Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] With Portrait engraved by E. Stodart ... in two volumes |
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AN EGOTIST'S CREED.
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 | Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |  |
67
AN EGOTIST'S CREED.
Lost in a maze of idle thought
This world to me so perfect seems,—
So bright and light with glancing beams
And pleasant pastures, flower-fraught,
'Tis as the heaven of my dreams;—
This world to me so perfect seems,—
So bright and light with glancing beams
And pleasant pastures, flower-fraught,
'Tis as the heaven of my dreams;—
And if my feet could always stroll
Along the sweet familiar ways,
I would not change this earthly phase
Of Life and Love, for all the soul
May gain in promised lands of praise.
Along the sweet familiar ways,
I would not change this earthly phase
Of Life and Love, for all the soul
May gain in promised lands of praise.
In vain, for me, the preacher raves,
Exulting in his narrow creed,—
The sinner's doom,—the good man's meed,—
In yon grey pile amongst the graves
I lend no ear, and take no heed;—
Exulting in his narrow creed,—
The sinner's doom,—the good man's meed,—
In yon grey pile amongst the graves
I lend no ear, and take no heed;—
68
For, can the Giver of all good,
To further some prepost'rous plan,
Have made, in enmity to man,
So fair a world,—in wrathful mood
Turning a blessing to a ban?
To further some prepost'rous plan,
Have made, in enmity to man,
So fair a world,—in wrathful mood
Turning a blessing to a ban?
Nay, tho' I know that millions pine,
And see the maim'd, the halt, the blind,—
The pallid forms that sweat and grind
And toil at furnace, mill, and mine,
Yet will I deem Him just and kind.
And see the maim'd, the halt, the blind,—
The pallid forms that sweat and grind
And toil at furnace, mill, and mine,
Yet will I deem Him just and kind.
“Ay, ‘just and kind’! Ay, ‘kind and just’!”
(Harsh mocking voices seem to say),
“To thrust us forth,—to our dismay
The brood of drunkenness and lust,
Where all, save we, keep holiday!
(Harsh mocking voices seem to say),
“To thrust us forth,—to our dismay
The brood of drunkenness and lust,
Where all, save we, keep holiday!
“For us no shade of summer trees,
No sight of daisy-spangled sward,—
We, the accursèd of the Lord,
Must toil for you who sit at ease,
Disease and Death our sole reward!
No sight of daisy-spangled sward,—
We, the accursèd of the Lord,
Must toil for you who sit at ease,
Disease and Death our sole reward!
69
“Can our crush'd hearts ascend in pray'r,—
Our woeful accents hymn the praise
Of that stern Pow'r that smites and slays
His creatures, when too weak to bear
Their burden of disast'rous days?
Our woeful accents hymn the praise
Of that stern Pow'r that smites and slays
His creatures, when too weak to bear
Their burden of disast'rous days?
“And dread ye not,—who sit and weave
Sweet, idle fancies, at your will,
Who grasp the good, and spurn the ill,—
That sky may fall, or earth upheave,
Or some swift bolt avenge us still?” . . .
Sweet, idle fancies, at your will,
Who grasp the good, and spurn the ill,—
That sky may fall, or earth upheave,
Or some swift bolt avenge us still?” . . .
These voices somewhat mar my rest, . . .
Well, well! We know not what is plann'd! . . .
Some must be wretched in the land,—
All things are order'd for the best,
And more, we may not understand!
Well, well! We know not what is plann'd! . . .
Some must be wretched in the land,—
All things are order'd for the best,
And more, we may not understand!
So, whilst,—for me,—the world is bright,
Whilst skies are blue, and fields are fair,
Need I the ills of others share?
My gladness gives them no delight,
Shall I lament for their despair?
Whilst skies are blue, and fields are fair,
Need I the ills of others share?
My gladness gives them no delight,
Shall I lament for their despair?
| Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] | |