 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE DIRGE OF DAY
This is the dirge of Day!
She is gone her western way;
The world sighs after her receding feet.
Wood-echoes mock their beat,
Thin leaves round dozing linnets gently shock.
The languid bells along the sheep-cotes rock,
Just rock, while their meek herds
Move with them, as to words
I seem to hear them say—
Farewell, thou faded Day!
She is gone her western way;
The world sighs after her receding feet.
Wood-echoes mock their beat,
469
The languid bells along the sheep-cotes rock,
Just rock, while their meek herds
Move with them, as to words
I seem to hear them say—
Farewell, thou faded Day!
This is the dirge of Day!
On the verge of some sea-bay,
Pale in a canopy of golden rain,
Whose Danäe drops amain
Beat o'er her sleepy face and ardent hair,
Extinct from stress of fiery Phœbus there,
Slain on her bridal bed,
As Semele lay dead,
Scorched thro' with the numerous ray,
So lies, so dies the Day.
On the verge of some sea-bay,
Pale in a canopy of golden rain,
Whose Danäe drops amain
Beat o'er her sleepy face and ardent hair,
Extinct from stress of fiery Phœbus there,
Slain on her bridal bed,
As Semele lay dead,
Scorched thro' with the numerous ray,
So lies, so dies the Day.
Mourn, Ocean, mourn the Day!
Life ends as children's play,
Ephemeral pastime, then enduring sleep.
Sing music of the Deep!
With voice in all thy ridges, mellowing sound,
As the gale moves some branchy mountain ground—
Sing; moon and star will fade,
And the world's dirge be made,
And heaven will pass away
As the dirge of one fleet Day!
Life ends as children's play,
Ephemeral pastime, then enduring sleep.
Sing music of the Deep!
With voice in all thy ridges, mellowing sound,
As the gale moves some branchy mountain ground—
Sing; moon and star will fade,
And the world's dirge be made,
And heaven will pass away
As the dirge of one fleet Day!
Rain, rain to end the Day!
Ye valley-winds convey
Sad showers along the stony-terraced rills,
Mist-mantles on the hills,
Whose spectral boulders drip with human tears,
Where mossy rocks seemed crushed with crumbling years.
And yonder quarried scaur,
Like some slain swan afar,
Whose shining wings decay
Prone on the porch of Day!
Ye valley-winds convey
Sad showers along the stony-terraced rills,
Mist-mantles on the hills,
Whose spectral boulders drip with human tears,
Where mossy rocks seemed crushed with crumbling years.
And yonder quarried scaur,
Like some slain swan afar,
Whose shining wings decay
Prone on the porch of Day!
Die out and perish, Day!
We deck thy bier in gray,
With gray-green pine and sad slate-coloured rue,
And tufted rosemary, too;
There lies her face as wan as winter cloud;
These glen-leaves are one colour with her shroud,
One colour with her hands
Which, crossed like ivory wands,
Seem folded each to pray.
A dirge, a dirge for Day!
We deck thy bier in gray,
With gray-green pine and sad slate-coloured rue,
And tufted rosemary, too;
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These glen-leaves are one colour with her shroud,
One colour with her hands
Which, crossed like ivory wands,
Seem folded each to pray.
A dirge, a dirge for Day!
Thus shall we bring thee, Day,
A fair lamenting lay,
And spread pink-berried yew beside thy sleep
And cypress, as we weep,
That bough of mourning nourished on a grave,
And, singing with sad breath our funeral stave,
Say, let each forest thing,
Whose note is sorrowing,
Reed, wave and rocking spray,
Raise with us dirge o'er Day.
A fair lamenting lay,
And spread pink-berried yew beside thy sleep
And cypress, as we weep,
That bough of mourning nourished on a grave,
And, singing with sad breath our funeral stave,
Say, let each forest thing,
Whose note is sorrowing,
Reed, wave and rocking spray,
Raise with us dirge o'er Day.
What sepulchre hath Day,
And where entomb her clay?
Deck her in death-array, and lay her down
In wood-earth silver-brown:
And o'er her head beneath the iron sky
Let leaves in amber drifts go rustling by
With drop of chestnut ball,
And ash-keys for a pall,
And boughs that weeping sway
Across the grave of Day!
And where entomb her clay?
Deck her in death-array, and lay her down
In wood-earth silver-brown:
And o'er her head beneath the iron sky
Let leaves in amber drifts go rustling by
With drop of chestnut ball,
And ash-keys for a pall,
And boughs that weeping sway
Across the grave of Day!
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |