 | Under the dawn |  |
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LOST VOICES.
My power of voice and song,
And harp and spirit strong,
I seized at the sad ending of a day,
And brought them unto her
Who, cruel, would confer
No laurel-leaves, save those with weeping grey,
And in my rage, I broke,
As lightning tears an oak,
The instruments whereon I used to play.
And harp and spirit strong,
I seized at the sad ending of a day,
And brought them unto her
Who, cruel, would confer
No laurel-leaves, save those with weeping grey,
And in my rage, I broke,
As lightning tears an oak,
The instruments whereon I used to play.
These shall no more resound,
So said I, nor abound
With many-coloured, subtle tints of song:
My flute, and harp, and lyre,
In sacrificial fire
I place, amid the burnt infernal throng
Of spirits, whose parched feet
Do cool that nether heat,
Who walk the infernal burning haunts among.
So said I, nor abound
With many-coloured, subtle tints of song:
My flute, and harp, and lyre,
In sacrificial fire
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Of spirits, whose parched feet
Do cool that nether heat,
Who walk the infernal burning haunts among.
The voices that were good,
By lake, and mount, and wood,
For ever—yea, for ever now have ceased;
The voices that could slake
The thirst of sea and lake,
By the broad chants of storm-winds unappeased;
The voices that could move
A listening maid to love,
Are even as dead spirits just released.
By lake, and mount, and wood,
For ever—yea, for ever now have ceased;
The voices that could slake
The thirst of sea and lake,
By the broad chants of storm-winds unappeased;
The voices that could move
A listening maid to love,
Are even as dead spirits just released.
On rapid wings they fly
Towards a newer distant sky;
I shall not hear their tender voices sound
By river or by marge
Of ocean blue and large;
I shall not hear them rustle o'er the ground,
As the breezes move in May
Many a gentle, leafy spray,
When the songs of yellow-breasted birds abound.
Towards a newer distant sky;
I shall not hear their tender voices sound
By river or by marge
Of ocean blue and large;
I shall not hear them rustle o'er the ground,
As the breezes move in May
Many a gentle, leafy spray,
When the songs of yellow-breasted birds abound.
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I shall not hear their sighs,
Nor mark them with mine eyes,
For all sweet loves and sounds are withered things—
Like blossoms in a bed
That once was sweet and red,
They fold late, tarnished, dismal-coloured wings,
And it is as if a blast
Of ice-cold wind had passed
On the feathers of some frightened bird who sings.
Nor mark them with mine eyes,
For all sweet loves and sounds are withered things—
Like blossoms in a bed
That once was sweet and red,
They fold late, tarnished, dismal-coloured wings,
And it is as if a blast
Of ice-cold wind had passed
On the feathers of some frightened bird who sings.
The voices that were great,
Ere the coming of dark Fate,
Have vanished 'mid the rushes on Time's bank,
As a rapid bird doth gleam,
Through the grasses in a dream,
Disappearing 'mid their wildernesses rank;
To whom have I to turn
For the vengeance which doth burn
As a fire within me—whom have I to thank?
Ere the coming of dark Fate,
Have vanished 'mid the rushes on Time's bank,
As a rapid bird doth gleam,
Through the grasses in a dream,
Disappearing 'mid their wildernesses rank;
To whom have I to turn
For the vengeance which doth burn
As a fire within me—whom have I to thank?
For the passing of the fair
Gleams of sunny former air,
And this whistling of a wintry novel breeze;
For the changing of the heat,
And of tender flowers and sweet,
Into glaciers where the shuddering fingers freeze;
For the breaking of my harp,
As by swords inured and sharp,
As by warriors whom such devastations please
Gleams of sunny former air,
And this whistling of a wintry novel breeze;
For the changing of the heat,
And of tender flowers and sweet,
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For the breaking of my harp,
As by swords inured and sharp,
As by warriors whom such devastations please
For the shifting of a girl
Who is supple as each curl
That her fingers in their frailty move and touch;
For the shifting of her heart,
That is pointed as a dart,
Being gold-tipped, yet a dangerous thing to clutch;
For the shifting of her soul,
That is as an honeyed bowl,
Yet 'tis poisoned in the bottom over-much.
Who is supple as each curl
That her fingers in their frailty move and touch;
For the shifting of her heart,
That is pointed as a dart,
Being gold-tipped, yet a dangerous thing to clutch;
For the shifting of her soul,
That is as an honeyed bowl,
Yet 'tis poisoned in the bottom over-much.
For these and such-like things,
Having poisonous subtle stings,
Who shall answer, who compensate or repay?
God? I say the world is full
As a miasmatic pool
Of foul vapours steaming up from life's foul clay,
And how shall God make sweet
Such a marshy torrid heat,
Fiercer e'en than Afric's torridest midday?
Having poisonous subtle stings,
Who shall answer, who compensate or repay?
God? I say the world is full
As a miasmatic pool
Of foul vapours steaming up from life's foul clay,
And how shall God make sweet
Such a marshy torrid heat,
Fiercer e'en than Afric's torridest midday?
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How shall He in the end
Make such a planet tend
Towards some glad mysterious haven unforeseen,
Bringing right harmonious motion
Out of life's capricious ocean,
With its ceaseless waves of grey, and black, and green,
How shall He, with His spear,
Make the heaven bright and clear,
And the thunder-clouds and copper skies serene?
Make such a planet tend
Towards some glad mysterious haven unforeseen,
Bringing right harmonious motion
Out of life's capricious ocean,
With its ceaseless waves of grey, and black, and green,
How shall He, with His spear,
Make the heaven bright and clear,
And the thunder-clouds and copper skies serene?
| Under the dawn | |