Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley. In Three Vols |
 | I, II, III. |
|
|
THE CHANGE OF SEASONS. |
 | Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems |  |
237
THE CHANGE OF SEASONS.
Soft blows the light and gentle air—
Bright gleams the unclouded ray,
A spirit seemeth everywhere,
To brood or float to-day.
Bright gleams the unclouded ray,
A spirit seemeth everywhere,
To brood or float to-day.
Mysterious meanings seem to be—
In all that crowds our way,
A voice is given to flower and tree,
To breeze and cloud—to-day.
In all that crowds our way,
A voice is given to flower and tree,
To breeze and cloud—to-day.
'Tis the first sunny day of spring,
Doubt not, the awakened heart
Is busy now, with many a thing
That makes it thrill and start!
Doubt not, the awakened heart
Is busy now, with many a thing
That makes it thrill and start!
238
The change of seasons well may bring
Grave thoughtfulness and care—
And trouble many a secret spring,
And wake deep feelings there!
Grave thoughtfulness and care—
And trouble many a secret spring,
And wake deep feelings there!
These seasons, in their constant roll,
Their mighty course fulfil,
And seem to question of the soul—
If it is punctual still!
Their mighty course fulfil,
And seem to question of the soul—
If it is punctual still!
If it as strictly doth obey
The invariable command—
And swerve not on its onward way—
From laws that changeless stand!—
The invariable command—
And swerve not on its onward way—
From laws that changeless stand!—
If duly it with duteous zeal—
Perform the allotted task—
How doth the soul then stricken feel,—
Nor answers what they ask!—
Perform the allotted task—
How doth the soul then stricken feel,—
Nor answers what they ask!—
239
Not Conscience only wounds the heart,
Memory and Love awake,
And play therein a busy part,
And through old fetters break.
Memory and Love awake,
And play therein a busy part,
And through old fetters break.
The change of seasons ever speaks
Of other changes round—
And each new season may we seek
For some that are not found!
Of other changes round—
And each new season may we seek
For some that are not found!
We find, we feel their loss then most,
The banished ones, beloved;
For, oh! who hath not loved and lost,
And 'midst Earth's mourners moved—
The banished ones, beloved;
For, oh! who hath not loved and lost,
And 'midst Earth's mourners moved—
Who hath not some dear kindred dust
With bright affection loved—
And placed therein their joy and trust,
And been by Death reproved!
With bright affection loved—
And placed therein their joy and trust,
And been by Death reproved!
240
To all that e'er have wounded been
By Fortune's freaks of change—
The new-born season's varied scene
Speaks—not in accents strange!
By Fortune's freaks of change—
The new-born season's varied scene
Speaks—not in accents strange!
When Summer to young Spring succeeds,
And o'er the glad world breathes—
To make Spring's blooms seem but as weeds
Beside her prouder wreaths!
And o'er the glad world breathes—
To make Spring's blooms seem but as weeds
Beside her prouder wreaths!
How do we feel the loveliest rose
Of Summer soon must share
The spring-flowers' fate, and withering lose
Its beauties, fresh and fair!—
Of Summer soon must share
The spring-flowers' fate, and withering lose
Its beauties, fresh and fair!—
How do we feel that many a thing
That brought us pure delight
Hath vanished, with that faded Spring,
For ever from our sight!—
That brought us pure delight
Hath vanished, with that faded Spring,
For ever from our sight!—
241
When Autumn in the Summer's place,
Comes proudly trampling on—
And all the rosy light and grace
Of Summer's mien is gone—
Comes proudly trampling on—
And all the rosy light and grace
Of Summer's mien is gone—
When the Autumn from his armoury brings
His countless golden spears,
And proud as palaced courts of kings
The common field appears;
His countless golden spears,
And proud as palaced courts of kings
The common field appears;
How do we, softened, grieve and sigh,
That Summer's joy is o'er;
That so much loveliness should die,
And change, and be no more!
That Summer's joy is o'er;
That so much loveliness should die,
And change, and be no more!
Yet not for thee our tears flow free,
Oh! Summer, lost and flown—
Rose of the year!—'tis not for thee
We make our heaviest moan!
Oh! Summer, lost and flown—
Rose of the year!—'tis not for thee
We make our heaviest moan!
242
We think of Life's fair summer sun,
By clouds obscured and changed;
Of Life's bright flowers—whose charm is done,
From bloom and scent estranged!
By clouds obscured and changed;
Of Life's bright flowers—whose charm is done,
From bloom and scent estranged!
We think of hours too sweet to last,
Alas!—too dear to lose—
That yet we dare not call the Past!
The while we mourn and muse!
Alas!—too dear to lose—
That yet we dare not call the Past!
The while we mourn and muse!
The Past we dare not call them yet!
Nor to ourselves allow—
Their truth is o'er—their sun is set,
That they are nothing now!
Nor to ourselves allow—
Their truth is o'er—their sun is set,
That they are nothing now!
So o'er the lovely and lovely dead
The mourner bends and weeps;
And fondly seeks to be misled,
And strives to think it sleeps!
The mourner bends and weeps;
And fondly seeks to be misled,
And strives to think it sleeps!
243
Nor dares unto himself to own,
Not to his soul to tell,
The truth to every feeling known,
Too bitterly and well!
Not to his soul to tell,
The truth to every feeling known,
Too bitterly and well!
When Autumn unto Winter yields
The sceptre of his sway,
And woods, and banks, and hills, and fields,
Grow gloomier day by day—
The sceptre of his sway,
And woods, and banks, and hills, and fields,
Grow gloomier day by day—
Thoughts spring in the most thoughtless breast,
Deep dreary thoughts, and stern;
The soul owns many a shadowy guest—
And lessons deep must learn!
Deep dreary thoughts, and stern;
The soul owns many a shadowy guest—
And lessons deep must learn!
Lessons and truths she knew before—
And knew full well, 'tis true—
But brought home to the bosom's core,
They then seem strange and new!—
And knew full well, 'tis true—
But brought home to the bosom's core,
They then seem strange and new!—
244
Winter! thou lookest old as Time,
And stern and bleak as Death—
Thy dim day seems to have no prime,
Thy frozen air, no breath:
And stern and bleak as Death—
Thy dim day seems to have no prime,
Thy frozen air, no breath:
Unless in tempests 'tis unbound,
While hills and valleys ring;
Then flaps it furiously around—
Destruction's shadowy wing.
While hills and valleys ring;
Then flaps it furiously around—
Destruction's shadowy wing.
Of Time, the grey and wrinkled Time,
Thou bidst us think, who comes
To rob our fair day of its prime,
And thin our darkened homes—
Thou bidst us think, who comes
To rob our fair day of its prime,
And thin our darkened homes—
Of Death, the dark and frowning Death,
Thou dost remind us well—
Whose heavy frost shall bind our breath,
Our bounding pulse shall quell!
Thou dost remind us well—
Whose heavy frost shall bind our breath,
Our bounding pulse shall quell!
245
And e'en when Winter yields to Spring—
The empire and the hour—
Thought ofttimes doth a shadow fling
O'er her fresh, vernal bower.
The empire and the hour—
Thought ofttimes doth a shadow fling
O'er her fresh, vernal bower.
Yes! e'en when Winter, Winter yields
To smiling Spring the sway,
As now it doth—o'er groves and fields,
The heart's long shadows play!
To smiling Spring the sway,
As now it doth—o'er groves and fields,
The heart's long shadows play!
The shadows of its memories old—
And its new doubts and fears,
Thus will they, till the tale is told,
Of seasons and of years!
And its new doubts and fears,
Thus will they, till the tale is told,
Of seasons and of years!
Though lightly blows the gentle air,
And brightly gleams the ray,
A Spirit broodeth everywhere,
Around, methinks, to-day.
And brightly gleams the ray,
A Spirit broodeth everywhere,
Around, methinks, to-day.
246
A mighty Spirit everywhere
For evermore doth brood,
Over the blue expanse of air—
Or twilight depths of wood.—
For evermore doth brood,
Over the blue expanse of air—
Or twilight depths of wood.—
How is it, that through night and day—
We do not feel and own—
That Spirit's presence round our way?—
For ne'er are we alone.—
We do not feel and own—
That Spirit's presence round our way?—
For ne'er are we alone.—
'Tis wondrous that we do not feel—
That presence evermore—
Our hearts are mailed in triple steel,
Our souls are slow to adore!
That presence evermore—
Our hearts are mailed in triple steel,
Our souls are slow to adore!
And thus, when conscious we become
Of that dread Presence near,
We feel a dimly-brooding gloom—
Because we faintly fear!
Of that dread Presence near,
We feel a dimly-brooding gloom—
Because we faintly fear!
247
We feel the awful mystery more,
In our bewildered dream—
Than the great Love we should adore
The Mercy—all Supreme.
In our bewildered dream—
Than the great Love we should adore
The Mercy—all Supreme.
Oh! through the unwearying seasons' round,
Their dawning or their close—
May I, in trustful love profound,
Beneath those Wings repose.
Their dawning or their close—
May I, in trustful love profound,
Beneath those Wings repose.
Let me, with solemn awe serene,
Feel, through each circling hour,
In every season—every scene,
That Presence and that Power!
Feel, through each circling hour,
In every season—every scene,
That Presence and that Power!
Let me not wait till it be pressed
Upon the backward sense;
But seek it still,—nor ever rest,—
With yearning hope intense!
Upon the backward sense;
But seek it still,—nor ever rest,—
With yearning hope intense!
| Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems | |