 | Ballads of the North and Other Poems |  |
121
MISCELLANEOUS.
123
THE CROCUS.
Out of the frozen earth below,
Out of the melting of the snow,
No flower, but a film, I push to light;
No stem, no bud,—yet I have burst
The bars of winter, I am the first,
O Sun, to greet thee out of the night!
Out of the melting of the snow,
No flower, but a film, I push to light;
No stem, no bud,—yet I have burst
The bars of winter, I am the first,
O Sun, to greet thee out of the night!
Bare are the branches, cold is the air,
Yet it is fire at the heart I bear,
I come, a flame that is fed by none:
The summer hath blossoms for her delight,
Thick and dewy and waxen-white,
Thou seest me golden, O golden Sun!
Yet it is fire at the heart I bear,
I come, a flame that is fed by none:
The summer hath blossoms for her delight,
Thick and dewy and waxen-white,
Thou seest me golden, O golden Sun!
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Deep in the warm sleep underground
Life is still, and the peace profound:
Yet a beam that pierced, and a thrill that smote
Called me and drew me from far away ;—
I rose, I came, to the open day
I have won, unsheltered, alone, remote.
Life is still, and the peace profound:
Yet a beam that pierced, and a thrill that smote
Called me and drew me from far away ;—
I rose, I came, to the open day
I have won, unsheltered, alone, remote.
No bee strays out to greet me at morn,
I shall die ere the butterfly is born,
I shall hear no note of the nightingale;
The swallow will come with the break of green,
He will never know that I have been
Before him here when the world was pale.
I shall die ere the butterfly is born,
I shall hear no note of the nightingale;
The swallow will come with the break of green,
He will never know that I have been
Before him here when the world was pale.
They will follow, the rose with thorny stem,
The hyacinth stalk,—soft airs for them;
They shall have strength, I have but love:
They shall not be tender as I,—
Yet I fought here first, to bloom, to die,
To shine in his face who shines above.
The hyacinth stalk,—soft airs for them;
They shall have strength, I have but love:
They shall not be tender as I,—
Yet I fought here first, to bloom, to die,
To shine in his face who shines above.
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O glory of Heaven, O Ruler of Morn,
O Dream that shaped me, and I was born
In thy likeness, starry, and flower of flame;—
I lie on the earth and to thee look up,
Into thy image will grow my cup,
Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same.
O Dream that shaped me, and I was born
In thy likeness, starry, and flower of flame;—
I lie on the earth and to thee look up,
Into thy image will grow my cup,
Till a sunbeam dissolve it into the same.
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THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG.
The siege of Strasburg !—for in those dread days,
Strasburg the Virgin stood before her foes
More helpless, hopeless, than Andromeda;
Chained to her pile, but with fair-fronting eyes,
And breast bare to the pitiless storm that smote,
And smote her bleeding but inviolate limbs;
While round and over her the iron hail
By day fell, and the red rain fell by night,—
And knew no succour coming nor to come;
And still endured, and made no sign, and said,
‘The end is not yet come, and day by day
My agony shall stay their feet from France;
Therefore I die by inches.’ And all knew
Her doom was on her; and the world without
Sent never a message to her, nor farewell,
Nor any eye met hers but the ringed eyes
Of the grey cannon, round against her set,
That marked each shuddering and each streak of fire,
As the bombs struck her and she still endured.
Strasburg the Virgin stood before her foes
More helpless, hopeless, than Andromeda;
Chained to her pile, but with fair-fronting eyes,
And breast bare to the pitiless storm that smote,
And smote her bleeding but inviolate limbs;
While round and over her the iron hail
By day fell, and the red rain fell by night,—
And knew no succour coming nor to come;
And still endured, and made no sign, and said,
‘The end is not yet come, and day by day
My agony shall stay their feet from France;
Therefore I die by inches.’ And all knew
Her doom was on her; and the world without
Sent never a message to her, nor farewell,
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Of the grey cannon, round against her set,
That marked each shuddering and each streak of fire,
As the bombs struck her and she still endured.
But once for mercy spake aloud, as when
She sent her girls and children to the gates,
Having kissed them as who should not meet again,
And said, heart-broken, ‘Let but these depart.’
And back the answer came to her, ‘Too late!
Die all—or yield—together.’ So they stayed.
And as the fire waxed fiercer round her heart,
Prayed yet once more in her extremity,
‘Send us some draught of sleep, some fever balm,
For those who lie with lips and limbs on fire
Within our hospitals!’ And yet once more
The answer was sent back to her, ‘Too late!
No more till the surrender!’ Then she ceased,
And prayed no more to man, nor yet to God;
And all her thousands set themselves to death
Within her walls, and starved to skeletons,
Or sickened in the darkness underground,
And came forth but for burial of their dead.
And ever overhead the heaven was brass,
And through the empty streets the sheets of fire
From house to house by daylight scorched and leapt,
While the continuous rocking roar was yet
O'ercrashed a moment as the roofs fell in.
And week by week the faces that remained
Grew greyer, ghastlier; and her soldiery
Dropped at their posts, and mangled limbs were strewn
On their own hearths, and, as the shells came through,
Her little children in their mother's arms
Were torn to pieces, and her babes were born
Between the boomings as their fathers died.
She sent her girls and children to the gates,
Having kissed them as who should not meet again,
And said, heart-broken, ‘Let but these depart.’
And back the answer came to her, ‘Too late!
Die all—or yield—together.’ So they stayed.
And as the fire waxed fiercer round her heart,
Prayed yet once more in her extremity,
‘Send us some draught of sleep, some fever balm,
For those who lie with lips and limbs on fire
Within our hospitals!’ And yet once more
The answer was sent back to her, ‘Too late!
No more till the surrender!’ Then she ceased,
And prayed no more to man, nor yet to God;
And all her thousands set themselves to death
Within her walls, and starved to skeletons,
Or sickened in the darkness underground,
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And ever overhead the heaven was brass,
And through the empty streets the sheets of fire
From house to house by daylight scorched and leapt,
While the continuous rocking roar was yet
O'ercrashed a moment as the roofs fell in.
And week by week the faces that remained
Grew greyer, ghastlier; and her soldiery
Dropped at their posts, and mangled limbs were strewn
On their own hearths, and, as the shells came through,
Her little children in their mother's arms
Were torn to pieces, and her babes were born
Between the boomings as their fathers died.
129
THE FIRST OF JUNE.
Last night I lay upon my bed,
With sinking heart alone;
Long weeks, long months I so have lain,
Weeping and making moan.
With sinking heart alone;
Long weeks, long months I so have lain,
Weeping and making moan.
All May has passed; I hardly know
If swift spring-rains have stirred,
There hath not broken through the dark
One flash of flower or bird.
If swift spring-rains have stirred,
There hath not broken through the dark
One flash of flower or bird.
But sleep stole on me unawares,
Even on me at last;
Though drop by drop the minutes faint
Like hours at midnight passed.
Even on me at last;
Though drop by drop the minutes faint
Like hours at midnight passed.
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Short was the sleep, since even now
The summer dawn is nigh;
But health and healing it has brought;
I wake—but is it I?
The summer dawn is nigh;
But health and healing it has brought;
I wake—but is it I?
I feel no more these limbs of pain,
I draw no sobbing breath,
Life has come back to me at last,
And God remembereth.
I draw no sobbing breath,
Life has come back to me at last,
And God remembereth.
How many years since I have known
A waking glad like this:
Nay, can I once recall an hour
So peaceful as it is?
A waking glad like this:
Nay, can I once recall an hour
So peaceful as it is?
I have forgotten when it was
That I such ease have known;
What hinders me from rising up
And going forth alone?
That I such ease have known;
What hinders me from rising up
And going forth alone?
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Why should I too not wander out
Through the sweet morning mist,
And see the sunrise out of doors,
That all my life I missed?
Through the sweet morning mist,
And see the sunrise out of doors,
That all my life I missed?
The house is hushed and sleeping,
My footsteps noiseless fall,
From door to door, from stair to stair:
Peace rest within on all!
My footsteps noiseless fall,
From door to door, from stair to stair:
Peace rest within on all!
The door is opened easily,
I stand beneath the sky;
The old watch-dog remembers me,
Nor stirs as I go by.
I stand beneath the sky;
The old watch-dog remembers me,
Nor stirs as I go by.
Here on the lawn my children play;
Across the stile I pass,
Out of the dewy garden
Into the meadow grass.
Across the stile I pass,
Out of the dewy garden
Into the meadow grass.
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The grass is cool and damp and tall,
It rustles to my knees:
Year after year does morning bring
Airs upon earth like these?
It rustles to my knees:
Year after year does morning bring
Airs upon earth like these?
As to the crimson East I turn
The rising sun to meet,
The clover and the daisies dim
All close about my feet.
The rising sun to meet,
The clover and the daisies dim
All close about my feet.
The cuckoo gives the signal call
From hill to hill unseen,
From every side the hymn of birds
Fills all the fields between.
From hill to hill unseen,
From every side the hymn of birds
Fills all the fields between.
Down to the brook, across the bridge;
Where deep and high and dank
The orchis heads crowd through the grass,
And leaning from the bank
Where deep and high and dank
The orchis heads crowd through the grass,
And leaning from the bank
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The guelder-rose dips in the stream,
And golden flags are hung,
Out of whose midst the water-hen
Awakens with her young.
And golden flags are hung,
Out of whose midst the water-hen
Awakens with her young.
I have heard said, the kingfisher
Was used to haunt this brook,
But seen no more of latter years:
He comes again, for—look!—
Was used to haunt this brook,
But seen no more of latter years:
He comes again, for—look!—
The flashing of his wings goes by
Almost against my face:
He is not shy to-day, within
This willow-fringèd place.
Almost against my face:
He is not shy to-day, within
This willow-fringèd place.
The sun is up, the mist is cleared,
All the still land lies fair;
As up the sloping leas I pass,
The sweetest grass grows there.
All the still land lies fair;
As up the sloping leas I pass,
The sweetest grass grows there.
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All in among the crowded lambs,
They do not run away;
The field-mice flit along the path,
Like little friends at play.
They do not run away;
The field-mice flit along the path,
Like little friends at play.
The larks sing high in the blue sky
As if in heaven they were;
I too am free and full of glee
Out in the open air.
As if in heaven they were;
I too am free and full of glee
Out in the open air.
And now I pass th' horizon hill
That bounds my window-view;
O house of love, O house of pain,
For how long time?—adieu.
That bounds my window-view;
O house of love, O house of pain,
For how long time?—adieu.
Oh, I have wandered many a mile
Through a country wild and sweet;
I am not tired, I do not want
To stay, or sit, or eat.
Through a country wild and sweet;
I am not tired, I do not want
To stay, or sit, or eat.
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It seems as if at last the soul
And body were reconciled;
I think there once was such a day
When I was a little child.
And body were reconciled;
I think there once was such a day
When I was a little child.
A wicket-gate leads to a wood,
And as I enter through,
The speedwell from the bank looks up
With eyes of heavenly blue.
And as I enter through,
The speedwell from the bank looks up
With eyes of heavenly blue.
The flowers smile up, the birds sing down,
Come in, they sing and say;
The wood is dark and fragrant-fresh
With June's first hour and day.
Come in, they sing and say;
The wood is dark and fragrant-fresh
With June's first hour and day.
I wander deep, I wander far
Into the green wood's heart;
I come unto an open space
Where the low branches part.
Into the green wood's heart;
I come unto an open space
Where the low branches part.
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Beyond the level summer lawn
The forest oak-trees spread;
Under the stateliest of them all
The moss has made a bed.
The forest oak-trees spread;
Under the stateliest of them all
The moss has made a bed.
Oh, on soft couches laid in vain
With aching limbs across,
How often have I dreamed of this—
A bed of earth and moss!
With aching limbs across,
How often have I dreamed of this—
A bed of earth and moss!
Here I will rest—Oh, everywhere
Is rest and health at last;
How can such utter weariness
So suddenly be past?
Is rest and health at last;
How can such utter weariness
So suddenly be past?
The wood-doves murmur over my head,
Soon! soon! soon! for a sign:
But who is this beside me
Whose eyes look into mine?
Soon! soon! soon! for a sign:
But who is this beside me
Whose eyes look into mine?
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‘Oh, can it be you come back at last?
And where is it I meet with you?
Are not the waste wide waters
Of Death between us two?’
And where is it I meet with you?
Are not the waste wide waters
Of Death between us two?’
‘Oh, all these years, by night and day,
I have watched beside the gate;
I have looked down the road that you would come,
I have waited early and late;
I have been weary in Paradise,
Oh, it was long to wait!
I have watched beside the gate;
I have looked down the road that you would come,
I have waited early and late;
I have been weary in Paradise,
Oh, it was long to wait!
‘Do you not know that you have come
Across the waves in sleep?
And this is your birthday morning
Together we will keep.’
Across the waves in sleep?
And this is your birthday morning
Together we will keep.’
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THE IMPENITENT THIEF.
Save thyself first ! if Thou indeed
Be Christ, the King of Israel,
Now is Thy time, Thy time of need,
To help Thyself and us as well.
I will not own Thee Master thus,
Who canst not save Thyself nor us.
Be Christ, the King of Israel,
Now is Thy time, Thy time of need,
To help Thyself and us as well.
I will not own Thee Master thus,
Who canst not save Thyself nor us.
I do not call Thee Christ; for me
No Christ is, nor hath ever been;
Long underfoot we trampled Thee,
Now Thou hast equal place between.
‘Thou lifted up from earth shalt draw
All men’—but not this one outlaw.
No Christ is, nor hath ever been;
Long underfoot we trampled Thee,
Now Thou hast equal place between.
‘Thou lifted up from earth shalt draw
All men’—but not this one outlaw.
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I do not call Thee Lord; if Thou
Didst make this world, it was ill-made:
It is too late to save me now,
Long, long ago I wanted aid.
I am no servant, no, nor friend,
Who did not find Thee till this end.
Didst make this world, it was ill-made:
It is too late to save me now,
Long, long ago I wanted aid.
I am no servant, no, nor friend,
Who did not find Thee till this end.
Thou didst not save me when my birth
Doomed me to shame and misery,
Thou didst not save me when the earth
Her misbegotten scorned in me,
Thou didst not save when my first crime
Drove me and fixed me to the slime.
Doomed me to shame and misery,
Thou didst not save me when the earth
Her misbegotten scorned in me,
Thou didst not save when my first crime
Drove me and fixed me to the slime.
The tortured men for hidden gold
That made my pastime and my prey,
The children into slavery sold,
The butchered corpses by the way,
The ravished maidens in despair,
Thou didst not save, I did not spare.
That made my pastime and my prey,
The children into slavery sold,
The butchered corpses by the way,
The ravished maidens in despair,
Thou didst not save, I did not spare.
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Thou wilt not save in days to come,
No, not Thine own, Thine innocent;
The lips that called on Thee are dumb
In death, when all their cries are spent:
Thy little ones without a friend
Wail day and night, and none defend.
No, not Thine own, Thine innocent;
The lips that called on Thee are dumb
In death, when all their cries are spent:
Thy little ones without a friend
Wail day and night, and none defend.
Gaunt, hollow-eyed, the millions pass
In blank and fathomless despair;
Imploring hands to heaven, alas!
They lifted, but Thou wast not there;
The sick, the starved, the shamed, the slave,
Thou didst not show Thyself to save.
In blank and fathomless despair;
Imploring hands to heaven, alas!
They lifted, but Thou wast not there;
The sick, the starved, the shamed, the slave,
Thou didst not show Thyself to save.
I know Thee long, I saw the crowd
That strove to touch Thy garment's hem,
The tears that flowed, the heads that bowed,
I mocked at Thee, I mocked at them;
Thy face I saw, Thy voice I heard,
Yet nothing in me spoke or stirred.
That strove to touch Thy garment's hem,
The tears that flowed, the heads that bowed,
I mocked at Thee, I mocked at them;
Thy face I saw, Thy voice I heard,
Yet nothing in me spoke or stirred.
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How many, who will call Thee Lord,
Turn on their side again to sleep;
Thy blood, Thy tears for them were poured,
No need for them to bleed or weep:
They are content that Thou hast died;
But I with Thee was crucified.
Turn on their side again to sleep;
Thy blood, Thy tears for them were poured,
No need for them to bleed or weep:
They are content that Thou hast died;
But I with Thee was crucified.
They fix their eyes on Thee for gain
Of Thy completed sacrifice,
They buy their pleasure by Thy pain,
Set free, for Thou hast paid the price;
I go not free, I pay the cost,
Yet they are saved and I am lost.
Of Thy completed sacrifice,
They buy their pleasure by Thy pain,
Set free, for Thou hast paid the price;
I go not free, I pay the cost,
Yet they are saved and I am lost.
Some stand afar, and some allowed
Near—but no closer may they win.
Once on Mount Sinai in the cloud
Moses alone might enter in:
Here on Mount Golgotha we Three,
Alone within the Agony.
Near—but no closer may they win.
Once on Mount Sinai in the cloud
Moses alone might enter in:
Here on Mount Golgotha we Three,
Alone within the Agony.
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‘On Thy right hand, on Thy left hand,
Within Thy kingdom, Lord, to sit;’
So prayed she who has come to stand
Here, where she little dreamed of it.
I have not asked nor prized the grace,
But I have first the left-hand place.
Within Thy kingdom, Lord, to sit;’
So prayed she who has come to stand
Here, where she little dreamed of it.
I have not asked nor prized the grace,
But I have first the left-hand place.
‘To them for whom it is prepared.’
How long ago? Have I been led
By eyes that knew, by hands that cared,
Down all dark ways, until this dread
Accomplishment, and set on high
In this unlooked-for company?
How long ago? Have I been led
By eyes that knew, by hands that cared,
Down all dark ways, until this dread
Accomplishment, and set on high
In this unlooked-for company?
If Thou art Lord, and Thou didst choose
Those who should drink this cup with Thee,
The saint, the friend Thou didst refuse,
To lay Thy fatal hand on me;
Peter with Jesus would have died,
Yet I am here, and he denied.
Those who should drink this cup with Thee,
The saint, the friend Thou didst refuse,
To lay Thy fatal hand on me;
Peter with Jesus would have died,
Yet I am here, and he denied.
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O Mother of Sorrows, in thy place!
The sword is piercing through thy heart;
The years ran on, the years apace,
The slow hours rend thy soul apart;
But through my flesh the nails are driven,
Part in thy pains to me is given.
The sword is piercing through thy heart;
The years ran on, the years apace,
The slow hours rend thy soul apart;
But through my flesh the nails are driven,
Part in thy pains to me is given.
Kings cast their crowns before Thy feet,
Praying Thee, use us for Thy sake!
Earth's fairest for Thy service sweet
Their bed among the vilest make;
Saints spurn their flesh to share Thy lot;—
Yet all of these approach me not.
Praying Thee, use us for Thy sake!
Earth's fairest for Thy service sweet
Their bed among the vilest make;
Saints spurn their flesh to share Thy lot;—
Yet all of these approach me not.
I suffer with Thee to the last,
I drink the dregs of all with Thee,
The world's Redeemer holds me fast
Beside Him on His cross to be;
But the Redemption He will win
Will touch me not, nor take me in.
I drink the dregs of all with Thee,
The world's Redeemer holds me fast
Beside Him on His cross to be;
But the Redemption He will win
Will touch me not, nor take me in.
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Didst Thou exalt me to this height
Of awful fellowship with Thee,
To cast me back into the night
Of sin, and sin's satiety?
To point a moral and adorn
Thy triumph's tale, have I been born?
Of awful fellowship with Thee,
To cast me back into the night
Of sin, and sin's satiety?
To point a moral and adorn
Thy triumph's tale, have I been born?
‘With the same baptism baptized’
As Thou Thyself, the worlds between,
I the most vile and most despised,
I whom no water has made clean,
What meaning in my fate is found,
For me unwilling brought and bound?
As Thou Thyself, the worlds between,
I the most vile and most despised,
I whom no water has made clean,
What meaning in my fate is found,
For me unwilling brought and bound?
None weep for me; no rudest pang
Is spared, and no last cruelty:
Here to the whole world's gaze I hang,
Whole generations gaze at me:
They will not pity me; but Thou—
I feel Thy pity on me now.
Is spared, and no last cruelty:
Here to the whole world's gaze I hang,
Whole generations gaze at me:
They will not pity me; but Thou—
I feel Thy pity on me now.
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‘Forgive, they know not what they do,’
Though open wounds are plain to see;
Dost Thou perchance forgive me too,
Who have but flung hard words at Thee?
Words are but little gain or loss
To Him who hangs upon the cross.
Though open wounds are plain to see;
Dost Thou perchance forgive me too,
Who have but flung hard words at Thee?
Words are but little gain or loss
To Him who hangs upon the cross.
The hours are dark, the hours are slow,
Their shadows are the shadow of fire;
Yet in their flame some foul stains go,
Some scales drop from me and expire.
Yea, I receive my deeds' reward,
Yea, here and now, some sight restored.
Their shadows are the shadow of fire;
Yet in their flame some foul stains go,
Some scales drop from me and expire.
Yea, I receive my deeds' reward,
Yea, here and now, some sight restored.
‘The last shall be the first;—the first
Last’—ah! who knoweth what swift flame
Eats out the heart of things accurst,
Burns from the soul the shroud of shame?
Who knoweth what new blood may run
In the new veins with Thee made one?
Last’—ah! who knoweth what swift flame
Eats out the heart of things accurst,
Burns from the soul the shroud of shame?
Who knoweth what new blood may run
In the new veins with Thee made one?
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O Crowned with thorns! dost Thou infuse
Through Suffering, Love itself in me?
Apart from Thee I cannot choose;
Can I unloose my soul from Thee?
Between us Thou hast forged a bond
That reaches through the worlds beyond.
Through Suffering, Love itself in me?
Apart from Thee I cannot choose;
Can I unloose my soul from Thee?
Between us Thou hast forged a bond
That reaches through the worlds beyond.
Thou speakest low, Thou speakest yet,
O heart of mine, and can it be!
Are these my eyes with tears are wet?
O voice that no one hears but me!
But between Thee and me alone
Some words have passed, some words are known.
O heart of mine, and can it be!
Are these my eyes with tears are wet?
O voice that no one hears but me!
But between Thee and me alone
Some words have passed, some words are known.
What hast Thou said?—Ah this shall be
Recorded not in any page—
To me the lost, whose memory
Accurst shall pass from age to age?
This secret I with me shall keep
There where the just and unjust sleep.
Recorded not in any page—
To me the lost, whose memory
Accurst shall pass from age to age?
This secret I with me shall keep
There where the just and unjust sleep.
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THE SEASONS.
SPRING.
A voice comes nearer as the fresh winds sweep,And pierces through the dreaming of the Earth,
Wherein as ever, waking or asleep,
She labours still for each revolving birth.
She knows afar the voice, through fields of air,
Of her, before whose coming, blue and fair
The heavens enlarge themselves, and softly meet
With the horizon hills of shadowy blue
Whence run the loosened waters, azure too,
While the blue violets spring to kiss her feet.
Our hearts leap in us, as thou comest, Spring!
Joy runs before thee, thou whose touch can bring
All hidden life to its own conscious hour,
The breaking of its own form to the flower,
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And to the maiden's cheek the quicker blood.
The waving wings of birds in unison
Before thee spread thy secret to the air,
And the winds sweep with it across the bare
Boughs of the forest, till they too bear on
The rushing music of the wild south-west.
O first fair hours, shall not the last be best?
And here they come, the promise of the year,
Young dreams, young hopes, winged from another sphere.
Although their tender feet are on the flowers,
These budding wings must grow with growing hours;
Yet stay with us awhile your fairy flight,
And make the whole way lovely with your light!
SUMMER.
Sing me thy songs, O Summer! let me hear,Now that the boughs are green, the winds are laid,
Through the warm noonday silence of the shade,
The things thou hast to give, fulfilled and near.
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And through my eyelids shoots its slumberous heat,
With dazzling images of all bright things;
The very dreams have folded their sweet wings,
As if they had arrived at their own shore,
And had no need to wander any more.
A scent of bean flowers comes across the breeze,
Filled with the busy murmur of the bees,
And all the distance lies in hazy gold;
And even as thou singest, I behold,
Amid the leafy windings of the plain,
Some lane of roses leading lone and low
Into a bower of bliss for me to gain,
Awaiting me until the sunset's glow.
The lilies and the hollyhocks stand tall
On the smooth lawn against the cottage wall,
The doves' white wings upon its low roofs brood,
And the great lime-trees guard its solitude.
Shall I not enter in, and be content,
Past the long rows of bees that homeward went?
They too have made their home about its door,
And hive for me their golden summer store.
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AUTUMN.
Where is the promise of thy golden days,O Summer, of thy softly-fleeting hours?
Is this the end of thy delightful ways?
The year is waning:—what is left for ours?
Through leafless branches chilly blows the air;
Yet let us turn, our garnered wealth to share,
And comfort us with warmth of corn and wine,
Strengthening our hearts to meet the year's decline.
But where are thy heaped treasures manifold,
Thy purple fruitage, and thy sheaves of gold?
The showers of spring, the sultry summer's sun
Have been before thee, and their part is done;
What more is wanting to the harvest-home,
Pressed full and full, and plenty left to come?
Spring passed in hopes, and summer passed in dreams,
Thy passing should be glorious too, meseems.
What is this scanty fruit so poor, so cold,
Thy branches scatter, and thy fingers hold?
Is this the measure but of one day's meal?
What for the sinking heart of days that steal
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Of bounty that should overflow my door?
O purple hills, O purple wastes all bare,
Ye mock me, thinking of the days that were!
I stretch my empty hands in vain, in vain;—
These idle hands that had in all the past
Their own part waiting them:—and yet, at last,
Is it too late some working space to gain?
Are not these arms still strong?—Too well I know,
This is the time to reap, and not to sow.
WINTER.
O fly for shelter, for the storm is near,
The evil days are come, the wintry foe;
Nothing avails us now, but such life-glow
As we have gleaned and gathered through the year.
O cruel Winter, with thy frowning face,
From thee there is no hope, no gift, no grace;
Already saved and sure our home must be,
Or now we perish, outcast, utterly.
But where, on all the desolate blasted plain,
Rises the refuge that our steps should gain?
Where is the guarded flame, the heaped hearthstone,
Which patient toil and thought have made our own,
Beneath the roof where winter winds howl past,
Yet cannot shake its doors and windows fast?
Alas, no work of hands, no warmth of heart
Have fenced for us the harbouring rest apart:
The frozen bed of earth, the snowy pall,
The last, the only birthright left of all.
Yet this world's utter loss is not the end:
Now, open, Heaven, and to our need descend!
O children of the air, fair hopes and dreams,
Whose light wings fluttered by the Spring's sweet streams,
'Twixt earth and heaven, have ye not heavenward grown,
Lifted by faith and prayer into your own
Ethereal likeness, and your wings at length
Grown into angels' pinions by the strength
Of trial, and of daily duty done,
Till now ye fly full-furnished every one,—
Come, dear companions of our vanished year,
And bear us to your own immortal sphere!
The evil days are come, the wintry foe;
Nothing avails us now, but such life-glow
As we have gleaned and gathered through the year.
O cruel Winter, with thy frowning face,
From thee there is no hope, no gift, no grace;
Already saved and sure our home must be,
Or now we perish, outcast, utterly.
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Rises the refuge that our steps should gain?
Where is the guarded flame, the heaped hearthstone,
Which patient toil and thought have made our own,
Beneath the roof where winter winds howl past,
Yet cannot shake its doors and windows fast?
Alas, no work of hands, no warmth of heart
Have fenced for us the harbouring rest apart:
The frozen bed of earth, the snowy pall,
The last, the only birthright left of all.
Yet this world's utter loss is not the end:
Now, open, Heaven, and to our need descend!
O children of the air, fair hopes and dreams,
Whose light wings fluttered by the Spring's sweet streams,
'Twixt earth and heaven, have ye not heavenward grown,
Lifted by faith and prayer into your own
Ethereal likeness, and your wings at length
Grown into angels' pinions by the strength
Of trial, and of daily duty done,
Till now ye fly full-furnished every one,—
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And bear us to your own immortal sphere!
Alas! alas! and is it even ye,
Naked and shivering from the blast that flee
With earthbound limbs, and wings as tender still
As those that opened first at the first thrill
Of the Spring's touch,—our friend who brought us life;—
And now our enemy is here, with death;
We have no weapons, no defence for strife,
And all is over;—this is our last breath:
Hopeless and homeless on the waste world driven,
And fallen back to Earth, tho' born for Heaven.
Naked and shivering from the blast that flee
With earthbound limbs, and wings as tender still
As those that opened first at the first thrill
Of the Spring's touch,—our friend who brought us life;—
And now our enemy is here, with death;
We have no weapons, no defence for strife,
And all is over;—this is our last breath:
Hopeless and homeless on the waste world driven,
And fallen back to Earth, tho' born for Heaven.
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HAREBELLS.
The bells are ringing and ringing,
Little low bells on the earth;
Sweet as a woodlark's wild singing,
Little clear laughter and mirth.
The sunshine breaks, and all around
A streak of sky runs over the ground,
Where the poor man's way is open still,
The bells of England on heath and hill.
Little low bells on the earth;
Sweet as a woodlark's wild singing,
Little clear laughter and mirth.
The sunshine breaks, and all around
A streak of sky runs over the ground,
Where the poor man's way is open still,
The bells of England on heath and hill.
Lie and rest on the dry turf here,
A soft, soft flutter comes rustling near;
One eye-level of dazzling blue
Dances and streams the wind's way through.
Slumber steals through the nodding band.
So, for an hour, dost thou dream, and say,
‘I shall have my heart's desire to-day:’
Then rise and go, thou hast thy way;
These are the bells of Fairy Land.
A soft, soft flutter comes rustling near;
One eye-level of dazzling blue
Dances and streams the wind's way through.
Slumber steals through the nodding band.
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‘I shall have my heart's desire to-day:’
Then rise and go, thou hast thy way;
These are the bells of Fairy Land.
The statelier flowers may keep their pride,
We fear no footsteps, we do not hide;
On the trodden turf of the waste roadside
We are blown and beaten in breaths of blue;
The wings of the gnat are not so thin;
But we smile in singing the wild days through,
We are here for any who care to win.
Close by is the city's smoke and din;
Even its children can walk so far,
The poor, the sick, may reach where we are.
We too are lowly, we too are frail,
Therefore we too outlast and prevail.
We fear no footsteps, we do not hide;
On the trodden turf of the waste roadside
We are blown and beaten in breaths of blue;
The wings of the gnat are not so thin;
But we smile in singing the wild days through,
We are here for any who care to win.
Close by is the city's smoke and din;
Even its children can walk so far,
The poor, the sick, may reach where we are.
We too are lowly, we too are frail,
Therefore we too outlast and prevail.
Here, high up on the open hill,
The air of autumn is rude and chill:
The great star-thistle, the tormentil,
Purple and gold on the bare hillside,
Cling to the earth with arms clasped wide,
As though they might never else abide;
But the wind that sweeps the down on high
Scatters our light as it passes by,
Shakes out our peals of melody:
These are the bells of Eventide.
The air of autumn is rude and chill:
The great star-thistle, the tormentil,
Purple and gold on the bare hillside,
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As though they might never else abide;
But the wind that sweeps the down on high
Scatters our light as it passes by,
Shakes out our peals of melody:
These are the bells of Eventide.
The gold and the white open the year,
The iris and rose are no longer here,
The green of the woods is turning sere,
The lily has bowed, it could not stand.
But the year's last flowers are tender and blue,
The flowers that are faithful when flowers are few,
We guard the path till the harvest is through:
These are the bells of Holy Land.
The iris and rose are no longer here,
The green of the woods is turning sere,
The lily has bowed, it could not stand.
But the year's last flowers are tender and blue,
The flowers that are faithful when flowers are few,
We guard the path till the harvest is through:
These are the bells of Holy Land.
Finest and frailest of all the flowers,
We are left alone in the autumn hours,
To bear the brunt of the storms and showers;
The skies above us are grey and sad:
But the hue of heaven to earth we bring,
But the heart of heaven in our bells we ring;
Low, low, low,—are you listening?
The heart of heaven is gay and glad.
We are left alone in the autumn hours,
To bear the brunt of the storms and showers;
The skies above us are grey and sad:
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But the heart of heaven in our bells we ring;
Low, low, low,—are you listening?
The heart of heaven is gay and glad.
Come away, come away, come away!
The eyes of the angels are blue and grey.
There is one coming down the crowded street,
He is passing out, he is coming this way,
Here, up here, where the winds are at play;
At the turn of the road you cannot but meet:
You will know his face, you will understand,
He need not speak, he will reach his hand,
Oh, the surprise, too sweet to say!
The bells are ringing in Angel Land.
The eyes of the angels are blue and grey.
There is one coming down the crowded street,
He is passing out, he is coming this way,
Here, up here, where the winds are at play;
At the turn of the road you cannot but meet:
You will know his face, you will understand,
He need not speak, he will reach his hand,
Oh, the surprise, too sweet to say!
The bells are ringing in Angel Land.
One to go, and many to stay:
Each his turn,—you have come this way.
Why are we dancing here so gay?
Why has the music just begun?
Like a peal of church-bells down they run,
Down, down, down, from a height away,
Thousands on thousands, one by one,
Each a spirit—off and away!
Do you not know, do you not see,
Blue as the breadths of the sky and sea,
The light of love, of eternity?
The bells are ringing in Heaven to day!
Each his turn,—you have come this way.
Why are we dancing here so gay?
Why has the music just begun?
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Down, down, down, from a height away,
Thousands on thousands, one by one,
Each a spirit—off and away!
Do you not know, do you not see,
Blue as the breadths of the sky and sea,
The light of love, of eternity?
The bells are ringing in Heaven to day!
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