’
Since English pastures seemed so fair;

And from the hovel to the Throne
Beheld one perfect order'd plan;
And praised the Christ as God and Man
That wars were made and trumpets blown;

Yea, deem'd this later greater Rome
Supremely just and surely wise,
And shut thine ears against the cries
Of races slain beyond the foam

That this our Empire might increase
And this our Rome have silk and gold,—
Nor heard across the blood-stain'd fold
The Butcher-Shepherds crying, ‘Peace!’

Nor saw the thousand martyrs bowed
Beneath the chariots of the Strong,
But with thy wreaths of martial song
Didst grace the triumphs of the Proud!

Forgive, if to thy tomb I bring
No garland such as maidens twine,
But in the verse that Art made thine
Proffer a votive offering!

For tho' my soul was passion-rent,
I knew thee good and kind and great,
And prayed that no unkindly fate
Might ever mar thy mild content!

I loved thy pleachèd English lawn,
Thy gracious girls, thy pastoral lyre,
Nay, even thy Church and slender spire
Pointing at Heaven so far withdrawn!

And often have I prayed to be
As calm, as much at peace with God,—
Not moaning underneath His rod,
But smiling at His feet, with thee!

Wherefore accept these songs of mine,
For I, being lesson'd long in grief,
Believe despite my unbelief,
Although my faith is far from thine!