 | English Roses |  |
THE CAPTIVE PRINCE.
Bright boy, some wicked fairy spell
Was surely thrown on thee
Some night, when magic slumber fell
And bound thy spirit free;
While evil sorcery plied its power,
And laid a shadow on the flower
That should have grown to grace unknown,
With all its native deed and dower.
And for a season under this
Thou art in captive keeping,
Nor can a mother's prayer or kiss
Yet break that charmèd sleeping.
Was surely thrown on thee
Some night, when magic slumber fell
And bound thy spirit free;
While evil sorcery plied its power,
And laid a shadow on the flower
That should have grown to grace unknown,
With all its native deed and dower.
And for a season under this
Thou art in captive keeping,
Nor can a mother's prayer or kiss
Yet break that charmèd sleeping.
Thou art not, what the Maker meant
That splendid frame to show,
A rock whereon one might have leant
When winds in anger blow;
A shelter for a weary life,
If suffering came with cruel knife
And sowed the years with bitter tears—
A haven from stormy strife;
An ark to succour in his dread
The toiler on the billow,
And for some sweet young golden head
A more than silken pillow.
That splendid frame to show,
A rock whereon one might have leant
When winds in anger blow;
A shelter for a weary life,
If suffering came with cruel knife
And sowed the years with bitter tears—
A haven from stormy strife;
An ark to succour in his dread
The toiler on the billow,
And for some sweet young golden head
A more than silken pillow.
106
The spring is frozen at its source
When it would outward flow,
And scatter light along its course
For thirsty lives below.
The heavy hand of sickness lies
Upon the darkened brow and eyes,
And in thy breast gives sore unrest
To all the fair eternities.
In these thou hast a native part,
Among the suns not risen;
But though they murmur at thy heart,
They cannot break the prison.
When it would outward flow,
And scatter light along its course
For thirsty lives below.
The heavy hand of sickness lies
Upon the darkened brow and eyes,
And in thy breast gives sore unrest
To all the fair eternities.
In these thou hast a native part,
Among the suns not risen;
But though they murmur at thy heart,
They cannot break the prison.
But someday thou wilt surely wake,
To find the shadow set
That hid the aureole thou must take,
And be my hero yet.
Then that enchanted life, which durst
Now hardly move, shall breathe and burst
Forth into song and sweep along
In music all its barriers curst,
Till we who nurse our cold desires
With empty strains or stitching;
Shall kindle thus forgotten fires
At thy young brave bewitching.
To find the shadow set
That hid the aureole thou must take,
And be my hero yet.
Then that enchanted life, which durst
Now hardly move, shall breathe and burst
Forth into song and sweep along
In music all its barriers curst,
Till we who nurse our cold desires
With empty strains or stitching;
Shall kindle thus forgotten fires
At thy young brave bewitching.
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