The complete poetical works of John Hay including many poems now first collected |
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“RHYMES”
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 | The complete poetical works of John Hay |  |
267
“RHYMES”
APPARENTLY COMPOSED DURING THE EARLY MONTHS OF THE CIVIL WAR
Sown sparsely through earth's lifetime there are hours
That teem with giant forms of novel powers;
When from an idler century's budding gloom
The petals of an epoch burst to bloom,
Vaguely revealing to the questioning skies
Anthers and spikes of unfamiliar dyes;
When through life's growing woof, run suddenly,
Threads, dim—presageful of the fate to be,
And omens darkly from the distance stray,
Like orient splendors out of morn's dull gray,
Whispering low, as gather from afar
The vague foreshadows of the distant war,
The war-cries heavy with the hate of years
The murmurous clashing of the myriad spears;
Omens that presage not the honest fields
Where alien mottoes mark opposing shields,
Where loyal men-at-arms, with martial glee
With sword blades carve an emperor's decree,
Where trumpets wail and silken banners wave
Proudly and mournfully o'er valor's grave;
Far darker lowers the promise of the fight
Which locks in desperate grapple wrong and right,
Where o'er the legions of embattled hosts
Float the dim shadows of indignant ghosts
Where good and evil armed and regnant stand
Shouting the battle cry to either band,
And men thus fired with hate and vengeance grim
Strive with the sinews of the Anakim
And on the trampled turf distills the stain
That tinged the sod of Armageddon's plain.
That teem with giant forms of novel powers;
When from an idler century's budding gloom
The petals of an epoch burst to bloom,
Vaguely revealing to the questioning skies
Anthers and spikes of unfamiliar dyes;
When through life's growing woof, run suddenly,
Threads, dim—presageful of the fate to be,
And omens darkly from the distance stray,
Like orient splendors out of morn's dull gray,
Whispering low, as gather from afar
The vague foreshadows of the distant war,
The war-cries heavy with the hate of years
The murmurous clashing of the myriad spears;
Omens that presage not the honest fields
Where alien mottoes mark opposing shields,
268
With sword blades carve an emperor's decree,
Where trumpets wail and silken banners wave
Proudly and mournfully o'er valor's grave;
Far darker lowers the promise of the fight
Which locks in desperate grapple wrong and right,
Where o'er the legions of embattled hosts
Float the dim shadows of indignant ghosts
Where good and evil armed and regnant stand
Shouting the battle cry to either band,
And men thus fired with hate and vengeance grim
Strive with the sinews of the Anakim
And on the trampled turf distills the stain
That tinged the sod of Armageddon's plain.
At such a time Art sickens through the world,
Song slumbers with lethargic pinions furled,
Listless the painter at his easel stands,
Drops the dulled chisel from the sculptor's hands,
The harp hangs silent with untrembling chords
For deeds are now more eloquent than words.
As, when reluctant night is half-withdrawn,
Steals on the wold the mystery of dawn,
The grove may rustle with unquiet wings
But never a bird from out his covert sings.
But when the routed shadows break and flee
And Light stands victor on the dew-lit lea
Glad in the triumph, from the twittering throng
How pours the jubilant cataract of song!
In this vague twilight poets silent wait
While the stern Sisters chant the runes of fate.
For fuller than the measure of their rhyme
Swells the grand cadence of avenging Time,
And deeper than the trembling of their chords
The Anvil Chorus of the clashing swords.
Song slumbers with lethargic pinions furled,
Listless the painter at his easel stands,
Drops the dulled chisel from the sculptor's hands,
The harp hangs silent with untrembling chords
For deeds are now more eloquent than words.
269
Steals on the wold the mystery of dawn,
The grove may rustle with unquiet wings
But never a bird from out his covert sings.
But when the routed shadows break and flee
And Light stands victor on the dew-lit lea
Glad in the triumph, from the twittering throng
How pours the jubilant cataract of song!
In this vague twilight poets silent wait
While the stern Sisters chant the runes of fate.
For fuller than the measure of their rhyme
Swells the grand cadence of avenging Time,
And deeper than the trembling of their chords
The Anvil Chorus of the clashing swords.
Not mine the task to wander far away
Into the rose-mists of a happier day,
To re-create beneath these leaden skies
The hues of a forgotten Paradise,
Or soothe the soul with love's voluptuous swells,
Soft as a Lydian dancer's ankle-bells:
Not this. For I have neither will nor power
To scorn the regal summons of the hour
And you'll forgive the unmelodious rhyme
That beats the jangled rhythm of the time,
For never since the days of that July,
Consecrate through all time to Liberty,
Since the glad light of that grand summer morn
Kissed the bright forehead of an empire born,
Has any hour brought in its flight a freight
So cumbered with the mysteries of fate.
Into the rose-mists of a happier day,
To re-create beneath these leaden skies
The hues of a forgotten Paradise,
Or soothe the soul with love's voluptuous swells,
Soft as a Lydian dancer's ankle-bells:
270
To scorn the regal summons of the hour
And you'll forgive the unmelodious rhyme
That beats the jangled rhythm of the time,
For never since the days of that July,
Consecrate through all time to Liberty,
Since the glad light of that grand summer morn
Kissed the bright forehead of an empire born,
Has any hour brought in its flight a freight
So cumbered with the mysteries of fate.
While all the earth in dread suspense is bowed,
We can but watch the piling of the cloud.
Out of its depths no blinding flash has come,
Still sleep inert the inner thunders dumb.
Until this cloud and gloom be overpast
And the torn mist goes sailing down the blast
And the glad earth, green in the springtime rain,
Laughs with the sunshine and the flowers again,
Of fairer themes what man shall dare to sing?
The lute is silent, while the trumpets ring.
And Pleasure's lilt, and Fancy's airy play
Wait for the freedom of a brighter day.
We can but watch the piling of the cloud.
Out of its depths no blinding flash has come,
Still sleep inert the inner thunders dumb.
Until this cloud and gloom be overpast
And the torn mist goes sailing down the blast
And the glad earth, green in the springtime rain,
Laughs with the sunshine and the flowers again,
Of fairer themes what man shall dare to sing?
The lute is silent, while the trumpets ring.
271
Wait for the freedom of a brighter day.
In the proud chronicles of a future age
These passing days will fill the proudest page,
Topping the landmarks of the coming time,
The beacons of to-day will loom sublime.
This is our hour supreme: this storm and stress
Shall blot or vindicate our worthiness.
This is the promise vague of fate's decree
And other hours have been that this might be.
These passing days will fill the proudest page,
Topping the landmarks of the coming time,
The beacons of to-day will loom sublime.
This is our hour supreme: this storm and stress
Shall blot or vindicate our worthiness.
This is the promise vague of fate's decree
And other hours have been that this might be.
Far back through elder years and distant climes
Shines the stern presage of the passing times.
To keep the truth now periled, bright and pure,
The people fought their King on Marston Moor,
Where curled court darlings sank to death's eclipse—
Sweet names of English ladies on their lips,
And still the tyrant-hating lifestream ran
Hot from the gashed veins of the Puritan.
Charged with the germ of days to come like these,
The Mayflower shivering sailed the wintry seas
And her stern crew beneath that iron sky
Sang their first hymn to God and Liberty.
Shines the stern presage of the passing times.
To keep the truth now periled, bright and pure,
The people fought their King on Marston Moor,
Where curled court darlings sank to death's eclipse—
Sweet names of English ladies on their lips,
And still the tyrant-hating lifestream ran
Hot from the gashed veins of the Puritan.
272
The Mayflower shivering sailed the wintry seas
And her stern crew beneath that iron sky
Sang their first hymn to God and Liberty.
| The complete poetical works of John Hay | |