 | English Roses |  |
IMPERIUM IN TABERNÂ.
Yes, in that cottage there is empire too,
Though now not written large,
Nor given occasion by broad chance to woo
That bitter sweet great charge;
The high adventure awful,
Wrapt in its licence lawful,
To widen forth a sea without a marge.
And on the rugged form
Gnarled as by fire and storm,
Sits something of the dreadful shape and shadow;
If now mere sunshine warm
And tan the face, grown rude on mount and meadow.
Though now not written large,
Nor given occasion by broad chance to woo
That bitter sweet great charge;
The high adventure awful,
Wrapt in its licence lawful,
To widen forth a sea without a marge.
And on the rugged form
Gnarled as by fire and storm,
Sits something of the dreadful shape and shadow;
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And tan the face, grown rude on mount and meadow.
The solemn burden of a separate fate
And chrism of splendid joy,
Asleep in him and yet uninchoate
Or just an idle toy;
Still lurk with deeds of daring
In that unfinished bearing,
That might be waked to some supreme employ.
And while his English eyes
Drink day of sober skies,
If but by petty toil his day is rounded;
He shares those destinies,
Which make and shake the world with hopes unbounded.
And chrism of splendid joy,
Asleep in him and yet uninchoate
Or just an idle toy;
Still lurk with deeds of daring
In that unfinished bearing,
That might be waked to some supreme employ.
And while his English eyes
Drink day of sober skies,
If but by petty toil his day is rounded;
He shares those destinies,
Which make and shake the world with hopes unbounded.
At times he has strange glimpses of his might
And turns a folded page,
He steps a moment into royal right
And his own loftier stage;
Himself he is the nation
Built in the one foundation,
And dowered at heart with that fine heritage.
Down in his cloistered nook,
Or strong with reaper's hook
And brown arm that through gold and silver dashes,
He feels the wide outlook
And gets dim visions of imperial flashes.
And turns a folded page,
He steps a moment into royal right
And his own loftier stage;
Himself he is the nation
Built in the one foundation,
And dowered at heart with that fine heritage.
Down in his cloistered nook,
Or strong with reaper's hook
And brown arm that through gold and silver dashes,
He feels the wide outlook
And gets dim visions of imperial flashes.
In him the pulse of a grand people chimes,
And through his channeled veins
The music of the old heroic times
Beats at its curbing reins;
Unconscious of his greatness
And with a grim sedateness,
He yet is clue to many knotted skeins.
Though years go tranquil by,
In his simplicity
He is to all things noble truly wedded;
While, in the mystery
Of gray romance and living rock, embedded.
And through his channeled veins
The music of the old heroic times
Beats at its curbing reins;
Unconscious of his greatness
And with a grim sedateness,
He yet is clue to many knotted skeins.
Though years go tranquil by,
In his simplicity
He is to all things noble truly wedded;
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Of gray romance and living rock, embedded.
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