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321

THE HOLYTIDE.

I. PART I.

I

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
When flowers have ceased to blow, and birds to sing,
Where shall the weary heart of Man abide,
Save in the jocund memories of the Spring?
As the gray twilight creeps across the snow,
Let us discourse of walks when leaves are green;
Methinks the roses are more sweet that blow
In Memory's shade, than any that are seen.

II

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Drear clouds have hid the crimson of the West,
And, like the winged Day, Delight hath died
Within me. and proud Passions gone to rest.
In this dusk hour, before the lamps are lit,
Thro' the Heart's long long gallery I will go,
And mark pale Memory's taper fall on it
Starting strange hues, like firelight on the snow.
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III

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Ye, whom I may not see for evermore,
Oh! I will dream, tho' Death's great waste is wide,
That ye may hear me from your silent shore.
And ye who wander, and are far apart,
(Oh! this great World is bleak, and years are growing,)
I have a sunny corner in my heart
Where I do set ye when rough winds are blowing.

IV

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
There is a welcome in the porch—I hear
The voice of one that I have loved and tried,
A voice I have not heard this many a year.
Ah! me, that face is as the wither'd flowers,
Paler with pain, with sorrows more forlorn,
But still the smile, the soul of other hours,
Shines from that face, the Even like the Morn.
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V

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
We speak together while the daylight dies;
I see not he is old, for to my side
The ghost of Youth comes up between our sighs;
The charm is broken by a single word—
He answers—‘thou wilt hear no more on Earth
The faithful voice that we so oft have heard,
Or see that face that was the Sun of Mirth.’

VI

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Now let the last words of departed friends
Be sweeter to thee than a singing bride,
Weigh hearts, and for oblivion make amends;
Spurn not the penitent with haggard eye,
Seat thou the hungry outcast by thy chair,
The son whose Spring hath fled in tempest by,
The weeping daughter with dishevell'd hair.
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VII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Let Wealth, and Glory, as they take their fill,
Think how Mischance to Fortune is allied,
Let Hope look up again thro' cloud of ill;
Let us look down into our children's eyes,
And think amid the mirth, and festal flow,
How once we were as they are—think with sighs
Of them that were as we are, long ago.

VIII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Cleanse off the ills of Time, the hates of years,
Hush forked Scorn, and vail the crest of Pride,
Kiss humble Love, and wipe away his tears;
Let vain things be forgot for evermore,
Let good things rise from out these mournful days,
Bring out forsaken memories from thy store,
If there be any pity, any praise.
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IX

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Ah! let the Grief, that knocks against thy gate,
Sit by thy heart, and murmur at thy side,
Think of Truth, think of Mercy, think of Fate;
Think what kind dews have fallen on thy head,
What thou shouldst do, but what thou hast not done;
Cast out the flaunting Sirens that have led
Thy heart, and once for all, and everyone.

X

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Hark! in the drifting tempest, and the roar
Of darkling waters, are the Powers that guide
The wreck of Nature to a Summer shore;
Let Man too in the darkness arm, and strive
With the dark host within him, rise and fight,
And, ere the morrow morn, begin to live,
Sorrow brings strength, as Day is born of Night.
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XI

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
The Sun is on the hearth, the World at home;
Over the frozen heath the Whirlwinds ride;
Drink to the Past, and better days to come;
Wreathe we our goblets with the evergreen,
Fadeless as Truth, sad as Humanity;
Let no bright flower, nor wither'd leaf be seen;
These Hours are sisters to Adversity.

XII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
The Wintermorn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts, and echoed in sweet song:
And thro' the sunset of this purple cup
They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us, and wake up,
Pass with dim smiles, and make our hearts sublime!
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XIII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Be dusky misletoes, and hollies strown,
Sharp as the spear that pierced his sacred side,
Red as the drops upon his thorny crown;
No haggard Passion, and no lawless Mirth
Fright off the sombre Muse—tell sweet old tales,
Sing songs, as we sit bending o'er the hearth,
Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

XIV

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
But ere we part this blessed night, to dreams
Of Angel songs on the hush'd mountainside,
And wondrous Shapes that came upon the light,
Let us lift up our voices all together
In one deep harmony, a rapt farewell,
So sweet we shall not hear the stormy weather,
And dying Sorrow wake to hear it swell.
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II. PART II.

I

Ah! me, I never left a merrymaking,
Or saw kind friends go laughing from the door,
But under all my mirth my heart was aching
To think that happy day could rise no more.

II

To-day hath been the harvest of the heart,
From far and near mine old companions met,
And now the gate stands wide, and they must part,
Leaving me here 'twixt triumph and regret.

III

The nimble wit that might not be withstood,
The song, the merry tale, the jokes like rain,
The untamed laughter tingling in the blood,
The selfsame moments ne'er can fall again.
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IV

Haply as bright a hearth shall burn again,
As fair a company around it sit,
Children, and bright-eyed maids, and joyous men,
As warm the welcome, and as bright the wit;

V

But ah! who can unlock the barred Morrow,
Or see what fates lie hid in flattering years,
No cheerier hearth can glow than this—but Sorrow
May cloud with sighs, or quench it with her tears.

VI

Tho' the bright drops of the swift-flowing River
See us no more, we do not weep for them,
For others like to them come up for ever,
Tho' every drop be lovely as a gem.

VII

When Summer nightingales have ceased to sing,
And Autumn storms have quench'd their tongues of flame,
If throstles chant, we can await the Spring,
We mourn not that their songs are not the same.
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VIII

Day yields to night, and days as fair are born,
But, O dear friends, will my forlorn regret
Bring back your absent faces like the Morn,
And some of ye are gone since last we met.

IX

Not idly have I drank your faithful words,
Your hopes, your fears, your sorrows freely spoken,
I tell ye they will echo, till the chords
Of this old solitary heart are broken.

X

Oh! when I look'd on them I loved of old,
I heard the many tongues of life-long years,
There were the proud grown meek, the fearful bold,
Sighs born of joy, and songs the end of tears.

XI

Some there had fought the fight, and others lay
Like Warriors arm'd, that helmed vigils keep,
And wait the rising of a battle-day
To win them Honour—iron ev'n in sleep.
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XII

And some with Death were wrestlers day by day,
And slept with Sorrow—sisters of Despair,
Who smile serenely, knowing none can stay
Their sombre steps to Him—their Hope is there.

XIII

Who love to laugh, because it stills the cry
Of lamentation piercing thro' the whole,
Who love to speak, but only with a sigh
Whisper the sleepless voices of the Soul.

XIV

There is that holy thing, sweet Children's mirth,
Which they can only feel, nor feel for long,
That light from glories older than the Earth,
Heart-broken Nature's one diviner song.

XV

And there were Children grown to mighty Men,
And plumed with hopes both beautiful and dread;
And some that I shall never see again;
Some newly widow'd, and some newly wed.
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XVI

And some could laugh and sing like revellers,
And yet beneath the festal robe and flowers
Close by the heart they held a hundred scars,
Mintage of painful Youth, and cruel hours.

XVII

Honor to them! who for their earthly brothers
Can veil their sorrows with a rosy crown,
And without Hope can make it spring in others,
And comfort cares, the likeness of their own.

XVIII

And one—but his bright promise has been shed
By evil thunders, like March blossoms torn
Untimely—and he bears a wreath instead
Of glittering poisons lifted as in scorn.

XIX

Look in his eye, and in it ye may see
The tortured Spirit, like a whirling flame,
Burn with a light that is not Hope or Glee,
But Pride, that scoffs at thought, and tramples shame.
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XX

Look in his heart—it is a Cavern dim
Where doleful things in endless twilight be—
And by the little light that enters in
See the waste waters of a sunless sea.

XXI

Yet is there one who leans upon his arm—
Ah! sweet pale blossom of a tangled brere,
Who breathest out rare odor in the storm,
Sweet Pity pleading to an iron ear,

XXII

Thy deeds are written in the sealed Book
Tho' darkness to the World—while thou dost wake,
By all good Angels he is not forsook,
Let him be welcome—welcome for thy sake.

XXIII

Daughter of Darkness, lovely as a star,
Who passest meekly thro' the unheeding crowd,
Thy Beauty and thy Love like sunbeams are,
Sweeter, because they reach us thro' a cloud.
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XXIV

But who is there? I see an aged man—
And there are other scars than those of Time
Dinted into his brow—his lips are wan,
But dark his cheek with many a care and clime.

XXV

Alas! is this the playmate of my youth,
Foremost in mirth or peril, swift and bold,
The first in all mad ventures, and in truth
A heart and frame that never should grow old?

XXVI

Is this the Head of Armies I behold
With that dim eye, gray head, and wither'd hand,
Whose name is wonderful, whose fame is roll'd
On waves of Song, and over Sea and Land?

XXVII

He took me by the hand—we sate apart—
He told me all the tempest of his life,
His fiery trials of the Head and Heart,
Hot nights of care, and thunderdays of strife.
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XXVIII

Awful his accents sounded in mine ears
As the last moan of stormy winds at Even,
When the torn forest weeps its angry tears,
And bloodred sunset lights the piled Heaven.

XXIX

And as a Spirit that has snatch'd a sight
Thro' Hellgate, and hath heard the utter woe,
And bears upon his face the dreadful light,
And hears the torment wheresoe'er he go,

XXX

His whisper'd words are echoes of alarms,
The momentary lightning of his eye
Comes to me like the distant flash of arms,
A World of Sorrow hovers on his sigh.

XXXI

He lifts his arm—he shows me, and I see
A midnight shore—a city on a height—
And burning towers that fall into the sea,
And flying hosts whose terrors cleave the night.
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XXXII

Faint Age that clasps the knees of armed men,
And mazed Innocence that yearns to play
With the pale fingers it unclasps in vain,
And seeks the breast where just before it lay.

XXXIII

A lifted sword—a banner on the wall—
A youth with eager aspect—then a cry
Drown'd in the flood that overwhelms his fall—
‘He was my firstborn—but 'twas Victory!’

XXXIV

Temples, the glory of a thousand years,
Arts that no toil could match, no wealth could buy,
Whole Ages sank that night in blood and tears,
‘My friends were dead—but it was Victory

XXXV

That night a stripling with the dead was laid,
An only child—no other wealth he had
But the fond vows of his true-hearted maid,
And mother's blessing when she kiss'd the lad.
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XXXVI

Now his few days were ended—but a tear
Was frozen on his cheek, and in his hand
He held a ringlet of her sunny hair
Still clutch'd in anguish when he grasp'd the sand.

XXXVII

In their lone cot upon the mountain slope
Sate that sad maid and mother—one would sigh,
The other look'd, and smiled, and bade her hope,
‘He must return—for it is Victory!’

XXXVIII

One burning tear roll'd o'er the wasted cheek
Of that old man—he parted, and I mourn'd—
Oh! where shall he find what the weary seek
The peace he troubled, and the rest he scorn'd?

XXXIX

Another comes, who, since his heart beat high
With hope and promise, as a Mayday Morn,
Hath conquer'd—and he too hears Victory!
Shouted into his ears, but is forlorn.
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XL

His was another warfare, other arms;
He strove with Spirits, and he won the fight
With music, and with beauty, and the charms
Of woven arts, and thoughts like shafts of light.

XLI

Downward he gazes, with his eyes in tears,
Upon the perils of that rocky way
That lifted him to Honor, and he hears
Like far off music, the first note of praise.

XLII

His sense is dead—the odors of the green
That others breathe, the songs they hear, are lost
Upon him now—yet their delight hath been
Dearest to him, for he hath felt it most.

XLIII

There is a silence on the topmost peak,
The mighty purpose, and the earnest will,
That shadow'd all things, while they were to seek,
Sleep, like the thunders underneath the hill.
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XLIV

But here is solitude with icy cold,
Or loveless light—his blessed Youth is gone—
Go back he cannot—and his Pride must hold
With weary gripe the sceptre he hath won.

XLV

Perchance he thinks, and shudders at that thought,
That all he hath done is but done in vain,
Around the pyramid that he hath wrought
To his own glory, howl Misery and Pain.

XLVI

The marble Beauty smiling at the top
What hath it done to shield the shafts of Fate,
To lull the smart of Anguish, kindle Hope,
To solace Hunger, or to vanquish Hate?

XLVII

His Earth is growing dark, his Sun is dim,
The golden sceptre trembles in his hand,
The very Mountaintop rocks under him,
For it is slipping from its base of sand.
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XLVIII

Perchance he sees, now that his eyes are clear,
All that Ambition spurring in his haste
Drives by unmark'd; he cannot bring them near,
And Death is standing 'twixt him and the Past.

XLIX

Ah me! the little lovely wayside flowers,
The dewy blossoms breathing in his face,
The springs that murmur'd under quiet bowers,
The wildbirds piping out of lonely ways.

L

Maybe, some gentle face comes to his mind,
A lowly flower that turn'd to him its day,
Some tender, loving heart, too fondly blind,
That shrank, and perish'd, as he turn'd away.

LI

He sees the mountain village where she sleeps,
Far as that memory, lovely as that feeling,
And though he wept not then—ah! now he weeps,
lnly he weeps—but hark! the Music pealing.
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LII

And it is She who sings, that mournful Maid
That dove-eyed daughter of hard-hearted Pride,
All that her eyes had left untold, is said;
Methinks I hear an Angel at his side.

III. PART III.

I

‘Farewell!’ she sang—her sweet voice seemed to run
Along the surface of the Sea of Sound,
Like the last glories of the setting Sun,
That strikes the Deep, and flies from bound to bound.

II

I closed mine eyes—and in the dark went forth
As 'twere the cry of this lamenting Sphere
Issuing at midnight 'twixt the Heaven and Earth,
A cry of Love, Faith, Anguish, Hope, and Fear.

III

‘Farewell!’—and the far-fluttering notes were drown'd
In floods of music, like the lark in light,
And when the choral thunders ceased to sound,
That voice soar'd forth again in endless flight.
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IV

Again the deeper Voices rolling under
Took up the sound; and still that fiery tongue
Burn'd, like new lightnings striking thro' the thunder,
And rose alone above the quiring throng.

V

‘Farewell!’—and now, methought, her face from far
Look'd o'er the battlements of cloud-built towers;
Bright in angelic beauty, pure of care,
And threw back garlands of Earth-gather'd flowers.

VI

Bluebells of Hope, Beauty that early blows,
And Fancy's wondrous blossoms of all hues,
Friendship's green leaf, and Passion's crimson rose,
All lovely things it seem'd so sad to lose.

VII

‘Farewell!’ she sang—and higher still and higher
Her soul seem'd passing on that voice sublime
To other Being—as the heat of fire
Up o'er the flame invisibly will climb.
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VIII

‘Farewell!’—and the last sweet departing thrill
Of that enraptured utterance seem'd to say,
‘Look on me now; I feel not dole or ill;
Come to me, suffering Spirits, come away.’

IV. PART IV.

I

It is the dawning of a funeral day,
Put out the lights, and cast away the flowers,
And bid the merry Minstrel cease his lay,
Or sing the deathsong of these festal hours.

II

The jocund Hours I loved to entertain
Mantle themselves to leave the festival,
And gaily part with songs, but I remain
Lone in the centre of my banquet-hall.

III

Oh! ere ye part, come, let me look once more,
My well-beloved Guests, while yet I stand
Your Host beneath the lintel of the door,
Into your eyes, and take me by the hand;
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IV

And as ye past me into darkness move,
I shall remember the last look ye cast,
And ye shall take some token of my love
Precious and pure, for it must be the last.

V

Ah! sure in all our revels I ne'er heard,
Until this bitter moment of Farewell,
Your tongues so sweet as on that mournful word,
Nor on mine eyes such beauty ever fell,

VI

As now from those reverted eyes ye shower
Soften'd with tears that answer to my own,
Thro' the chill shadows of this twilight hour,
Leaving me with mute Memory here alone.
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V. PART V.

I

At midnight rose a mighty Wind, and spread
Like Lamentation over Land and Sea,
It seem'd a mournful Voice that said to me—
‘Time sorroweth, and will not be comforted,
Because his youngest-born is dead, is dead!
His diadem of golden-linked Hours
Is fallen to the dust, and all its flowers
Are scatter'd—mourn ye for that lovely Head!
‘I saw the Giant stand with folded wings
At noon of Night upon the River-shore,
Hard by the tumult where the Torrent flings
Its waters seaward, that are seen no more;
I mark'd the Spectre sailing swiftly down
Into the Ocean without robes or crown—
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II

‘He was a Conqueror terrible and strong
In Life—and he is beautiful in Death;
He was a Poet with harmonious breath;
He was a Lover with a charming tongue;
His festal nights, his triumphs, and his songs,
Mourn ye—his beauty to the Deep descended;
His very tears are sweeter, being ended,
Than aught that to Futurity belongs.
‘Futurity is dark, the Past is dim:
He was the fairest out of all his race;
In strength and glory none were like to him,
Mourn—for to-day ye saw him face to face;
And let us sing a dirge about his grave,
And speak good words of one we cannot save.’
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