 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
154
WILLIAM COLLINS
Still on the misty flat, below the down,
In miry creeks the slow brine comes and goes;
The minster tower across the red-roofed town
From dawn to eve its circling shadow throws;
In miry creeks the slow brine comes and goes;
The minster tower across the red-roofed town
From dawn to eve its circling shadow throws;
The walls that echoed to thy shuddering groan
Are vocal now with heedless boyish talk;
The pigeons huddle on their ledge of stone,
Beneath, the brawling daws confederate stalk.
Are vocal now with heedless boyish talk;
The pigeons huddle on their ledge of stone,
Beneath, the brawling daws confederate stalk.
Hushed the long echo of the vesper hymn;
Across thy grave the solemn shadows grow:
And art thou grateful for the coolness dim?
Sad singer, dost thou slumber well below?
Across thy grave the solemn shadows grow:
And art thou grateful for the coolness dim?
Sad singer, dost thou slumber well below?
The glimmering evening thou hast made thine own
Surely and silently in softness falls,
She draws the colour from the mellow stone,
And veils the majesty of stately walls.
Surely and silently in softness falls,
She draws the colour from the mellow stone,
And veils the majesty of stately walls.
Ay, we can leave thee: thou art born again,
Thy wistful smile shines sweet across the years;
Lapt in the still contentment born of pain,
Reaping the harvest of thy shadowy fears.
Thy wistful smile shines sweet across the years;
Lapt in the still contentment born of pain,
Reaping the harvest of thy shadowy fears.
155
And seems it strange a younger minstrel's hand
Should falter over griefs so long decayed,
Should lean across the century, and stand
Weighing a woe irrevocably weighed?
Should falter over griefs so long decayed,
Should lean across the century, and stand
Weighing a woe irrevocably weighed?
The red rose beckons from his garden-plot;
And “Life,” she says, “is mine, and thine today.”
The fond abstracted singer heeds her not,
O'er mouldering bones he sighs himself away.
And “Life,” she says, “is mine, and thine today.”
The fond abstracted singer heeds her not,
O'er mouldering bones he sighs himself away.
Nay, when a fiery soul that might have made
Immortal music, mute and voiceless lies,
Only in dull hearts is the sorrow laid;
The loss, the bitter wonder never dies.
Immortal music, mute and voiceless lies,
Only in dull hearts is the sorrow laid;
The loss, the bitter wonder never dies.
Thine was the pain with startled eyes to see
The larger range of undiscovered art;
Though the blind world in critic mockery
Curbed the fierce beat of thy prophetic heart.
The larger range of undiscovered art;
Though the blind world in critic mockery
Curbed the fierce beat of thy prophetic heart.
Risen like a star, extinguished like a star
In some brief conflagration, when the light
That orbed itself in secret tracts afar
Flares out, and slips engulphed in ancient night.
In some brief conflagration, when the light
That orbed itself in secret tracts afar
Flares out, and slips engulphed in ancient night.
And shall we plead the yearnings of our race,
Our shattered hope, our faltering innocence,
Brandish our faint ideals in the face
Of Him who thrusts us hither, draws us hence?
Our shattered hope, our faltering innocence,
Brandish our faint ideals in the face
Of Him who thrusts us hither, draws us hence?
156
Who knits the ravelled thread with prescient ruth,
Sad schemings, unendurable despair;
Though reeling minds may totter, He is Truth;
Though hearts may ache to view Him, He is there.
Sad schemings, unendurable despair;
Though reeling minds may totter, He is Truth;
Though hearts may ache to view Him, He is there.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |