Carol and Cadence New poems: MDCCCCII-MDCCCCVII: By John Payne |
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MUNDUS SENESCENS. |
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 | Carol and Cadence |  |
MUNDUS SENESCENS.
The hawthorn ought, of ancient use, to bloom in middle May;
But now 'tis seldom full in flower until June's earliest day:
The April meadows wont whilom to glow with cowslip-gold;
But now their time is latter May.—The world is growing old.
But now 'tis seldom full in flower until June's earliest day:
The April meadows wont whilom to glow with cowslip-gold;
But now their time is latter May.—The world is growing old.
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To those, in this sad London doomed to dwell, it seems Life's page
Is quicklier overwrit with all the charact'ry of age;
The Spring less early lights with leaf the lindens than of yore;
The Summer tarries every year and lingers more and more.
Is quicklier overwrit with all the charact'ry of age;
The Spring less early lights with leaf the lindens than of yore;
The Summer tarries every year and lingers more and more.
Even the Autumn seldom comes till Winter's on the wing,
And Winter, won to end, is loath to yield to infant Spring.
Less hot's the sun, less bright the day: Life's fires are burning low:
Its sap each season vivifies Earth's veins with feebler flow.
And Winter, won to end, is loath to yield to infant Spring.
Less hot's the sun, less bright the day: Life's fires are burning low:
Its sap each season vivifies Earth's veins with feebler flow.
The days draw near when Earth, its fires extinct in cold and gloom,
Will, like the moon, in space become a vast and vagrant tomb,
When of this weary world of men an end fore'er shall be
And nothing more of Life abide, not even memory.
Will, like the moon, in space become a vast and vagrant tomb,
When of this weary world of men an end fore'er shall be
And nothing more of Life abide, not even memory.
And how should this our sad soul hope for any happier thing?
To have a world for tomb were worth a poet or a king.
In such a grave assured we were, at least, of Life's surcease,
Rid of rebirth and certified of everlasting peace.
To have a world for tomb were worth a poet or a king.
In such a grave assured we were, at least, of Life's surcease,
Rid of rebirth and certified of everlasting peace.
| Carol and Cadence | |