English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
IN HONOREM SENECTUTIS. |
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| VI. |
 | English Roses |  |
499
IN HONOREM SENECTUTIS.
To Beauty? No, I will not raise
For such a heartsome song;
Ah, that with cheap and ready praise,
Has charmèd dupes so long.
Nor will I seek a common truth,
The gifts that dazzle us in youth
Or blind our gaze to blots uncouth—
No worship for the strong!
For this has been the poets' way
Since early Sirens caught their lay,
And led the music far astray—
To wreak a bitter wrong.
For such a heartsome song;
Ah, that with cheap and ready praise,
Has charmèd dupes so long.
Nor will I seek a common truth,
The gifts that dazzle us in youth
Or blind our gaze to blots uncouth—
No worship for the strong!
For this has been the poets' way
Since early Sirens caught their lay,
And led the music far astray—
To wreak a bitter wrong.
For I see something more than art
And beauty beyond grace,
Which in eternal things has part,
Even on the furrowed face;
Above the glamoured hair of gold,
Or eyes that with sweet magic hold—
Yes, in the weakness of the old,
I mark a heavenly trace.
In every wrinkle or mute glance,
The glory of a dead romance
Or wreck of noble circumstance
Doth print its dwelling-place.
And beauty beyond grace,
Which in eternal things has part,
Even on the furrowed face;
Above the glamoured hair of gold,
Or eyes that with sweet magic hold—
Yes, in the weakness of the old,
I mark a heavenly trace.
In every wrinkle or mute glance,
The glory of a dead romance
Or wreck of noble circumstance
Doth print its dwelling-place.
I love the silver locks, the seams
Of grey and ghastly fright;
Those faded eyes are full of dreams,
And dance with living light.
And under the bowed form, that ill
Can totter down the easiest hill
Though leaning on another, still
Is strength of fairer sight.
Beyond the features wan and worn,
Gleams yet for larger purpose born
The blushing of a brighter morn—
For one who reads aright.
Of grey and ghastly fright;
Those faded eyes are full of dreams,
And dance with living light.
And under the bowed form, that ill
Can totter down the easiest hill
Though leaning on another, still
Is strength of fairer sight.
Beyond the features wan and worn,
Gleams yet for larger purpose born
The blushing of a brighter morn—
For one who reads aright.
500
Old songs and wine and ancient fanes,
Undying statued stone,
And not the trick of weather vanes
Turned by a breeze's tone;
Old masters and forgotten wit,
And books no modern ever writ
With lightning lines and infinite,
A greatness calm and lone;
I get me nowhere but in age
Built in the bed-rock of each stage,
An awful cosmic heritage—
And here is Godhead's throne.
Undying statued stone,
And not the trick of weather vanes
Turned by a breeze's tone;
Old masters and forgotten wit,
And books no modern ever writ
With lightning lines and infinite,
A greatness calm and lone;
I get me nowhere but in age
Built in the bed-rock of each stage,
An awful cosmic heritage—
And here is Godhead's throne.
| English Roses | |