 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
UP IN AN ATTIC.
‘Do you dream yet, on your old rickety sofa,
in the dear old ghastly bankrupt garret at No.
66?’—Gray to Buchanan (see The Life of David
Gray).
Half of a gold-ring bright,
Broken in days of old,
One yellow curl, whose light
Gladden'd my gaze of old;
A sprig of thyme thereto,
Pluckt on the mountains blue,
When in the gloaming-dew
We roamed erratic;
Last, an old Book of Song,—
These have I treasured long,
Up in an Attic.
Broken in days of old,
One yellow curl, whose light
Gladden'd my gaze of old;
A sprig of thyme thereto,
Pluckt on the mountains blue,
When in the gloaming-dew
We roamed erratic;
Last, an old Book of Song,—
These have I treasured long,
Up in an Attic.
Held in one little hand,
They gleam in vain to me:
Of Love, Fame, Fatherland,
All that remain to me!
Love, with thy wounded wing,
Up the skies lessening,
Sighing, too sad to sing!
Fame, dead to pity!
Land,—that denied me bread!
Count me as lost and dead,
Tomb'd, in the City.
They gleam in vain to me:
Of Love, Fame, Fatherland,
All that remain to me!
Love, with thy wounded wing,
Up the skies lessening,
Sighing, too sad to sing!
Fame, dead to pity!
Land,—that denied me bread!
Count me as lost and dead,
Tomb'd, in the City.
Daily the busy roar,
Murmur and motion here;
Surging against its shore,
Sighs a great Ocean here!
But night by night it flows
Slowly to strange repose,
Calm and more calm it grows
Under the moonshine:
Then, only then, I peer
On each old souvenir
Shut from the sunshine.
Murmur and motion here;
Surging against its shore,
Sighs a great Ocean here!
But night by night it flows
Slowly to strange repose,
Calm and more calm it grows
Under the moonshine:
Then, only then, I peer
On each old souvenir
Shut from the sunshine.
Half of a ring of gold,
Tarnish'd and yellow now,
Broken in days of old,
Where is thy fellow now?
Upon the heart of her?
Feeling the sweet blood stir,
Still (though the mind demur)
Kept as a token?
Ah! doth her heart forget?
Or, with the pain and fret
Is that, too, broken?
Tarnish'd and yellow now,
Broken in days of old,
Where is thy fellow now?
Upon the heart of her?
Feeling the sweet blood stir,
Still (though the mind demur)
Kept as a token?
Ah! doth her heart forget?
Or, with the pain and fret
Is that, too, broken?
Thin threads of yellow hair,
Clipt from the brow of her,
Lying so faded there,—
Why whisper now of her?
Strange lips are press'd unto
The brow o'er which ye grew,
Strange fingers flutter through
The loose long tresses.
Doth she remember still,
Trembling, and turning chill
From his caresses?
Clipt from the brow of her,
Lying so faded there,—
Why whisper now of her?
Strange lips are press'd unto
The brow o'er which ye grew,
Strange fingers flutter through
The loose long tresses.
Doth she remember still,
Trembling, and turning chill
From his caresses?
161
Sprig from the mountains blue
Long left behind me now,
Of moonlight, shade, and dew,
Wherefore remind me now?
Cruel and chill and gray,
Looming afar away,
Dark in the light of day,
Shall the Heights daunt me?
My footsteps on the hill
Are overgrown,—yet still
Hill-echoes haunt me!
Long left behind me now,
Of moonlight, shade, and dew,
Wherefore remind me now?
Cruel and chill and gray,
Looming afar away,
Dark in the light of day,
Shall the Heights daunt me?
My footsteps on the hill
Are overgrown,—yet still
Hill-echoes haunt me!
Book of Byronic Song,
Put with the dead away,
Wherefore wouldst thou prolong
dreams that have fled away?
Thou art an eyeless skull,
Dead, fleshless, cold, and null,
Complexionless, dark, dull,
And superseded;
Yet, in thy time of pride,
How loudly hast thou lied
To all who heeded!
Put with the dead away,
Wherefore wouldst thou prolong
dreams that have fled away?
Thou art an eyeless skull,
Dead, fleshless, cold, and null,
Complexionless, dark, dull,
And superseded;
Yet, in thy time of pride,
How loudly hast thou lied
To all who heeded!
Now, Fame, thou hollow Voice,
Shriek from the heights above!
Let all who will rejoice
In those wild lights above!
When all are false save you,
Yet were so beauteous too,
O Fame, canst thou be true,
And shall I follow?
Nay! for the song of Man
Dies in his throat, since Pan
Hath slain Apollo!
Shriek from the heights above!
Let all who will rejoice
In those wild lights above!
When all are false save you,
Yet were so beauteous too,
O Fame, canst thou be true,
And shall I follow?
Nay! for the song of Man
Dies in his throat, since Pan
Hath slain Apollo!
O Fame, thy hill looks tame,
No vast wings flee from thence,—
Were I to climb, O Fame,
What could I see from thence?
Only, afar away,
The mountains looming gray,
Crimson'd at close of day,
Clouds swimming by me;
And in my hand a ring
And ringlet glimmering,—
And no one nigh me!
No vast wings flee from thence,—
Were I to climb, O Fame,
What could I see from thence?
Only, afar away,
The mountains looming gray,
Crimson'd at close of day,
Clouds swimming by me;
And in my hand a ring
And ringlet glimmering,—
And no one nigh me!
Better the busy roar,
Best the mad motion here!
Surging against its shore,
Groans a great Ocean here.
O Love,—thou wouldst not wait!
O Land,—thou art desolate!
O Fame,—to others prate
Of flights ecstatic!
Only, at evenfall,
Touching these tokens small,
I think about you all,
Up in an Attic!
Best the mad motion here!
Surging against its shore,
Groans a great Ocean here.
O Love,—thou wouldst not wait!
O Land,—thou art desolate!
O Fame,—to others prate
Of flights ecstatic!
Only, at evenfall,
Touching these tokens small,
I think about you all,
Up in an Attic!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |