 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
148
UTRUMQUE NOSTRUM INCREDIBILI MODO CONSENTIT ASTRUM
We were friends, as the world would say,
Boys together in April weather;
Lounged in a reprehensible way
Under the elm-trees, half the day,
Seldom serious, under the shade,
Talking of trifles, rides and rifles,
Finding each for the other made,
I the scabbard and you the blade;
Not that we spoke of it save to joke of it;—
That was the story; nothing new;
Yet it was strange to me and you,
You were gladdest and I was saddest,
You were tender and I was true;—
So it seems to me now; but then,
I was slave to the king of men.
Boys together in April weather;
Lounged in a reprehensible way
Under the elm-trees, half the day,
Seldom serious, under the shade,
Talking of trifles, rides and rifles,
Finding each for the other made,
I the scabbard and you the blade;
Not that we spoke of it save to joke of it;—
That was the story; nothing new;
Yet it was strange to me and you,
You were gladdest and I was saddest,
You were tender and I was true;—
So it seems to me now; but then,
I was slave to the king of men.
Many a year since then has died;
First we were parted, grew half-hearted,
Worked and worried, and worse beside,
Thought with a sigh of the vanished prime;
Yesterday, on a morn in May,
As the matin-bells began to chime,
Who but yourself should cross my door?
Looking much as you looked before,
Somewhat grimmer and somewhat dimmer,
Smiling less than you smiled of yore.
First we were parted, grew half-hearted,
Worked and worried, and worse beside,
Thought with a sigh of the vanished prime;
Yesterday, on a morn in May,
149
Who but yourself should cross my door?
Looking much as you looked before,
Somewhat grimmer and somewhat dimmer,
Smiling less than you smiled of yore.
There as we talked the wonder grew;
Was it my comrade? was it you?
You that I sighed for, ay, would have died for?
Why did you frown ere your tale was told,
Chide the thrush that piped in the bush,
Curse the laburnum's hanging gold?
Was it my comrade? was it you?
You that I sighed for, ay, would have died for?
Why did you frown ere your tale was told,
Chide the thrush that piped in the bush,
Curse the laburnum's hanging gold?
I like the brooding bird was prest
Warm and fond in a narrow nest,
Sweetly bound in a simple round,
Under the shadow of mellow towers,
Softly chiming the measured hours.
You had drunk of the cup of life,
Drained its sweetness, mocked at completeness,
Nibbled at fame and dallied with strife,
Sipped the sweets of a thousand books,
Basked in laughter and loving looks,
Nestled close to the merry world;—
Why were your bright wings suddenly furled?
Why did you lapse in your soaring flight,
Stoop and dive to the tides of night?
Warm and fond in a narrow nest,
Sweetly bound in a simple round,
Under the shadow of mellow towers,
Softly chiming the measured hours.
You had drunk of the cup of life,
Drained its sweetness, mocked at completeness,
Nibbled at fame and dallied with strife,
Sipped the sweets of a thousand books,
Basked in laughter and loving looks,
Nestled close to the merry world;—
Why were your bright wings suddenly furled?
Why did you lapse in your soaring flight,
Stoop and dive to the tides of night?
What have you done with your soul, my friend?
Where is the ray you were wont to send,
Glancing bright through the outer night,
Touching with hope what was dark before,
Glimmering on to the further shore?
Where is the ray you were wont to send,
150
Touching with hope what was dark before,
Glimmering on to the further shore?
God suffers the light to know eclipse,
Dashes the cup from the eager lips;
You perchance would have drunk too deep;
Fallen, lulled in a magic sleep,
Now you strain through a surge of pain,
Whirled and whelmed in the streams of death;
Faintly gripping the rock beneath.
Dashes the cup from the eager lips;
You perchance would have drunk too deep;
Fallen, lulled in a magic sleep,
Now you strain through a surge of pain,
Whirled and whelmed in the streams of death;
Faintly gripping the rock beneath.
I meanwhile, in my slumberous isle,
Hear the trumpet blown for the fray,
Wild war music that winds away;
Then the struggle when heroes die,
Strong helms shiver, and I not by.
Fair you think is the quiet vale,
The branching courts of the nightingale
Loud and long is her idle song;—
Yet she suffers before she sings,
Folded fast are the quivering wings,
Under the leaf, to the throbbing breast
Closely the rankling thorn is prest.
Hear the trumpet blown for the fray,
Wild war music that winds away;
Then the struggle when heroes die,
Strong helms shiver, and I not by.
Fair you think is the quiet vale,
The branching courts of the nightingale
Loud and long is her idle song;—
Yet she suffers before she sings,
Folded fast are the quivering wings,
Under the leaf, to the throbbing breast
Closely the rankling thorn is prest.
Courage, my comrade! say, we miss
All that was possible once of bliss.
Say we gave to the eager wave,
Scattering free without fear or heed,
What would have made us kings indeed.
Where we bury our hopes outworn,
Doubts, and dreams that have died of scorn,
Ah! and a thousand sorry things,
Love like a flower unbidden springs.
Let it bloom in a faithful breast:—
That is our treasure: leave the rest.
All that was possible once of bliss.
Say we gave to the eager wave,
Scattering free without fear or heed,
What would have made us kings indeed.
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Doubts, and dreams that have died of scorn,
Ah! and a thousand sorry things,
Love like a flower unbidden springs.
Let it bloom in a faithful breast:—
That is our treasure: leave the rest.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |