 | Carmina crucis |  |
125
CHRIST'S GARLAND.
The world with stately tread
Moves down the terrace walk,
To pluck, from garden bed,
From off its dainty stalk
The rose, the silken rose—the rose whose splendour
Is but the luxury of light grown tender;
The rose, that makes the very summer round her
More warm, more blissful only to have found her;
The golden sunbeams in their falling bless her,
The winds that steal her balmy breath caress her;
She breathes, she blooms, she dies in joy; her duty
Is to be fair and glad; her life is beauty;
Love wooes her, wins her, pleasure will not leave her,
The sharp thorn guards her well, but does not grieve her,
To all she giveth free, yet none bereave her.
Ho for the rose! but by the bitter sea,
Torn by the vexing gale, and by the spray
O'er-wash'd, the rosemary
Lives on from day to day
With deep strange scent, that yet
Cleaves, like a vain regret;
Unblessing she, unbless'd,
Unwoo'd and uncaress'd,
Yet fair enough, my Lord, for Thee and me.
Moves down the terrace walk,
To pluck, from garden bed,
From off its dainty stalk
The rose, the silken rose—the rose whose splendour
Is but the luxury of light grown tender;
The rose, that makes the very summer round her
More warm, more blissful only to have found her;
The golden sunbeams in their falling bless her,
The winds that steal her balmy breath caress her;
She breathes, she blooms, she dies in joy; her duty
Is to be fair and glad; her life is beauty;
Love wooes her, wins her, pleasure will not leave her,
The sharp thorn guards her well, but does not grieve her,
To all she giveth free, yet none bereave her.
126
Torn by the vexing gale, and by the spray
O'er-wash'd, the rosemary
Lives on from day to day
With deep strange scent, that yet
Cleaves, like a vain regret;
Unblessing she, unbless'd,
Unwoo'd and uncaress'd,
Yet fair enough, my Lord, for Thee and me.
The lover seeks some fair
Exotic bloom that breathes through leaf and stem
Its soul upon the heavy weighted air,
The myrtle dark, the rich geranium,
Are his; all blossoms delicate and rare;
His too are violets dim,
And sweet and hid! for him
The sweetbrier, and the woodbine dusk that run
Their wild warm souls in one,
Till in their clasp and in their kiss unending,
None knows, so close, so kind, so sure their blending,
Which is the sweeter, which of them the fairer,
And which of bliss is giver, which is sharer;
But by the common way
Grow flowers that are not gay
Nor sweet like these, and if ye chance to name them
Weeds, only weeds, ye will not seem to blame them;
Weeds, only weeds, perchance, these flowers may be,
Yet fair enough, my Lord, for Thee and me.
Exotic bloom that breathes through leaf and stem
Its soul upon the heavy weighted air,
The myrtle dark, the rich geranium,
Are his; all blossoms delicate and rare;
His too are violets dim,
And sweet and hid! for him
The sweetbrier, and the woodbine dusk that run
Their wild warm souls in one,
Till in their clasp and in their kiss unending,
None knows, so close, so kind, so sure their blending,
Which is the sweeter, which of them the fairer,
And which of bliss is giver, which is sharer;
127
Grow flowers that are not gay
Nor sweet like these, and if ye chance to name them
Weeds, only weeds, ye will not seem to blame them;
Weeds, only weeds, perchance, these flowers may be,
Yet fair enough, my Lord, for Thee and me.
The child beneath his feet
Finds flowers, so many flowers,
He counts by them his fleet,
Bright days' unlingering hours;
So many, that for best
He takes the nearest still,
And still hath flowers, his breast
And clasping hands to fill;
He seeks the moor where burns
The furze; the scented plume
Of meadow sweet, the bloom
Of May, the hedge-row ferns;
And all his flowers are cool
And fresh! above the pool
They lean, or in the pleasant pastures blow,
Yet by the ruin's edge,
And on the crater's ledge,
And by the glacier, underneath the snow,
Upon the dreary hill,
On cottage window sill,
Are other flowers unsought, unsung that be,
Yet fair enough, my Lord, for Thee and me!
Finds flowers, so many flowers,
He counts by them his fleet,
Bright days' unlingering hours;
So many, that for best
He takes the nearest still,
And still hath flowers, his breast
And clasping hands to fill;
He seeks the moor where burns
The furze; the scented plume
Of meadow sweet, the bloom
Of May, the hedge-row ferns;
And all his flowers are cool
And fresh! above the pool
128
Yet by the ruin's edge,
And on the crater's ledge,
And by the glacier, underneath the snow,
Upon the dreary hill,
On cottage window sill,
Are other flowers unsought, unsung that be,
Yet fair enough, my Lord, for Thee and me!
| Carmina crucis | |