 | The Legend of the Golden Prayers and other poems |  |
189
Miscellaneous.
WITHERED LEAVES.
Delicate leaves, with your shifting colours,
Crimson and golden, or russet brown,
Under what sunsets of calm October,
Out of what groves were ye shaken down?
Crimson and golden, or russet brown,
Under what sunsets of calm October,
Out of what groves were ye shaken down?
When the sun, dying in red and amber,
Tinted the woods with the hues he wore,
As the stain'd light in a great cathedral,
Through the east-window, falls on the floor.
Tinted the woods with the hues he wore,
As the stain'd light in a great cathedral,
Through the east-window, falls on the floor.
In your high homes where the tall shafts quiver,
And the green boughs, like a trellis, cross,
When ye grow brighter, and change, and wither,
Symbols ye are of our gain and loss.
And the green boughs, like a trellis, cross,
When ye grow brighter, and change, and wither,
Symbols ye are of our gain and loss.
190
Hopes that we cherish'd, and grand ideals,
Dreams that to colour and substance grew,
Ah! they were lofty and green and golden,
Now they lie dead on our hearts like you.
Dreams that to colour and substance grew,
Ah! they were lofty and green and golden,
Now they lie dead on our hearts like you.
Silent as snow from his airy chamber,
Down on the earth drops the wither'd leaf,
Silently back, on the heart of the dreamer,
Noticed of none, falls the secret grief.
Down on the earth drops the wither'd leaf,
Silently back, on the heart of the dreamer,
Noticed of none, falls the secret grief.
Yet ye deceive us, beautiful prophets;
For like one side of an ocean shell,
Cast by the tide on a dripping sand-beach,
Only a half of the truth ye tell.
For like one side of an ocean shell,
Cast by the tide on a dripping sand-beach,
Only a half of the truth ye tell.
Much of decadence and death ye sing us,
Rightly ye tell us earth's hopes are vain,
But of the life out of death no whisper,
Saying, “We die, but we live again.”
Rightly ye tell us earth's hopes are vain,
But of the life out of death no whisper,
Saying, “We die, but we live again.”
Bring us some teacher, O leaves Autumnal,
Some voice to sing, from your crimson skies,
Of the home where our hope is immortal,
Of the land where the leaf never dies.
Some voice to sing, from your crimson skies,
Of the home where our hope is immortal,
Of the land where the leaf never dies.
191
[Waves, waves, waves]
Waves, waves, waves,
Graceful arches, lit with night's pale gold,
Boom like thunder through the mountain roll'd,
Hiss and make their music manifold,
Sing, and work for God along the strand.
Graceful arches, lit with night's pale gold,
Boom like thunder through the mountain roll'd,
Hiss and make their music manifold,
Sing, and work for God along the strand.
Leaves, leaves, leaves,
Beautified by Autumn's scorching breath,
Ivory skeletons, carven fair by death,
Fall and drift at a sublime command.
Beautified by Autumn's scorching breath,
Ivory skeletons, carven fair by death,
Fall and drift at a sublime command.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,
Breaking, wave-like, on the mind's strange shore,
Rustling, leaf-like, through it evermore,
O, that they might follow God's good hand!
Breaking, wave-like, on the mind's strange shore,
Rustling, leaf-like, through it evermore,
O, that they might follow God's good hand!
197
MUSIC AT NIGHT.
Still lingers eve with fond delay,
Though night has claim'd yon lovely shore,
And sends from far her shadow grey,
Pale twilight stealing on before.
Though night has claim'd yon lovely shore,
And sends from far her shadow grey,
Pale twilight stealing on before.
And yonder waves of varying sheen,
The distant headland's line of blue,
The tall red cliffs, the soft sea-green,
Are mingling in one misty hue.
The distant headland's line of blue,
The tall red cliffs, the soft sea-green,
Are mingling in one misty hue.
'Tis past—that gleam of crimson light,
The last faint blush of lingering day;
Now leaning from her stately height
The silver moon looks on the bay.
The last faint blush of lingering day;
Now leaning from her stately height
The silver moon looks on the bay.
And restless waves, that loved to chide,
And fling their foam-like showers of snow,
Calm as a lake without a tide,
Lie still and quiver in her glow.
And fling their foam-like showers of snow,
Calm as a lake without a tide,
Lie still and quiver in her glow.
198
The clouds of grief have dimm'd his eye,
The waves of woe have swell'd his breast;
What pure pale planet draweth nigh
Whose look can soothe them all to rest?
The waves of woe have swell'd his breast;
What pure pale planet draweth nigh
Whose look can soothe them all to rest?
Come, fairer than yon crescent moon;
Come, touch the tone he loves so well;
And grief and care shall slumber soon,
And sorrow own the soothing spell.
Come, touch the tone he loves so well;
And grief and care shall slumber soon,
And sorrow own the soothing spell.
Come with thy calm and quiet grace,
Thy meek, soft smile and silver tone,
The rose-tints deepening on thy face,
And charm as thou canst charm alone.
Thy meek, soft smile and silver tone,
The rose-tints deepening on thy face,
And charm as thou canst charm alone.
There's not a wave on yon wide sea
But thrills to that pure power above,
Nor heart-string, weary though it be,
But trembles to the touch of love.
But thrills to that pure power above,
Nor heart-string, weary though it be,
But trembles to the touch of love.
From Nature's beauteous outward things
What gleams of hidden life we win!
For still the world without us flings
Strong shadows of the world within.
What gleams of hidden life we win!
For still the world without us flings
Strong shadows of the world within.
199
Sweet scene! we shall not love thee less
Because thy pulses, wild and free,
With our home-dream of happiness
This hour have thrill'd in harmony.
Because thy pulses, wild and free,
With our home-dream of happiness
This hour have thrill'd in harmony.
Rather, a thousand-fold more fair,
Thy sea, thy shore, fresh charms shall borrow,
For they have heard the tender air
She sang to-night to soothe his sorrow.
Thy sea, thy shore, fresh charms shall borrow,
For they have heard the tender air
She sang to-night to soothe his sorrow.
Torquay, 1850.
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