Lily Neil A poem by David Wingate |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. | XIII.
CONCLUSION. |
 | Lily Neil |  |
174
XIII. CONCLUSION.
Alice.And is the tale all told?
Eben.
All told, my bird—
And yet there is another page to read.
Alice.
And shall we, then, no more of Walter hear?
Eben.
A little more of patience, for our bud
Is almost now a rose.
Is almost now a rose.
175
I have not told—
For, Alice, none could tell—the wondrous joy
Of Jacob, as he wandered here and there
Among the fragrant woodruffs in the shade.
No care had he; no dread of coming cares:
He seemed to feel that Grief had been dethroned,
And Joy proclaimed the Queen of all the world.
A-dream, he wondered if his soul had found
A nearer and a surer way to heaven
Than through the gates of death. The memories
Of boyhood came unwooed to gladden him.
Old lullabies he murmured, and in airs
Forgotten breathed the songs his mother sang.
For, Alice, none could tell—the wondrous joy
Of Jacob, as he wandered here and there
Among the fragrant woodruffs in the shade.
No care had he; no dread of coming cares:
He seemed to feel that Grief had been dethroned,
And Joy proclaimed the Queen of all the world.
A-dream, he wondered if his soul had found
A nearer and a surer way to heaven
Than through the gates of death. The memories
Of boyhood came unwooed to gladden him.
Old lullabies he murmured, and in airs
Forgotten breathed the songs his mother sang.
In this sweet mood the rural bridge he reached
Where Walter was to meet him. Wondering not
To find no wooers there, he let his thoughts
At random wander like a child alone
Upon a meadow gathering buttercups,
Till once again the little merry stream
His eye with brightness filled, and charmed his ear
With harmony unmeasured; then to it
As to a long-lost friend he spoke:
Where Walter was to meet him. Wondering not
To find no wooers there, he let his thoughts
At random wander like a child alone
Upon a meadow gathering buttercups,
Till once again the little merry stream
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With harmony unmeasured; then to it
As to a long-lost friend he spoke:
“'Tis not,
Dear stream, a sunbeam that I see
From wavelet and from dimple glancing back,
But Joy's own flash. This sound is not the noise
Of water rushing o'er a stony path,
But gladness murmured by a living thing.
Thou dost remember me, and brightly thus
Thou look'st the welcome that thou murmurest.
Dear stream, a sunbeam that I see
From wavelet and from dimple glancing back,
But Joy's own flash. This sound is not the noise
Of water rushing o'er a stony path,
But gladness murmured by a living thing.
Thou dost remember me, and brightly thus
Thou look'st the welcome that thou murmurest.
“Thou know'st the man whose wont in youth it was
Among thy boulders long to sit alone,
Delighted with the softness of thy song,
When thou, diminished to a silver thread,
Around the stones as if to bind them ran.
Among thy boulders long to sit alone,
Delighted with the softness of thy song,
When thou, diminished to a silver thread,
Around the stones as if to bind them ran.
“Thou dost remember him who oft has come
To watch thee, when a glittering film thou lay
Asleep, or languid o'er the mirrored moon;
Or when thou, weak and voiceless, o'er thy linns,
An ooze among the mosses, trickled down;
And when the trees above thee joined their boughs
And laid their leaves together, and essayed
To keep the thirsty sunbeams from thy breast,
I blessed them for thy sake, and said to them,
‘Ye love it with a love akin to mine.’
By other leaves thou'rt shaded now, as then.
To watch thee, when a glittering film thou lay
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Or when thou, weak and voiceless, o'er thy linns,
An ooze among the mosses, trickled down;
And when the trees above thee joined their boughs
And laid their leaves together, and essayed
To keep the thirsty sunbeams from thy breast,
I blessed them for thy sake, and said to them,
‘Ye love it with a love akin to mine.’
By other leaves thou'rt shaded now, as then.
“Thou dost remember him whom thou hast seen
Contemplating thy grandeur, when thou rushed
From side to side, as if in wrath to find
That crags confined thee, and unyielding banks
Thy breadth to limit dared.
Contemplating thy grandeur, when thou rushed
From side to side, as if in wrath to find
That crags confined thee, and unyielding banks
Thy breadth to limit dared.
Thou'st seen me stand
Where through the holm reluctantly thou mov'st,
Ere in the mighty river thou art lost,
And know'st how much I sympathised with thee,
And thought it was a pity thou shouldst run
A race so brief, and lose thyself so soon;
Forgetting, then, that thou art never lost—
That then, as now, thou rann'st an endless race.
Where through the holm reluctantly thou mov'st,
Ere in the mighty river thou art lost,
And know'st how much I sympathised with thee,
And thought it was a pity thou shouldst run
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Forgetting, then, that thou art never lost—
That then, as now, thou rann'st an endless race.
“Thou dost remember him who loved to leap
From stone to stone, when Winter had thee bound,
Admiring thee, and thinking thou wert even
More beautiful, so bound, than wimpling free.
E'en then, unconquered, here and there thou badst
King Frost defiance, and a little space
Kept open, where thou shimmering upward looked,
With even thy summer brightness far outshone.
And wheresoever thus thou gleeful gleamed,
The ousel hailed thee, and the wagtail bowed
And wished thee joy, while, haply, from some cliff
That beetled o'er thee, flashed an icicle,
Responsive 'mong the pendant roots of elm,
Which, with fantastic forms of ice o'erlaid,
Above thee burned, whene'er the sun looked in.
How spiritless without thee were the glen!
Yon tall slim ashes, yonder sombre yews,
Yon mighty larches that o'erlook the wood,
And beckon to the clouds to come to them;
Yon cliff whose brow 'tis said thou once didst wash;
Yon lichened caverns, where thou in thy youth
Didst play the miner,—owe to thee their charms;
The plain face they, but thou the soul-lit eye.
From stone to stone, when Winter had thee bound,
Admiring thee, and thinking thou wert even
More beautiful, so bound, than wimpling free.
E'en then, unconquered, here and there thou badst
King Frost defiance, and a little space
Kept open, where thou shimmering upward looked,
With even thy summer brightness far outshone.
And wheresoever thus thou gleeful gleamed,
The ousel hailed thee, and the wagtail bowed
And wished thee joy, while, haply, from some cliff
That beetled o'er thee, flashed an icicle,
Responsive 'mong the pendant roots of elm,
Which, with fantastic forms of ice o'erlaid,
Above thee burned, whene'er the sun looked in.
179
Yon tall slim ashes, yonder sombre yews,
Yon mighty larches that o'erlook the wood,
And beckon to the clouds to come to them;
Yon cliff whose brow 'tis said thou once didst wash;
Yon lichened caverns, where thou in thy youth
Didst play the miner,—owe to thee their charms;
The plain face they, but thou the soul-lit eye.
“The pride thou art of every living thing
That dwells by thee. The birds, in whose young ears
Thy murmur mingles with their fathers' songs,
Sing sweeter than the birds of other glens;
And joyously the leaves above thee flutter,
And flash, and fan, and all the sweetest things
They know about thee, say continually.
They see the moth that on thee stoops to rest
Or drink, may drink and rest and soar again.
They see the gnat-cloud dropping on thy breast
Its living rain, and see how kindly thou
Restor'st them to the mazy whirl again.
And for thy kindness thus they praise thee, stream,
And for thy gentleness thee softly fan;
While, like the cadence of a far-heard hymn,
The humming of the dancing gnats is heard
So faintly coming, that its loudest swell
A sweet deceit of fancy only seems.
That dwells by thee. The birds, in whose young ears
Thy murmur mingles with their fathers' songs,
Sing sweeter than the birds of other glens;
And joyously the leaves above thee flutter,
And flash, and fan, and all the sweetest things
They know about thee, say continually.
They see the moth that on thee stoops to rest
Or drink, may drink and rest and soar again.
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Its living rain, and see how kindly thou
Restor'st them to the mazy whirl again.
And for thy kindness thus they praise thee, stream,
And for thy gentleness thee softly fan;
While, like the cadence of a far-heard hymn,
The humming of the dancing gnats is heard
So faintly coming, that its loudest swell
A sweet deceit of fancy only seems.
“It nought avails to wonder if the God
Whose work thou art, along the glen first formed
Thy course, and clave the rocks in twain for thee,
And placed a mighty forest on the slopes
That were to be thy banks, and beautified
With mosses, ferns, and flowers thy future way,
Then cast thee from His hand to gleam among
The trees, and sing of peace and joy for ever;
Or if He only traced for thee at first
A winding rut along a bare hillside,
With the fierce rushing of a waterspout,
And let thee for thyself a channel wear,
And to the coming seasons gave the task
Of thy adornment.—Nothing it avails
Of things so far remote to dream. Thou art,
And art a joy for ever, gentle stream.
Whose work thou art, along the glen first formed
Thy course, and clave the rocks in twain for thee,
And placed a mighty forest on the slopes
That were to be thy banks, and beautified
With mosses, ferns, and flowers thy future way,
Then cast thee from His hand to gleam among
The trees, and sing of peace and joy for ever;
Or if He only traced for thee at first
A winding rut along a bare hillside,
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And let thee for thyself a channel wear,
And to the coming seasons gave the task
Of thy adornment.—Nothing it avails
Of things so far remote to dream. Thou art,
And art a joy for ever, gentle stream.
“But rather let me think how 'mong thy woods,
Like time among the sons of men thou runn'st:
The acorn near thee springs, becomes an oak,
Grows old, decays, and crumbles into dust;
Plants near thee rise, and bloom their year, and die;
And wild birds sing their songs, and pass away,—
But thou in everlasting youth runn'st on.
Like time among the sons of men thou runn'st:
The acorn near thee springs, becomes an oak,
Grows old, decays, and crumbles into dust;
Plants near thee rise, and bloom their year, and die;
And wild birds sing their songs, and pass away,—
But thou in everlasting youth runn'st on.
“The woodman brings his son, and shows him how
To wield the axe, and fell the mighty oaks,
Grown hoar by thee, as he himself was taught;
The son grows old, and teaches in his turn
Another son; and so from race to race
Death follows Life, and then for Life makes way.
But none succeeding, and preceding none,—
As thus thou ever flowed, thou ever flow'st.
To wield the axe, and fell the mighty oaks,
Grown hoar by thee, as he himself was taught;
The son grows old, and teaches in his turn
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Death follows Life, and then for Life makes way.
But none succeeding, and preceding none,—
As thus thou ever flowed, thou ever flow'st.
“And let me think how much more vainly still
Imagination seeks that early time
When thou wert not a stream that wimpled thus,
And how the riddle of the influence
Of thy soft noise she ne'er pretends to solve;
And when men say, ‘It is as if no song
Of happy bird, nor lilt of merry maid,
Nor laughter of blithe children as they sat
And watched thee rippling o'er their snowy feet,
Nor whispering of fond lovers in thy bowers,
Nor morning rustlings of the April leaves,
Nor hum of rhapsodist that e'er was heard
Upon thy banks, had ever passed away,
Till all that was most soothing in the sounds
They uttered had been left with thee,’—'tis but
An effort of fond fancy to describe
The endless marvel of the influence
Of thy soft noises, streamlet—nothing more.
Imagination seeks that early time
When thou wert not a stream that wimpled thus,
And how the riddle of the influence
Of thy soft noise she ne'er pretends to solve;
And when men say, ‘It is as if no song
Of happy bird, nor lilt of merry maid,
Nor laughter of blithe children as they sat
And watched thee rippling o'er their snowy feet,
Nor whispering of fond lovers in thy bowers,
Nor morning rustlings of the April leaves,
Nor hum of rhapsodist that e'er was heard
Upon thy banks, had ever passed away,
Till all that was most soothing in the sounds
They uttered had been left with thee,’—'tis but
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The endless marvel of the influence
Of thy soft noises, streamlet—nothing more.
“Religion dwelleth in thy shadows, burn,
And veneration walketh at thy side,
And inspiration cometh at thy call,
And praise, like water from a spring, that flows
It knows not why, up-welleth from the heart
Of all that linger thus to gaze on thee.
And veneration walketh at thy side,
And inspiration cometh at thy call,
And praise, like water from a spring, that flows
It knows not why, up-welleth from the heart
Of all that linger thus to gaze on thee.
“An eeriness comes o'er me as I stand
In silence, hearing nothing but thy voice,
While thus the gathering gloaming round thee falls:
It is as if to lift my gaze from thee
Were to encounter eyes that long have ceased
To flash on those of earth; and, like a boy
Alone at midnight in a haunted dell,
I am as if I could not move myself
For fear of jostling spirits. Why is this?
What wizard power hast thou? What art thou else
Than summer water babbling down a gill?
No more than water rippling riverward:
'Tis I that have grown old and fanciful.
I'll go and meet these lingerers.”
In silence, hearing nothing but thy voice,
While thus the gathering gloaming round thee falls:
It is as if to lift my gaze from thee
Were to encounter eyes that long have ceased
To flash on those of earth; and, like a boy
Alone at midnight in a haunted dell,
I am as if I could not move myself
For fear of jostling spirits. Why is this?
184
Than summer water babbling down a gill?
No more than water rippling riverward:
'Tis I that have grown old and fanciful.
I'll go and meet these lingerers.”
Down the glen
A little way he met but one of them;
And when he heard the other was away,
And learned, by much impatient questioning,
Why he was gone, and might no more return,
And found that wedding wish of his was gone
The way of many another pleasant dream,—
That all his hopes were but a thriftless tree
That never has an apple 'mong its leaves,—
His patience fled, and with harsh words he smote
His child, and sinful wishes wished, and cursed
The hour that gave her birth. She trembling knelt,
And clutched his threatening hand, and clung to him,
And with white lips and sad dry eyes that seemed
To have wept their last, “Let there be peace,” she said.
“Much have I erred, but, father, not in this—
I have been wise in this. Let there be peace
For mother's sake.”
A little way he met but one of them;
And when he heard the other was away,
And learned, by much impatient questioning,
Why he was gone, and might no more return,
And found that wedding wish of his was gone
The way of many another pleasant dream,—
That all his hopes were but a thriftless tree
That never has an apple 'mong its leaves,—
His patience fled, and with harsh words he smote
His child, and sinful wishes wished, and cursed
The hour that gave her birth. She trembling knelt,
And clutched his threatening hand, and clung to him,
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To have wept their last, “Let there be peace,” she said.
“Much have I erred, but, father, not in this—
I have been wise in this. Let there be peace
For mother's sake.”
The sadness of her eyes,
Her paleness, and the trembling in her voice,
Recalled the morning that her mother died,
And like a flash the weary interval
Of all his widowed years before him passed—
Her childhood, school-time, wooing, sorrows, all—
Softening his heart. What could there be but peace
And sorrow-born contentment till the last?
Her paleness, and the trembling in her voice,
Recalled the morning that her mother died,
And like a flash the weary interval
Of all his widowed years before him passed—
Her childhood, school-time, wooing, sorrows, all—
Softening his heart. What could there be but peace
And sorrow-born contentment till the last?
Eben.
And now the end is near. The tale is told.
You will go with me, Alice, when the glen
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And you shall of the fairest of the fair
And sweetest of the sweet a lapful take,
And you will scatter them where Lily lies,
For Lily's sake, my warbler. Will you not?
Alice.
Yes, if you show me where she lies. But where
Is Walter's grave? and what became of him?
Eben.
Oh, Walter went abroad.
Alice.
And died abroad?
Eben.
Oh no, he did not die: he's living yet.
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And echoed, “Living yet!” But when they saw
Their mother, unsurprised and silent, sit,
As if their wonder was not one to her,
They guessed the truth, and smiled when Alice said,
“Ah, that is why you said you knew them all.”
Eben.
Ay, Alice, that was why I knew them all.
But now, while yet the book is open, sing—
Sing me the song I taught you yesterday.
Sing low, as if the song were but a thought
Born of the story I have read to you.
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(sings).
Oh, boulder brown,
That sitteth by the sea,
Until the faithful tide
Returns to thee!
Not one of those art thou
That waits to mourn,
For what is surer
Than the tide's return?
That sitteth by the sea,
Until the faithful tide
Returns to thee!
Not one of those art thou
That waits to mourn,
For what is surer
Than the tide's return?
But, boulder brown,
Behind thee on the beach,
High 'mong the grass,
Beyond the spring-tide's reach,
Wave-worn like thee,
A sister boulder mourns,
Because the faithless tide
No more returns.
Behind thee on the beach,
High 'mong the grass,
Beyond the spring-tide's reach,
Wave-worn like thee,
A sister boulder mourns,
Because the faithless tide
No more returns.
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And so, of joy
What surety is there here?
A day is pleasant,
Or, perhaps, a year;
But bright waves wear thee, boulder brown,
And then
Recede, like pleasures
From the souls of men.
What surety is there here?
A day is pleasant,
Or, perhaps, a year;
But bright waves wear thee, boulder brown,
And then
Recede, like pleasures
From the souls of men.
| Lily Neil | |