The Burdens of Belief and Other Poems By The Duke of Argyll [i.e. G. D. Campbell] |
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TO A BUST OF
SLEEP—POPPY-WREATHED
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 | The Burdens of Belief and Other Poems |  |
TO A BUST OF SLEEP—POPPY-WREATHED
BEQUEATHED BY HARRIET HOWARD, SECOND DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND
I
Those eyes so calmly closed in rest,Beneath sweet Sleep's memorial flower,
Are eyes that wake in me the power
Of all we have the first and best,—
The power that brings us back, to-day,
Those joys of life that have been cast
In moulded memories of the past,
Where Time has rested on his way.
47
The poppy wreath droops down in peace,
Emblem of hours when troubles cease,
As mine with thee are silent now,
Thou stood'st beside the bed of one
To whom a blessèd child was born:
She saw thee first in summer morn;
She saw thee when the day was done.
II
Now all that day comes back to me;The sense of beauty, love of Art,
The overflowings of a heart
That bled for all the ills that be:
The flashing eye, the nostril wide,
When tale of wrong but reached her ear:
For suffering seen—the quickest tear
That ever fell by woman's side:
And when harsh judgments of the world
In clamour drowned the voice of truth,
In all men's sight she held for ruth,
And banners of Belief unfurled.
Some of my readers will remember the beautiful lines addressed to this Duchess of Sutherland by one who had much occasion, in a time of adversity, to feel that characteristic of her lofty nature which I have referred to here. These lines were written by the Hon. Mrs. Norton in 1840:—
For easy are the alms the rich man spares
To sons of genius, by misfortune bent,
But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares,
Belief—in spite of many a cold dissent—
When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart
From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crushed, my heart.
To sons of genius, by misfortune bent,
But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares,
Belief—in spite of many a cold dissent—
When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart
From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crushed, my heart.
48
Where noble nature seemed to rest,
Nor less within her kindred breast
Where steps of genius seemed to fall.
III
Then when that land whose beauty's spellSuch hapless gift had proved to be,
Sent forth the man who set it free,
She hailed the Voice of England well.
Once more, when came across the wave
One lonely woman's piercing cry
That shook men's conscience from on high
And broke the fetters of the slave,
Her arms—how stretched they wide to greet
The soul that breathed, the hand that wrote,
The slender form that blew that note,
And cast our garlands at her feet!
IV
How charmed by her the wise and good,How beamed on them her radiant eye!
To her no baseness dared come nigh,
Abashed all forms of envy stood.
49
In her great presence roughness fell;
The light and reckless owned her spell,
And for a while the coarse were pure.
Full oft I've seen the doubtful jest
Rise to the lips of some whose walk
Lay in the paths of careless talk,
Then sink beneath her glance, repressed.
V
Quick as her eyes with light divineIn catching beauty interfused,
To see the tints of life confused,
They were as gently closed as thine.
And then to me when I had won
Of those she bore the first and best,
How have I felt the home, the rest,
The love she gave me as a son.
Sleep on—fair marble bust of Sleep:—
Your fallen lids for me enclose
More tender perfumes than the rose,
And fount of tears too calm to weep.
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