 | The soul's legend |  |
15
THE RED-BREAST.
“Far, far away, is a land of woe and darkness, spirits of
evil and fire. Day after day a little bird flies there, bearing
in his bill a drop of water to quench the flame. So near to
the burning stream does he fly that his feathers are scorched
by it, and hence he is named ‘Bron-rhuddyn’ (breast-burned).”
—A Carmarthenshire Legend of the Robin.
The souls in bliss to souls in woe
Would fain a message send:
It is not love, above, below,
That loves not to the end;
This know I, though I little yet
Love's secret apprehend.
Would fain a message send:
It is not love, above, below,
That loves not to the end;
This know I, though I little yet
Love's secret apprehend.
But how shall love with love prevail
Its message sweet to take,
What wing that will not droop and fail,
What spirit but will quake,
To bear it through the gloomy vale,
Across the fiery lake?
Its message sweet to take,
What wing that will not droop and fail,
What spirit but will quake,
To bear it through the gloomy vale,
Across the fiery lake?
16
In heaven was silence! sweet to hear
The songs that angels sing,
Yet sweeter then had been the clear
Quick rustle of a wing.
On earth was silence! to the sun
The eagle soared; apart
The dove, in grief or love for one
Sate, brooding o'er her heart;
Wings, wings! a heaven and earth of wings,
Outspread, unstirred, and free;
I only heard one little bird
Make answer then, “Send me.”
The songs that angels sing,
Yet sweeter then had been the clear
Quick rustle of a wing.
On earth was silence! to the sun
The eagle soared; apart
The dove, in grief or love for one
Sate, brooding o'er her heart;
Wings, wings! a heaven and earth of wings,
Outspread, unstirred, and free;
I only heard one little bird
Make answer then, “Send me.”
A little bird,
unseen, unheard,
When summer woods are gay,
That flits across a darkening path
And haunts a leafless spray;
Its song is broken, sweet, and wild,
Its eye is bright and clear;
It singeth best when to the West
The sinking sun draws near:
A bird beloved by man and child,
And to its Maker dear.
When summer woods are gay,
That flits across a darkening path
And haunts a leafless spray;
Its song is broken, sweet, and wild,
Its eye is bright and clear;
17
The sinking sun draws near:
A bird beloved by man and child,
And to its Maker dear.
It trills not with the nightingale,
It moans not with the dove,
It hath no fond heart-piercing wail
Of passion nor of love;
It mounts not with the lark on wings
Of rapture and desire,
It hath a heart that does not quail,
A wing that does not tire.
It moans not with the dove,
It hath no fond heart-piercing wail
Of passion nor of love;
It mounts not with the lark on wings
Of rapture and desire,
It hath a heart that does not quail,
A wing that does not tire.
“I do not fear the valley drear,
Nor yet beyond the gate
What lies, though it indeed be vast,
And dim, and desolate.
My breast is scorched with fire, so near
The burning wind I fly; to fear
Would now for me be late.
Nor yet beyond the gate
What lies, though it indeed be vast,
And dim, and desolate.
My breast is scorched with fire, so near
The burning wind I fly; to fear
Would now for me be late.
“For me the little children spread
Their crumbs upon the snow,
I stay with them, and I am fed
When the swallows flit and go;
I have eaten of man's daily bread
Too long to shun his woe;
I have met earth's sleety blast,
I have felt its driving rain:
The time of fear is overpast
For one, the mate of pain;
Their crumbs upon the snow,
18
When the swallows flit and go;
I have eaten of man's daily bread
Too long to shun his woe;
I have met earth's sleety blast,
I have felt its driving rain:
The time of fear is overpast
For one, the mate of pain;
“Yea, more! upon the bitter cross
I saw One hang, who bore
Of all Creation's wrong and loss,
The weight and burden sore;
And then from out a brow divine,
With anguish pierced and torn,
I strove, with this small beak of mine,
To wrest a single thorn.
I saw One hang, who bore
Of all Creation's wrong and loss,
The weight and burden sore;
And then from out a brow divine,
With anguish pierced and torn,
I strove, with this small beak of mine,
To wrest a single thorn.
“Too slender was my little bill;
I strove and strove in vain;
But then, in guerdon of my will,
My bosom met a stain,
Broad, ruddy, deep, that shields from ill,
And marks it unto pain.”
I strove and strove in vain;
But then, in guerdon of my will,
My bosom met a stain,
Broad, ruddy, deep, that shields from ill,
And marks it unto pain.”
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Oh, little bird! these words of thine
Methinks are true and wise!
For he who looks on man who lives,
Who looks on God that dies,
Baptized within the cloud, the sea,
Baptized within the fire, like thee,
May pass along the valley drear,
And through the gateway dim, nor fear
For aught beyond that lies.
Methinks are true and wise!
For he who looks on man who lives,
Who looks on God that dies,
Baptized within the cloud, the sea,
Baptized within the fire, like thee,
May pass along the valley drear,
And through the gateway dim, nor fear
For aught beyond that lies.
November 15th, 1870.
| The soul's legend | |