Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] With Portrait engraved by E. Stodart ... in two volumes |
 | 1. |
|
|
|
| 2. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
ALL SOULS' DAY.
|
 | Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |  |
167
ALL SOULS' DAY.
(“LE JOUR DES MORTS.”)
Ye that are dead and straitly laid to rest
Above whose lowly heads
The wand'ring winds of many winters blow
When the soft falling snow
Makes your green graves as white as live men's beds,
Is not such slumber blest?
Above whose lowly heads
The wand'ring winds of many winters blow
When the soft falling snow
Makes your green graves as white as live men's beds,
Is not such slumber blest?
Ye are at peace for ever; he that strove
Hath reach'd the promised goal;
The roofless wayfarer hath found a home
Whither can never come
Sting of regret, nor, whilst the ages roll,
Pang of “despisèd love!”
Hath reach'd the promised goal;
The roofless wayfarer hath found a home
Whither can never come
Sting of regret, nor, whilst the ages roll,
Pang of “despisèd love!”
168
Your very silence is articulate
Of stifled sob and sigh;—
Of tumult still'd, dissensions quieted,
Wherefore are most men led
To milder mood in your vicinity
Seeing your fall'n estate.
Of stifled sob and sigh;—
Of tumult still'd, dissensions quieted,
Wherefore are most men led
To milder mood in your vicinity
Seeing your fall'n estate.
In sweet unconsecrated fields, hard by,
When village urchins play
On summer days, with merry shout and call,
Should the spent cricket-ball
Or hunted insect chance to go your way,
Hush'd is each joyous cry;
When village urchins play
On summer days, with merry shout and call,
Should the spent cricket-ball
Or hunted insect chance to go your way,
Hush'd is each joyous cry;
Whilst happy lovers, should their straying feet
Happen to pass you by,
Grow half-ashamed of dalliance, for awhile,
Seeing beyond the stile
Or lych-gate grey, the quiet company
Whose hearts have ceased to beat.
Happen to pass you by,
Grow half-ashamed of dalliance, for awhile,
Seeing beyond the stile
Or lych-gate grey, the quiet company
Whose hearts have ceased to beat.
Scarce reason so obscured, or sense so rude
But that some pity, still,
Akin to love, in brain and breast awakes
For your departed sakes
Poor prisoners, whose simple records fill
A peopled solitude!
But that some pity, still,
169
For your departed sakes
Poor prisoners, whose simple records fill
A peopled solitude!
To-day you hold your court, tho' voice nor sign
Comes from your flow'r-strewn graves;
Nay, you accept our votive offerings
Even as sleeping kings
Might take their tribute, seeing not the slaves
Bearing the oil and wine!
Comes from your flow'r-strewn graves;
Nay, you accept our votive offerings
Even as sleeping kings
Might take their tribute, seeing not the slaves
Bearing the oil and wine!
| Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] | |