Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature By Charles Mackay |
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THE RIM OF THE BOWL. |
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 | Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature |  |
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THE RIM OF THE BOWL.
I sat 'mid the flickering lights, when all the guests had departed,
Alone at the head of the table, and dreamed of the days that were gone;
Neither asleep nor waking, nor sad, nor cheery-hearted—
But passive as a leaf by the wild November blown.
I thought—if thinking 't were, when thoughts were dimmer than shadows—
And toyed the while with the music I drew from the rim of the bowl,
Passing my fingers round, as if my will compelled it
To answer my shapeless dreams, as soul might answer soul.
Alone at the head of the table, and dreamed of the days that were gone;
Neither asleep nor waking, nor sad, nor cheery-hearted—
But passive as a leaf by the wild November blown.
I thought—if thinking 't were, when thoughts were dimmer than shadows—
And toyed the while with the music I drew from the rim of the bowl,
Passing my fingers round, as if my will compelled it
To answer my shapeless dreams, as soul might answer soul.
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Idle I was, and listless; but melody and fancy
Came out of that tremulous dulcimer, as my hand around it strayed;
The rim was a magic circle, and mine was the necromancy
That summoned its secrets forth, to take the forms I bade.
Secrets! ay! buried secrets, forgotten for twenty summers,
But living anew in the odours of the roses at the board;
Secrets of Truth and Passion, and the days of Life's unreason;
Perhaps not all atoned for, in the judgments of the Lord.
Came out of that tremulous dulcimer, as my hand around it strayed;
The rim was a magic circle, and mine was the necromancy
That summoned its secrets forth, to take the forms I bade.
Secrets! ay! buried secrets, forgotten for twenty summers,
But living anew in the odours of the roses at the board;
Secrets of Truth and Passion, and the days of Life's unreason;
Perhaps not all atoned for, in the judgments of the Lord.
Secrets that still shall slumber, for I will not bare my bosom
To the gaze of the heartless, prying, unconscion-able crowd,
That would like to know, I doubt not, now much I have sinned and suffered,
And drag me down to its level—because it would humble the proud.
Beautiful spirits they were, that danced on the rim at my bidding:
Spirits of Joy or Sadness, in their brief sweet Summer day;
Spirits that aye possess me, and keep me, if I wander,
In the line of the straight, and the flower of the fruitful way.
To the gaze of the heartless, prying, unconscion-able crowd,
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And drag me down to its level—because it would humble the proud.
Beautiful spirits they were, that danced on the rim at my bidding:
Spirits of Joy or Sadness, in their brief sweet Summer day;
Spirits that aye possess me, and keep me, if I wander,
In the line of the straight, and the flower of the fruitful way.
Spirits of women and children—spirits of friends departed—
Spirits of dear companions that have gone to the levelling tomb,
Hallowed for ever and ever with the sanctity of sorrow,
And the aureole of death that crowns them in the gloom.
Spirits of Hope and Faith, and one supremely lovely,
That sang to me years agone, when I was a little child,
And sported at her footstool, or lay upon her bosom,
And gazed at the Love that dazzled me from her eyes so soft and mild.
Spirits of dear companions that have gone to the levelling tomb,
Hallowed for ever and ever with the sanctity of sorrow,
And the aureole of death that crowns them in the gloom.
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That sang to me years agone, when I was a little child,
And sported at her footstool, or lay upon her bosom,
And gazed at the Love that dazzled me from her eyes so soft and mild.
And that song from the rim of the bowl came sounding and sounding ever—
As oft it hath done before in the toil and moil of life;
A song nor sad nor merry, but low and sweet and plaintive;
A clarion blast in sorrow; an anodyne in strife;
A song like a ray of moonlight that gleams athwart a tempest.
Sound ever, O Song! sound sweetly, whether I live or die,
My guardian, my adviser, my comforter, my comrade,
A voice from the sinless regions—a message from the sky!
As oft it hath done before in the toil and moil of life;
A song nor sad nor merry, but low and sweet and plaintive;
A clarion blast in sorrow; an anodyne in strife;
A song like a ray of moonlight that gleams athwart a tempest.
Sound ever, O Song! sound sweetly, whether I live or die,
My guardian, my adviser, my comforter, my comrade,
A voice from the sinless regions—a message from the sky!
| Studies from the Antique and Sketches from Nature | |