 | Under Green Leaves |  |
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ONE HALF-HOUR.
I.
Noon, from the village tower,—But ere the clock strike One,
Ay, ere one short half-hour,
Deeds shall be done.
A warm and buzzing day,
Scented with new-mown hay,
And tremulous with song
Floating green woods among,—
Lovely to me, who lie
Under this happy sky,—
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Haunting the turret-spire,—
What shall be done
Ere thou expire?
II.
Over the sunny grassA shadow delay'd to pass;
And with it came a sound
From the tree-tops to the ground,—
An echo's echo dying,
Or thought to a thought replying,
Or music of the mind
Not born of the summer wind,
That seem'd to give it breath.—
And the song it made,
In the greenwood shade,
Was a song of Life and Death,—
Death in the shadow glancing,
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Life and her sister Death.
III.
“The glad air throbs with music,As suits a bridal day,
And the chimes are merrily ringing
From a thousand turrets grey.
Strew roses! gather posies!
Youth goes on his lusty way.
The sad air sighs with music:
Hark to the under-boom!
Over a thousand dells,
Toll out the doleful bells;
There's dust for the hungry tomb.
And lonely ships at sea
Have Death in their company,—
Bury the mariners in the deep!
And let their white bones rest,
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Where none can come to weep.
IV.
“Many an infant born,This pleasant summer morn,
Shall die ere evening fall.
And many a scheme that blows
As freshly as the rose,
Shall drop its leaflets all,
And wither where it grows,
Ere the next chime
Shall tell the time.
And many a desolate head,
Weary of all the world has taught,
Shall know the knowledge of the dead,
And things surpassing thought.
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V.
“Crooning at her doorSits the sailor's wife.
Oh, sweet is her song and low,
Like the ripple of streams that flow
Where the long sedge-grasses grow,
As she clasps her little child,
That she loves beyond her life,
To her heart so pure and mild,
And thinks of the coming day,
When he who is far away,
Shall come again,
Come again,
Like the sweet, sweet sunshine after the rain,
To guard and shield her as of yore,
To love and cherish her more and more,
Best joy in her world of pain.
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VI.
“And he whom she loves so well,More than her tongue can tell,
Is battling with the wave,—
The gaping, greedy, gluttonous wave,—
That sucks him down to the pitiless grave,
Far away out on the barren sea,
With none but the stars so cold,
And the moonlight silvery gold,
Looking down
From Heaven's high crown,
On his fierce death-agony.
VII.
“The son returns with hard-earn'd wealth,To cheer his mother, whose locks are white;
And his mother was laid, with the turf on her breast,
In the churchyard yesternight.
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And his little children dear;
And the wife hath fled to a stranger's bed,
Nor left him even a tear
To freshen his heart, that will shrivel with griet,—
Sapless—fruitless—sere.
VIII.
“Outside the castle-gate,The beggar-woman sighs,
With her pale twins at her bosom,
And a light in her glaring eyes;
She thinks of the stately Duchess,
So beautiful to see,
On her prancing steed, in her hunting-gear
With her pages at her knee;
With her plume of ostrich feathers
That waves to the summer air;—
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So far from the reach of care.
And the beggar curses Fortune,
And thinks of her babes forlorn,
And fondles them, and hugs them,
And weeps that they were born.
IX.
“Inside the castle-gate,The Duchess sits alone,
Her long brown hair dishevell'd,
And streaming to her zone:
She thinks of the beggar-matron,—
And sighs,—unhappy wife!
That not to her is given
One child to bless her life.
‘I'd give,’ quoth she, ‘my jewels,
My castle, my domains,
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And all that appertains,
For one of the tender cherubs,
That she, beloved of Heaven,
Can fold to her fruitful bosom,
And feel a blessing given.
Oh, she is rich beyond me,
'Tis I alone am poor,
And starve in the midst of plenty!—
Oh, teach me to endure!’
X.
“A knave sits plotting and spinningHis coils and meshes dark,
Alone in his secret places,
Where he deems no eye shall mark.
He sows the seeds of evil
In his foglight, murk and dim,
That they may grow in the autumn shine,
Into ripe fresh fruit for him.
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His web of sin,
Let him plant and dig and sow!
Fate hath a besom that can sweep,
And fools may sow what wise men reap.
For the minutes ebb and flow,
Balancing as they go;
And every minute as it flies,
If it see a thousand knaves arise,
Beholds a thousand fall,—
The question solves,
The globe revolves,—
And God is over all!
XI.
“Great Cæsar sits alone,Weary and full of care:
How shall his armies strive,
How shall his people thrive
In the battles that prepare,
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To the under-tides of the air?
And shall he fall or stand,
And are his servants true?
And are his enemies too strong
For his right hand to subdue?
Weary and rack'd with thought,
He shuts himself alone,
And doth not know that his foe lies dead,
That his rival's power is nought,
That another is on his throne;
And that the high imperial head
That troubled the world shall throb no more;
But lies as pulseless as a stone
On the melancholy shore.
XII.
“He knoweth not of this:He summons his armed men,
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With their captains, ten times ten;
He sends them east and west
By the fiat of his word;
He grinds and taxes his docile realm,
Till its inmost heart is stirr'd,
And the props of his throne are shaken!—
Oh, vain—oh, worse than vain!
The heavens are black with tempest,
And he dreameth not of rain.
He looks far off for danger,
And arms lest it should burst,
While it slumbers at his footstool,
And in his hand is nursed.
XIII.
“A man with a brow care-furrow'dAnd bright eyes gleaming proud,
Walks to and fro in his chamber,
And talks to himself aloud.
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The deed of my life is done;
The hope of my youth and prime
Is ripe at its destined time:
I clutch the golden apple,
I hold my head on high;—
I thank thee, oh my Fortune,
And let the world go by;
For grief no more shall touch me!’
Oh fool! there's danger nigh!
Whatever grief thou'st borne,
Whatever pangs have torn
Thy desolate heart forlorn,
Are nothing to compare
With the brood of grief that nestle
At the core of thine apple fair.
They breed in thy happy fortune
Thy dearest hopes to cross;
Poor dupe! thy good is evil,
Thy victory is loss.
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XIV.
“A young man sits lamentingWith his children at his knee,
And his fond true wife beside him:
‘I'm a wretch!’ quoth he;
‘An evil fate pursues me;
Whate'er I touch I slay;
And this, my last reliance—
My chance, my hope, my stay—
Has died like the last year's blossoms,
Never to bloom again!’
Oh blind, to grieve at Fortune!
Oh sluggard, to complain!
The thing which thou hast lost
Was big with coming sorrow;
Joy dwelt on its lips to-day,
Grief grew in its heart for morrow.
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If smitten, thou art whole;
And learn that a pang surmounted,
Is healing to the soul.”
XV.
Half-past twelve on the turret clock,Thou'rt gone, oh Spirit of Noon!
With the last faint echoes of the chime,
That died in the woods of June.
Thou'rt gone, in thy robe of amber,
And diadem of flame,
To make the wide world's circuit—
Another, and yet the same;
To bear God's justice with thee,
And scatter it through the Earth;
To balance the wonder of our death
By the mystery of our birth;
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To turn the Wrong to Right,
And out of the gloom of Evil
To weave the web of Light.
Kind and beautiful Spirit,
Just and merciful Day,
Bearing thy God's commission,
To give and to take away!
March, 1855.
| Under Green Leaves | |