 | Julian Fane, Ad matrem |  |
3
III.
[Shrill sings the merry lark, as in the east]
Shrill sings the merry lark, as in the east
Morn o'er the dun cloud steps with glowing feet;
And Philomela from a dewy breast
Pours her wild note the rising moon to greet:
The woodland rings with song, when rarely-sweet,
Soft airs announce the loved return of Spring,
And every grateful heart with music meet
Best loves aloud to gratulate and sing
The sight and fair recurrence of a happy thing!
Morn o'er the dun cloud steps with glowing feet;
And Philomela from a dewy breast
Pours her wild note the rising moon to greet:
The woodland rings with song, when rarely-sweet,
Soft airs announce the loved return of Spring,
And every grateful heart with music meet
Best loves aloud to gratulate and sing
The sight and fair recurrence of a happy thing!
Rise, happy day! above the Eastern hills,
Come fair, come cloudless in unsmirched attire,
The mingling melodies of birds and rills
Thou shalt not lack, nor music of the lyre,
If my frail skill further my fond desire;
Not Morning to the loud lark in her glee,
Nor to rapt Philomel the moon's faint fire,
Nor Spring to every bird that carols free,
Such theme for song restores as thy return to me!
Come fair, come cloudless in unsmirched attire,
The mingling melodies of birds and rills
Thou shalt not lack, nor music of the lyre,
If my frail skill further my fond desire;
Not Morning to the loud lark in her glee,
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Nor Spring to every bird that carols free,
Such theme for song restores as thy return to me!
Whilom thou camest, smiling upon earth
Like one that bears glad news of sweet surprise,
And, by thee ushered to her mortal birth,
A child, now woman in her fairest guise,
First on the bleak world oped her infant eyes!
Her, through long years and seasons circling round,
Larger of heart, more gracious, gentle, wise,
Thy annual visitation still hath found;
Sweet soul of stainless worth by moral beauty crowned!
Like one that bears glad news of sweet surprise,
And, by thee ushered to her mortal birth,
A child, now woman in her fairest guise,
First on the bleak world oped her infant eyes!
Her, through long years and seasons circling round,
Larger of heart, more gracious, gentle, wise,
Thy annual visitation still hath found;
Sweet soul of stainless worth by moral beauty crowned!
Once more thou comest, and the hand of Time
Slides a fresh pearl upon her threaded years,
And I once more with poverty of rhyme,
Rich in my large love, do salute her ears;
Nor yet forbear my song, though sad appears
The shade of Sorrow on her tender face,
And sad her eyes new-watered by her tears,
And all her visage by the cloudlike trace
Of mourning shrouded in a melancholy grace.
Slides a fresh pearl upon her threaded years,
And I once more with poverty of rhyme,
Rich in my large love, do salute her ears;
Nor yet forbear my song, though sad appears
The shade of Sorrow on her tender face,
And sad her eyes new-watered by her tears,
And all her visage by the cloudlike trace
Of mourning shrouded in a melancholy grace.
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But thou wilt not rebuke because I sing,
Nor wonted tribute of my love forego:
Mother! thou knowest no conceits I bring,
Nor hollow words to mock thy holy woe;
Thy loss is mine!—for him who rests below,
Lapt in the long night of Death's leaden sleep,
Our mutual tears from kindred sources flow;
And while my own well from their fountain deep,
False words I cannot bring, nor wish thee not to weep.
Nor wonted tribute of my love forego:
Mother! thou knowest no conceits I bring,
Nor hollow words to mock thy holy woe;
Thy loss is mine!—for him who rests below,
Lapt in the long night of Death's leaden sleep,
Our mutual tears from kindred sources flow;
And while my own well from their fountain deep,
False words I cannot bring, nor wish thee not to weep.
He sleeps!—no storms of roused emotion mar
The waveless calm of his unruffled breast:
The strife of clamorous tongues, the world's rude jar,
Pierce not the silence of his placid rest;
But only winds, in whispers from the west,
And birds that low their timorous carol trill,
Sigh o'er his grave with many a wild flower drest;
Nightly the dews on him their tears distil,
The heavens shine calm above.—He sleeps—and all is still.
The waveless calm of his unruffled breast:
The strife of clamorous tongues, the world's rude jar,
Pierce not the silence of his placid rest;
But only winds, in whispers from the west,
And birds that low their timorous carol trill,
Sigh o'er his grave with many a wild flower drest;
Nightly the dews on him their tears distil,
The heavens shine calm above.—He sleeps—and all is still.
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Of him I sing, whose blighted Spring was brief
And Summer's dawn was never doomed to see,
Yet singing seek not to console thy grief,
Knowing thou hast no need of words from me;
Who feedeth with the bread of tears—even He
Who ministered a cup of deadly wine
To Israel—ministered thy loss to thee,
But feeds thy meek and patient soul divine
With wisdom such as shames poor thoughts and words of mine.
And Summer's dawn was never doomed to see,
Yet singing seek not to console thy grief,
Knowing thou hast no need of words from me;
Who feedeth with the bread of tears—even He
Who ministered a cup of deadly wine
To Israel—ministered thy loss to thee,
But feeds thy meek and patient soul divine
With wisdom such as shames poor thoughts and words of mine.
I wished to greet thee gaily! but a tear
Hath dimmed the smile that hailed thy natal day:
And, as I sing, almost I seem to hear
The voice of his dear soul who passed away,
Mingling a mournful music with my lay!
Forgive what words too much thy spirit move:
Forgive me all my weakness cannot say,
And in thy bounty listen, and approve
This faint imperfect echo of my proffered love!
Hath dimmed the smile that hailed thy natal day:
And, as I sing, almost I seem to hear
The voice of his dear soul who passed away,
Mingling a mournful music with my lay!
Forgive what words too much thy spirit move:
Forgive me all my weakness cannot say,
And in thy bounty listen, and approve
This faint imperfect echo of my proffered love!
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As Ivy clothes the bole from which it springs
With leaves that fair the parent tree surround,
So all my clustering Love about thee clings,
Which else perhaps, no fit sustainment found,
Had trailed with weeds along the common ground,
Or, self-entangled, mixed with grosser clay;
But thou, dear saint! to whom my heart is bound,
Nearer to heaven risest every day,
And this frail soul that loves thee follows as it may!
With leaves that fair the parent tree surround,
So all my clustering Love about thee clings,
Which else perhaps, no fit sustainment found,
Had trailed with weeds along the common ground,
Or, self-entangled, mixed with grosser clay;
But thou, dear saint! to whom my heart is bound,
Nearer to heaven risest every day,
And this frail soul that loves thee follows as it may!
March 13th, 1851.
| Julian Fane, Ad matrem | |