 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
89
NATURE'S TASK IN MODERN TIMES.
Ah! do we sometimes sigh to be
Like those of old, who dwelt and sang
Where holier streams and haunted sea
To Nereid and to Naiad rang?
Like those of old, who dwelt and sang
Where holier streams and haunted sea
To Nereid and to Naiad rang?
And all earth's riper gains forego—
Faith, knowledge, light, and liberty,
So were it ours, like them, to know
That life is lovely, ere we die?
Faith, knowledge, light, and liberty,
So were it ours, like them, to know
That life is lovely, ere we die?
Our years in reckless haste are spent,
Our springs of life too quickly dried—
Borne onward by each hour's event,
Or victims to the advancing tide:
Our springs of life too quickly dried—
Borne onward by each hour's event,
Or victims to the advancing tide:
90
New laws are ours; new arts we know,
New stars in heaven, they saw not shine:
But where is fled the warmth, the glow,
That made the very grass divine?
New stars in heaven, they saw not shine:
But where is fled the warmth, the glow,
That made the very grass divine?
Enough, it can be so no more;
The days of golden calm are dead;
Gone are the sea-nymphs from the shore,
The Oreads from the mountain-head:
The days of golden calm are dead;
Gone are the sea-nymphs from the shore,
The Oreads from the mountain-head:
Say, hath she ceased to minister
Rest to man's toil, and balm for pain?
Loves Nature those who love but her
As some mere mistress, light and vain?
Rest to man's toil, and balm for pain?
Loves Nature those who love but her
As some mere mistress, light and vain?
Nay, like the Spartan mother, she
The recreant from her breast would spurn,
Bidding him strive to death, if he
The guerdon of her love would earn.
The recreant from her breast would spurn,
Bidding him strive to death, if he
The guerdon of her love would earn.
91
And as a child, who starts in fright
From drifting agonies of dream,
Sees slowly with returning sight
His mother in the morning beam,
From drifting agonies of dream,
Sees slowly with returning sight
His mother in the morning beam,
So from life's feverish whirl awaked
I glad my wondering eyes with thee,
Till thought is calmed and spirit slaked
With murmurs of the eternal sea.
I glad my wondering eyes with thee,
Till thought is calmed and spirit slaked
With murmurs of the eternal sea.
Yes, for through suffering we may win
Peace, that to them thou couldst not give:
Fresh from the mad world's dust and din,
Our lips are fain to drink and live;
Peace, that to them thou couldst not give:
Fresh from the mad world's dust and din,
Our lips are fain to drink and live;
Our eyes old custom cannot blind
To beauty; but when toil has end,
And we are satiate of mankind,
To walk with Nature as a friend—
To beauty; but when toil has end,
And we are satiate of mankind,
To walk with Nature as a friend—
92
Bathe in her light, and breathe her life—
Such profit of our pain have we,
Whose ears are vex'd with inland strife,
Whose ways are seldom by the sea.
Such profit of our pain have we,
Whose ears are vex'd with inland strife,
Whose ways are seldom by the sea.
| Poems by James Rhoades | |