 | A Child of the People |  |
35
A SPRAY OF SONGS.
37
PRELUDE.
One day last summer,—in a burning noon
When not an aspen stirred,
And life lay languid in a sultry swoon,
Nor twittered any bird,
But slept amid the cool green of the trees
Until an opening eye
Might see leaves nodding in an evening breeze
And day begin to die,—
My love and I a-wandering, came for shade
Into an orchard old,
Where on the long grass bolder sunbeams played
And flecked the green with gold.
And crumbling grim-grey walls frowned chastely chill
Around that dim retreat;
There came no stir of life to break the still,
No tread of noisy feet,
But fruitful, deep-roofed apple-trees shut in
The lilies' tender snows;—
It was the time when early fruits begin
To redden into rose;—
And as we lingered there, love-linked, she said,
“You are a poet, you!
Here as we sit, Love's wings above us spread,
Give me my promised due,—
Some quaint word-sculptures, rich with leaf and flower,
Rose-buds and murmuring bees;
And call them, mindful of this happy hour,
‘Under the Apple-trees!’”
When not an aspen stirred,
And life lay languid in a sultry swoon,
Nor twittered any bird,
But slept amid the cool green of the trees
Until an opening eye
Might see leaves nodding in an evening breeze
And day begin to die,—
My love and I a-wandering, came for shade
Into an orchard old,
Where on the long grass bolder sunbeams played
And flecked the green with gold.
And crumbling grim-grey walls frowned chastely chill
Around that dim retreat;
There came no stir of life to break the still,
No tread of noisy feet,
But fruitful, deep-roofed apple-trees shut in
The lilies' tender snows;—
It was the time when early fruits begin
To redden into rose;—
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“You are a poet, you!
Here as we sit, Love's wings above us spread,
Give me my promised due,—
Some quaint word-sculptures, rich with leaf and flower,
Rose-buds and murmuring bees;
And call them, mindful of this happy hour,
‘Under the Apple-trees!’”
So then I chose stray thoughts from out the throng
Snared in the hands of Time,
And moulded them ephemeral forms of song,
And tinsel crowns of rhyme.
Old songs, new name: that scarce-flown summer-tide,
Which seems such years ago,
Buried the name she gave them. Since she died
I have not called them so.
Snared in the hands of Time,
And moulded them ephemeral forms of song,
And tinsel crowns of rhyme.
Old songs, new name: that scarce-flown summer-tide,
Which seems such years ago,
Buried the name she gave them. Since she died
I have not called them so.
Then my love rose, and, blindfold, plucked a spray
Six leaves were clinging to.
She clapped her hands; “Six songs you sing to-day;
But hear my fancy through,—
These shall be sibyl's leaves, wherewith I wait
For you with songs to buy:—
Six leaves were clinging to.
She clapped her hands; “Six songs you sing to-day;
But hear my fancy through,—
These shall be sibyl's leaves, wherewith I wait
For you with songs to buy:—
39
The first shall be for Fame, the second, Fate;
The third for Courtesy;
Nor shrink from Failure that shall fairer be;
This,—hark, “the Past,” it saith;—
O sweet sad Past, dear leaf of Memory,—
What should come next but Death!
The third for Courtesy;
Nor shrink from Failure that shall fairer be;
This,—hark, “the Past,” it saith;—
O sweet sad Past, dear leaf of Memory,—
What should come next but Death!
“These be your songs,—six leaflets on one stem,
And Love the stalk thereof;
Yours shall be Fame, Fate, Memory, all of them,
Save Death and half of Love!”
And Love the stalk thereof;
Yours shall be Fame, Fate, Memory, all of them,
Save Death and half of Love!”
40
FAME.
Sigh not, sweet, that the fair days fail us;
Vex not love with a chance word fretful:
What though we, while the years avail us,
Win no name for the years forgetful,—
Though the world say its last of you
Ere the first of the roots creep nigh us,
What care we, so we live love through,
That the words of the world blow by us?
Vex not love with a chance word fretful:
What though we, while the years avail us,
Win no name for the years forgetful,—
Though the world say its last of you
Ere the first of the roots creep nigh us,
What care we, so we live love through,
That the words of the world blow by us?
What gat greater these famous lovers,
Save more sorrow to mar their laughter?
Dearth and dole for a life Time covers,—
Scant amends,—with a scant song after.
Though we faint from the world like dew,—
Hill-side haze that the sunrise raises,—
Why should we, so we live love through,
Greatly dread to die with the daisies?
Save more sorrow to mar their laughter?
Dearth and dole for a life Time covers,—
Scant amends,—with a scant song after.
Though we faint from the world like dew,—
Hill-side haze that the sunrise raises,—
Why should we, so we live love through,
Greatly dread to die with the daisies?
Can a breath of the flowers we lavish
Garland-wise on our graves blow through them?
Can our songs in the silence ravish
Souls that were life-long strangers to them?
Nay, thrice nay! to the dead their due,—
Silent sadness and swift forgetting;
Happy they to have lived love through:
Ours the solace whose suns are setting.
Garland-wise on our graves blow through them?
Can our songs in the silence ravish
Souls that were life-long strangers to them?
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Silent sadness and swift forgetting;
Happy they to have lived love through:
Ours the solace whose suns are setting.
All we, dreaming of praise undying,
Learn in a mad moon how praise passes.
Heart, last week world-heard, who art sighing
Mute songs now to your graveyard grasses,
In the world there are songs more new;—
In the world there are things would fret you
Of the hundred who read you through,
Half mistake you and half forget you.
Learn in a mad moon how praise passes.
Heart, last week world-heard, who art sighing
Mute songs now to your graveyard grasses,
In the world there are songs more new;—
In the world there are things would fret you
Of the hundred who read you through,
Half mistake you and half forget you.
Us in turn too will death resistless
Shut from summer and stars and singing;
Fold and fetter the hands laid listless
On the bosoms o'er-cold for clinging.
Half, for love, I could hold it true,—
Though praise pass us and fame forgetteth,
What if love that has lived life through
Rise, a sun, when, a star, it setteth!
Shut from summer and stars and singing;
Fold and fetter the hands laid listless
On the bosoms o'er-cold for clinging.
Half, for love, I could hold it true,—
Though praise pass us and fame forgetteth,
What if love that has lived life through
Rise, a sun, when, a star, it setteth!
We, whatever the world say of us,
Have within us what scorns the earthy.
Shall not we, who have gods to love us,
Be of better than worms held worthy?
Ay or nay, but for naught we sue,
If love last till the glad day goeth:
Most content to have lived love through;
Fame or not, in the end who knoweth?
Have within us what scorns the earthy.
Shall not we, who have gods to love us,
Be of better than worms held worthy?
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If love last till the glad day goeth:
Most content to have lived love through;
Fame or not, in the end who knoweth?
“Toil not for Fame, neither, for scorn of it,
Let slip the pregnant days;
But live beyond the sting of slanderous wit,
The steam of short-lived praise.”
So ran her comment; of the deathless love
No word her lips would tell,
But never lips with loveliest speech thereof
Filled silence half so well.
Let slip the pregnant days;
But live beyond the sting of slanderous wit,
The steam of short-lived praise.”
So ran her comment; of the deathless love
No word her lips would tell,
But never lips with loveliest speech thereof
Filled silence half so well.
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FATE.
High up above all cross and change,
And war of wind and storm of sea,
In sunless space where no gods range,
Or life is, dwell the sisters three.
High up above the highest star,—
Above all suns and moons of time,
Whose hush no murmur mounts to mar,
Whose height no tireless wing can climb,—
In a drear land, where light is lost
In wreaths and folds of ashen cloud,
And lurid flame of torches tossed
Flares blood-red through the leaden shroud,—
Where gaunt rocks gleam in depths of gloom
And mountain walls shut in the dark,
Blackened with many a misty plume,
Crowning the pine-trunks close and stark,
Sit three weird women, worn and grey,
With faces whiter than the dead;—
Hard eyes that seem the same alway,—
Cold eyes that never tears have shed;
And broad brows frozen in a frown,
And vexed with counsel grave and wise
Of love and death, desire and hate.
O cruel, sleepless lids, drop down;—
Drop down and hide them, lest our eyes
Freeze at the eyes of Fate!
And war of wind and storm of sea,
In sunless space where no gods range,
Or life is, dwell the sisters three.
High up above the highest star,—
Above all suns and moons of time,
Whose hush no murmur mounts to mar,
Whose height no tireless wing can climb,—
In a drear land, where light is lost
In wreaths and folds of ashen cloud,
And lurid flame of torches tossed
Flares blood-red through the leaden shroud,—
Where gaunt rocks gleam in depths of gloom
And mountain walls shut in the dark,
Blackened with many a misty plume,
Crowning the pine-trunks close and stark,
Sit three weird women, worn and grey,
With faces whiter than the dead;—
Hard eyes that seem the same alway,—
Cold eyes that never tears have shed;
44
And vexed with counsel grave and wise
Of love and death, desire and hate.
O cruel, sleepless lids, drop down;—
Drop down and hide them, lest our eyes
Freeze at the eyes of Fate!
My love lifts wondering eyes:—“What songs for June!
I should have laughed at Fate,—
A phantom whom some prank of the mad moon
Sent from her ivory gate
To frighten fools! We women grow the men,—
Must we grow poets too,
Or lose all lightning out of song? Say then
If a girl's songs ring true!”
I should have laughed at Fate,—
A phantom whom some prank of the mad moon
Sent from her ivory gate
To frighten fools! We women grow the men,—
Must we grow poets too,
Or lose all lightning out of song? Say then
If a girl's songs ring true!”
45
THE LADY'S LEAF.
We rode to Camelot, I and he.
It was the time of Spring turned lover.
A wind, caught in the greenery,
Shredded with glancing shafts the cover,
Crept out and in, and stirred the rill
That ran beside us round the hill
Onward to Camelot, it and we.
It was the time of Spring turned lover.
A wind, caught in the greenery,
Shredded with glancing shafts the cover,
Crept out and in, and stirred the rill
That ran beside us round the hill
Onward to Camelot, it and we.
We rode to Camelot, he and I.
The bells rang ever on his bridle.
I said, “What sing the bells, and why,
Whose silver tongues are never idle?”
He said, “Of joy-bells whisper these,
When we beneath the balconies
Ride into Camelot, thou and I!”
The bells rang ever on his bridle.
I said, “What sing the bells, and why,
Whose silver tongues are never idle?”
He said, “Of joy-bells whisper these,
When we beneath the balconies
Ride into Camelot, thou and I!”
We rode to Camelot, I and he.
Far off we heard its joy-bells ringing.
Anon, the sun smote suddenly,
High up, a golden dragon clinging.
“To-day the dragon clings,”—he said;
“To-morrow,”—half his thought I read,
Riding to Camelot, I and he.
Far off we heard its joy-bells ringing.
Anon, the sun smote suddenly,
High up, a golden dragon clinging.
“To-day the dragon clings,”—he said;
“To-morrow,”—half his thought I read,
Riding to Camelot, I and he.
46
We rode to Camelot, he and I.
His eyes sought ever crowns to win them;
Yet when they sought mine with a sigh
There was a hint of sorrow in them.
He spake not often; when he spake,
With fear my woman's heart would ache,
Riding to Camelot, he and I.
His eyes sought ever crowns to win them;
Yet when they sought mine with a sigh
There was a hint of sorrow in them.
He spake not often; when he spake,
With fear my woman's heart would ache,
Riding to Camelot, he and I.
We rode to Camelot, I and he.
“None of us ride here, save we only.
All ride with Arthur over-sea,
So ever now the roads are lonely.
Where are no knights the heathen are;
Pray we pass safe 'neath sun and star,
To Camelot on, the rill and we!”
“None of us ride here, save we only.
All ride with Arthur over-sea,
So ever now the roads are lonely.
Where are no knights the heathen are;
Pray we pass safe 'neath sun and star,
To Camelot on, the rill and we!”
We rode to Camelot, he and I.
Three ravens crossed us for an omen;
A trampled lawn we rested nigh
At noon, gave signal of near foemen.
He leapt like bloodhound on the slot:—
“Who rides so close to Camelot?”
We were alone, just he and I.
Three ravens crossed us for an omen;
A trampled lawn we rested nigh
At noon, gave signal of near foemen.
He leapt like bloodhound on the slot:—
“Who rides so close to Camelot?”
We were alone, just he and I.
We rode to Camelot, I and he,
Adown the heathen tracks disdainful.
Their horses half a score may be;—
He had ridden faster 'gainst a plainfull.
The stream ran muddy just below;—
“They watered here an hour ago,
Riding to Camelot, they and we.”
Adown the heathen tracks disdainful.
Their horses half a score may be;—
He had ridden faster 'gainst a plainfull.
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“They watered here an hour ago,
Riding to Camelot, they and we.”
We rode to Camelot, he and I.
“Lo you, their lance-heads gleaming golden,
That dripping life-blood by and by
May be of the low sun beholden!
God knows, Sir Launcelot would allow
Our day's diversion rare enow,
Riding to Camelot, thou and I!”
“Lo you, their lance-heads gleaming golden,
That dripping life-blood by and by
May be of the low sun beholden!
God knows, Sir Launcelot would allow
Our day's diversion rare enow,
Riding to Camelot, thou and I!”
We rode to Camelot, I and he.
Full speed he sped,—a heathen crossed him;
Would Launcelot had been there to see
How my knight twice a lance-length tossed him!
Three in that tilt he overbore:—
Could Launcelot's self with twelve do more,
Riding to Camelot, I and he?
Full speed he sped,—a heathen crossed him;
Would Launcelot had been there to see
How my knight twice a lance-length tossed him!
Three in that tilt he overbore:—
Could Launcelot's self with twelve do more,
Riding to Camelot, I and he?
In sight of Camelot, he and I!
They drove him back: I called on Heaven!
The life-blood in my heart 'gan dry;—
Two more down! Still their swords are seven!—
Ah joy! Who drives across the field,
Three ramping lions in his shield?—
Now on to Camelot, you and I!
They drove him back: I called on Heaven!
The life-blood in my heart 'gan dry;—
Two more down! Still their swords are seven!—
Ah joy! Who drives across the field,
Three ramping lions in his shield?—
Now on to Camelot, you and I!
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We rode to Camelot, all we three.—
“Had you not hard, Sir Launcelot, ridden,
The rill had run alone for me,—
Of me all bells had rung unbidden,
And dust had dimmed the dragon's pride,
And my maid saddened. Now we ride
Gaily to Camelot, thou and we!”
“Had you not hard, Sir Launcelot, ridden,
The rill had run alone for me,—
Of me all bells had rung unbidden,
And dust had dimmed the dragon's pride,
And my maid saddened. Now we ride
Gaily to Camelot, thou and we!”
“No art could tell how Launcelot's blade ran blood,”
I said, “as silence did!
You, Sibyl? Nay, I tell you, 'tis the mood
Of a mad Bassarid,
Driven swifter than the sting on a snake's hiss
To the heart of prophecy.
Lame follows yours my song of a queen's kiss,
Which your third leaf shall buy.”
I said, “as silence did!
You, Sibyl? Nay, I tell you, 'tis the mood
Of a mad Bassarid,
Driven swifter than the sting on a snake's hiss
To the heart of prophecy.
Lame follows yours my song of a queen's kiss,
Which your third leaf shall buy.”
49
ALAIN CHARTIER.
O God, Thou hast made my life so sweet
In this last hour of dusking sky,—
Though all too dim and over fleet,—
With stifled bubblings of a sigh
Heard in her silver-fluted throat,
The while her lips their honey smote
On mine sleep-parted, that I fain
Had never waked again!
In this last hour of dusking sky,—
Though all too dim and over fleet,—
With stifled bubblings of a sigh
Heard in her silver-fluted throat,
The while her lips their honey smote
On mine sleep-parted, that I fain
Had never waked again!
O rarest dream that ever yet
Was fashioned in a poet's soul!
O sweetest signet ever set
In dream or deed, to claim the whole
Of love and life and soul and song,
And in one image mould the throng
Of fiery fancies that are wrought
Red on the forge of thought!
Was fashioned in a poet's soul!
O sweetest signet ever set
In dream or deed, to claim the whole
Of love and life and soul and song,
And in one image mould the throng
Of fiery fancies that are wrought
Red on the forge of thought!
Was it a dream? Judge you for me,
Who have not 'neath her kissing lips
Felt the fierce blood tumultuously
Crimsoning to the finger-tips;
But this I know,—whatever fall,—
God and our Lady hear it all,—
Through life, in death, I am her slave,—
Her bondsman to the grave!
Who have not 'neath her kissing lips
Felt the fierce blood tumultuously
Crimsoning to the finger-tips;
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God and our Lady hear it all,—
Through life, in death, I am her slave,—
Her bondsman to the grave!
Along the glowing garden-ways
We loitered, half a score of us,
This afternoon, through maze on maze
Of cool vine-greenery, pendulous
With clusters, deepening in the sun
From shade to shade of purple-dun,
Toward river-glimpses, silvery-brown,
Seen ever further down.
We loitered, half a score of us,
This afternoon, through maze on maze
Of cool vine-greenery, pendulous
With clusters, deepening in the sun
From shade to shade of purple-dun,
Toward river-glimpses, silvery-brown,
Seen ever further down.
The laughing heart-strings of the lute
Shivered, as 'neath a summer breath
Strewn rose-leaves, and all birds grew mute
To hear its faintest murmur's death.
Then one trolled rondels of that star
Of fight, who wielded Adalmar.
One sang of Mary, maid above;
For me, I sang of love.
Shivered, as 'neath a summer breath
Strewn rose-leaves, and all birds grew mute
To hear its faintest murmur's death.
Then one trolled rondels of that star
Of fight, who wielded Adalmar.
One sang of Mary, maid above;
For me, I sang of love.
Down dim-lit walks that, ev'n at noon,
Were loud with tireless nightingales,
Like glimpses of a cloudy moon
We saw the white of ladies' veils
Gleam out amid the garden-growth;—
Heard little laughs the air was loth,
Laden with all its balm, to bring,
And dulcet trebles sing.
Were loud with tireless nightingales,
Like glimpses of a cloudy moon
We saw the white of ladies' veils
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Heard little laughs the air was loth,
Laden with all its balm, to bring,
And dulcet trebles sing.
One after one my comrades strayed
Down deep-roofed alleys, jasmine-grown,
In searches after denser shade,
And left me at the last alone.
Beetle and drowsy humming bee
Droned in slow mazes over me,
And, 'mid monotonous melodies,
Sleep sank upon my eyes.
Down deep-roofed alleys, jasmine-grown,
In searches after denser shade,
And left me at the last alone.
Beetle and drowsy humming bee
Droned in slow mazes over me,
And, 'mid monotonous melodies,
Sleep sank upon my eyes.
Yet in the self-same place I lay;
Into my dream all murmurs grew
Of bird and bee and girlish play;
Chance-times I saw the sun peep through,
When soft breaths of the summer time
Fluttered the broad leaves of the lime;
Still sweet song-snatches floated by,
Or paused to fall and die.
Into my dream all murmurs grew
Of bird and bee and girlish play;
Chance-times I saw the sun peep through,
When soft breaths of the summer time
Fluttered the broad leaves of the lime;
Still sweet song-snatches floated by,
Or paused to fall and die.
When, hark! a nearing overflow
Of maiden mirth,—a rustling close
Of silken robes,—a sudden snow
On silken grass of leaves of rose,—
And then, upon my dazzled sight
A burst of mingled gold and white,—
White maidens, each with hair that rolled
A backward stream of gold!
Of maiden mirth,—a rustling close
Of silken robes,—a sudden snow
On silken grass of leaves of rose,—
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A burst of mingled gold and white,—
White maidens, each with hair that rolled
A backward stream of gold!
And she, the Princess, she, my queen,
Swinging a rose-chain 'midst of them!
Ah, God! her shoulders 'gainst the green
Shone like a frosty diadem
Of stars that crown mid-winter skies;—
Ah, God! the love-dew in her eyes!—
Rare as in speechless nights of June
Drips from the vase o' the moon!
Swinging a rose-chain 'midst of them!
Ah, God! her shoulders 'gainst the green
Shone like a frosty diadem
Of stars that crown mid-winter skies;—
Ah, God! the love-dew in her eyes!—
Rare as in speechless nights of June
Drips from the vase o' the moon!
Frozen to stillness poised they there,
Lips sundered, eyes like limpid wells,
To see me fall'n asleep to fair
Faint tinklings of swung king-cup bells
That chime in poets' dreams alone:—
Then one,—“'Tis Alain, drowsy grown,
With all the wonders of the South
Sealed in his singing mouth!”
Lips sundered, eyes like limpid wells,
To see me fall'n asleep to fair
Faint tinklings of swung king-cup bells
That chime in poets' dreams alone:—
Then one,—“'Tis Alain, drowsy grown,
With all the wonders of the South
Sealed in his singing mouth!”
Then, or e'er one could say her nay,—
God, can Thy heaven give more than this!—
She stooped beside me where I lay,
Her ripe lips rounding with a kiss,
And laid their burden down on mine;
Then, raising her flushed face divine,
Spake thus,—“Read ye aright my deed!
It is a Poet's meed!”
God, can Thy heaven give more than this!—
She stooped beside me where I lay,
Her ripe lips rounding with a kiss,
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Then, raising her flushed face divine,
Spake thus,—“Read ye aright my deed!
It is a Poet's meed!”
Was it a dream? I cannot tell;
But that pure kiss hath freed my tongue,
Like God's own spark, from some strong spell
That kept my nobler songs unsung.
Now shall my songs be born afar,
Beside the pearl-stairs of that star
Which she was queen of, where is pain
Until she comes again.
But that pure kiss hath freed my tongue,
Like God's own spark, from some strong spell
That kept my nobler songs unsung.
Now shall my songs be born afar,
Beside the pearl-stairs of that star
Which she was queen of, where is pain
Until she comes again.
And this, O Margaret, to thee!—
I may not love thee, save as one
Who, severed by infinity,
Yet, for its shining, loves the sun.
Men will forget my songs: your hair,—
The moth as soon will banquet there;
But Heaven's high choir shall whisper this,—
“His songs won that Queen's kiss!”
I may not love thee, save as one
Who, severed by infinity,
Yet, for its shining, loves the sun.
Men will forget my songs: your hair,—
The moth as soon will banquet there;
But Heaven's high choir shall whisper this,—
“His songs won that Queen's kiss!”
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Love's lips from mine kissed the last words away;—
“Sing,” said she, “for my sake,
Whose golden hair your hand finds soft all day,—
Who kisses you, awake!
Nay, I half think poor Alain's head was turned;—
What princess dares extremes?
Besides, he slept; I first to kiss you learned,
Not in, but for your dreams.”
“Sing,” said she, “for my sake,
Whose golden hair your hand finds soft all day,—
Who kisses you, awake!
Nay, I half think poor Alain's head was turned;—
What princess dares extremes?
Besides, he slept; I first to kiss you learned,
Not in, but for your dreams.”
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FAILURE.
I.
The Lord's elect, with gracious feet that glide
Down heaven's white stair of stars, and come and go
Soft as dove's wings, or feather-drift of snow,
Meet work for this man and for that provide:—
For him to tame the purple heart of pride
By wearing a world's crown, nor ever know;
This gives his life away for his life's foe;
This for the poor. Such grow next to God's side.
Down heaven's white stair of stars, and come and go
Soft as dove's wings, or feather-drift of snow,
Meet work for this man and for that provide:—
For him to tame the purple heart of pride
By wearing a world's crown, nor ever know;
This gives his life away for his life's foe;
This for the poor. Such grow next to God's side.
And they who fail,—who die with nothing won,—
Whose lives yield scantly for the pains they spend!—
These, whom the world deems profitless, undone,
So souls stand true, have honour in the end.
Failure is but the other face o' the sun,—
Just the success men cannot comprehend.
Whose lives yield scantly for the pains they spend!—
These, whom the world deems profitless, undone,
So souls stand true, have honour in the end.
Failure is but the other face o' the sun,—
Just the success men cannot comprehend.
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II.
Of climbing purpose, clogged with feet fall'n lame,
And singing soul sour-throated, God alone
Can gauge the greatness. Bruisèd spice storm-blown
Pleaseth Him more than all fair-weather flame
Of frankincense. He doth not praise or blame
Results, or blazoned moods the world is shown;
But by the inner spirit's undertone
Judgeth the act,—the arrow by the aim.
And singing soul sour-throated, God alone
Can gauge the greatness. Bruisèd spice storm-blown
Pleaseth Him more than all fair-weather flame
Of frankincense. He doth not praise or blame
Results, or blazoned moods the world is shown;
But by the inner spirit's undertone
Judgeth the act,—the arrow by the aim.
So I sing on, although my May-day rhyme
Noon-born, die ere the even: God from me
No thunder-throated battle-psalm sublime
Demandeth, but a song in my degree.
Discords! He hath not heard one any time;—
They are His concords in a minor key!
Noon-born, die ere the even: God from me
No thunder-throated battle-psalm sublime
Demandeth, but a song in my degree.
Discords! He hath not heard one any time;—
They are His concords in a minor key!
57
“Crown Failure here, the frequent feast-day leaves
No wreaths men's brows to bind!
We mark the first for honour; God perceives
The place of each behind.
See, too, for fairest deeds men's lavish praise,
Ere the dew dries, is spent!
He will not grudge us everlasting bays
To crown a crossed intent.”
No wreaths men's brows to bind!
We mark the first for honour; God perceives
The place of each behind.
See, too, for fairest deeds men's lavish praise,
Ere the dew dries, is spent!
He will not grudge us everlasting bays
To crown a crossed intent.”
58
“WHERE TWO YEARS MEET.”
A moment here the storm of battle stands,
Then westward rolls away;
We wait with wistful eyes and clinging hands
What comes with the new day.
Then westward rolls away;
We wait with wistful eyes and clinging hands
What comes with the new day.
Dead year, that taught at least our hands to cling,—
Flown hours wherein we met,
Though Time stood now at everlasting Spring,
Still would we not forget.
Flown hours wherein we met,
Though Time stood now at everlasting Spring,
Still would we not forget.
Thine eyes were stars of promise, but thine arm
Thrust ever sharp between;
Dreaming of all to be, still holds the charm
Of all that might have been.
Thrust ever sharp between;
Dreaming of all to be, still holds the charm
Of all that might have been.
We say farewell, half-souled 'twixt hope and fear;
More yet the years may give;
Not all fair days are bound in one dead year
For us, who have lives to live!
More yet the years may give;
Not all fair days are bound in one dead year
For us, who have lives to live!
59
“Who shall not mourn the fair day almost done,
He cannot live again,
Knowing how oft is lost Life's mid-day sun
Behind a haze of rain?
But though the last leaf dies on my live spray,
Though dulls Heaven's dazzling cope,
Yet let your death-song crystal round the ray
Of some immortal hope!”
He cannot live again,
Knowing how oft is lost Life's mid-day sun
Behind a haze of rain?
But though the last leaf dies on my live spray,
Though dulls Heaven's dazzling cope,
Yet let your death-song crystal round the ray
Of some immortal hope!”
60
A GRAVE IN THE HILLS.
“N., aged 20.”
“Until the day dawn and the shadows flee away.”
Just a poet's dream, you know.
On the hill-height, all alone there,
One white grave with flowers ablow,
And the legend terse and tender,—
How my heart must hear a moan there!—
Make me sad for all spring's splendour.
On the hill-height, all alone there,
One white grave with flowers ablow,
And the legend terse and tender,—
How my heart must hear a moan there!—
Make me sad for all spring's splendour.
Oh, be sure she shall sleep well!
Solemn hills lift each a finger,
And the wild winds heed the spell.
Sad rooks restful music make her.
Very still are we who linger,
Stepping softly lest we wake her.
Solemn hills lift each a finger,
And the wild winds heed the spell.
Sad rooks restful music make her.
Very still are we who linger,
Stepping softly lest we wake her.
Do you ever dream she dreams?
That the flowers all summer woo her
In the dark with songs of streams,—
Shine, her lamps amid the shadows?
Creeping rains too carry to her
Stories of the golden meadows.
That the flowers all summer woo her
In the dark with songs of streams,—
Shine, her lamps amid the shadows?
Creeping rains too carry to her
Stories of the golden meadows.
61
What a little life she had!
How could burst the aloe-blossom?
Should we, say, be grieved or glad,
Seeing, ere they triple seven,
Set in many a stainless bosom,
Souls grown ripe enough for heaven?
How could burst the aloe-blossom?
Should we, say, be grieved or glad,
Seeing, ere they triple seven,
Set in many a stainless bosom,
Souls grown ripe enough for heaven?
“'Till the shadows flee away!”
Ah! the creed is over-cruel.
Chokes the soul then in its clay?
Shall the shadows, for a minute,
Hide the lustre of a jewel
That has God's own glory in it?
Ah! the creed is over-cruel.
Chokes the soul then in its clay?
Shall the shadows, for a minute,
Hide the lustre of a jewel
That has God's own glory in it?
Ah, but rest! How sweet it were
To lie still with worn hands crossing,
Weary, with no need to stir,—
Dreaming of no load to carry!
There should be no fretful tossing,
Though awhile the dawn might tarry.
To lie still with worn hands crossing,
Weary, with no need to stir,—
Dreaming of no load to carry!
There should be no fretful tossing,
Though awhile the dawn might tarry.
Just a poet's dream, you know.
Round her grave the shadows wander
Half a circle ere I go,—
Ere I bid the dead “Good even!”
She will see the dawning yonder
Early, lain so near to heaven!
Round her grave the shadows wander
Half a circle ere I go,—
Ere I bid the dead “Good even!”
She will see the dawning yonder
Early, lain so near to heaven!
62
Her grave is on the hill-top all alone;
Her years scarce twenty told.
If she look up, she sees upon the stone
That text in graven gold.
The shadows lift not yet, the dawn is hid;
Heed not how far it be;
But when they lay me next your coffin-lid,
Waken and turn to me!
Her years scarce twenty told.
If she look up, she sees upon the stone
That text in graven gold.
The shadows lift not yet, the dawn is hid;
Heed not how far it be;
But when they lay me next your coffin-lid,
Waken and turn to me!
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