The Battle-Day and Other Poems By Ernest Jones |
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Echoes from Within.
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 | The Battle-Day and Other Poems |  |
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Echoes from Within.
117
THE BETTER HOPE.
A child of the hard-hearted world was I,
And a worldling callous of heart,
And eager to play with the thoughtless and gay,
As the lightest and gayest, a part.
And a worldling callous of heart,
And eager to play with the thoughtless and gay,
As the lightest and gayest, a part.
With a rich old name and a passionate thought,
The brightest or darkest to span:
But a struggle to fight for my natural right,
Of a place in the homes of man.
The brightest or darkest to span:
But a struggle to fight for my natural right,
Of a place in the homes of man.
My father's house in the lordly square
Was cold in its solemn state,
And the sculptures rare that the old walls bear,
Looked down with a quiet hate.
Was cold in its solemn state,
And the sculptures rare that the old walls bear,
Looked down with a quiet hate.
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My father's hall was a dark old spot,
With a dark old wood around,
And large quiet streams, like watery dreams,
On the verge of a haunted ground.
With a dark old wood around,
And large quiet streams, like watery dreams,
On the verge of a haunted ground.
And the dwellers were filled in that solemn place,
With the trance of a sullen pride;
For the scutcheoned grace of a titled race
Is the armour the heart to hide!
With the trance of a sullen pride;
For the scutcheoned grace of a titled race
Is the armour the heart to hide!
Oh! the eye sees but half through a blazoned glass
The smile of the sunshiny earth,
And a laugh cannot pass through a marbly mass,
But it loses the pulse of its mirth.
The smile of the sunshiny earth,
And a laugh cannot pass through a marbly mass,
But it loses the pulse of its mirth.
And I thought: there beyond, in the broad, laughing world,
Men are happy in life's holiday!
And I passed one and all, through each old-fashioned hall,
And wandered away and away!
Men are happy in life's holiday!
And I passed one and all, through each old-fashioned hall,
And wandered away and away!
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The trees, they shrunk back on my venturous track,
Old trees that my childhood had seen;
And the mansion looked dun in the light of the sun,
Like a grave its long grasses between.
Old trees that my childhood had seen;
And the mansion looked dun in the light of the sun,
Like a grave its long grasses between.
But alas! for the change of what might have been fair,
And the gloom of what should have been bright!
The wind weltered by like one great swelling sigh,
And the noonday was darker than night.
And the gloom of what should have been bright!
The wind weltered by like one great swelling sigh,
And the noonday was darker than night.
For a giant had risen, all grisly and grim,
With his huge limbs loud-clattering and vast!
And he breathed his steam-breath through long channels of death,
Till the soul itself died on the blast.
With his huge limbs loud-clattering and vast!
And he breathed his steam-breath through long channels of death,
Till the soul itself died on the blast.
And fibre and flesh he bound down on a rack,
Flame-girt on a factory-floor;
And the ghastly steel-corse plied its horrible force,
Still tearing the hearts of the poor.
Flame-girt on a factory-floor;
And the ghastly steel-corse plied its horrible force,
Still tearing the hearts of the poor.
120
Like a wine-press for mammon to form a gold-draught,
It squeezed their best blood through its fangs,
And he quaffed at a breath the quick vintage of death,
While it foamed with humanity's pangs.
It squeezed their best blood through its fangs,
And he quaffed at a breath the quick vintage of death,
While it foamed with humanity's pangs.
Oh! then I looked back for my cold, quiet home,
As the hell-bound looks back for the grave:
But I heard my soul cry, Who but cowards can fly,
While a tyrant yet tramples a slave?
As the hell-bound looks back for the grave:
But I heard my soul cry, Who but cowards can fly,
While a tyrant yet tramples a slave?
Then I bound on my armour to face the rough world,
And I'm going to march with the rest,
Against tyrants to fight—for the sake of the right,
And, if baffled, to fall with the best.
And I'm going to march with the rest,
Against tyrants to fight—for the sake of the right,
And, if baffled, to fall with the best.
121
THE POET.
THE POET'S MISSION.
Who is it rivets broken bands
And stranger-hearts together,
And builds with fast-decaying hands
A home to last for ever?
And stranger-hearts together,
And builds with fast-decaying hands
A home to last for ever?
From thunder-clouds compels the light,
And casts the bolt away,
Upluring from the soulless night
The soul's returning day?
And casts the bolt away,
Upluring from the soulless night
The soul's returning day?
Who is it calls up glories past
From tombs of churches old?
And proudly bids the hero last,
Tho' fades his grassy mould?
From tombs of churches old?
And proudly bids the hero last,
Tho' fades his grassy mould?
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Who is it, with age-vanquished form,
Treads death's ascending path;
Yet stronger than the fiery storm
Of tyrants in their wrath?
Treads death's ascending path;
Yet stronger than the fiery storm
Of tyrants in their wrath?
Whose voice, so low to human ears,
Has still the strength sublime
To ring thro' the advancing years—
And history—and time?
Has still the strength sublime
To ring thro' the advancing years—
And history—and time?
Who is it, in love's servitude,
Devotes his generous life,
And measures by his own heart's good
A world with evil rife?
Devotes his generous life,
And measures by his own heart's good
A world with evil rife?
The Bard—who walks earth's lonely length
Till all his gifts are given;
Makes others strong with his own strength,
And then fleets back to Heaven.
Till all his gifts are given;
Makes others strong with his own strength,
And then fleets back to Heaven.
123
THE POET'S PARALLEL.
Down the hillside tripping brightly,
O'er the pebbles tinkling lightly,
'Mid the meadows rippling merrily, the mountain-current goes;
By the broken rocks careering,
Thro' the desert persevering,
Flowing onward ever, ever singing as it flows.
O'er the pebbles tinkling lightly,
'Mid the meadows rippling merrily, the mountain-current goes;
By the broken rocks careering,
Thro' the desert persevering,
Flowing onward ever, ever singing as it flows.
But oh! the darksome caves
That swallow up the waves!
Oh! the shadow-haunted forest and the sandy shallows wide!
Oh! the hollow-reeded fen,
Like the stagnant minds of men,
A desert for the silver foot of mountain-cradled tide!
That swallow up the waves!
Oh! the shadow-haunted forest and the sandy shallows wide!
Oh! the hollow-reeded fen,
Like the stagnant minds of men,
A desert for the silver foot of mountain-cradled tide!
And oh! the withered leaves
From the fading forest-eaves,
Pressing on its forehead like the signet of decay;
And the cold cloud's troubling tear
On its crystal waters clear,
Like a haunting sorrow gliding down the future of its way.
From the fading forest-eaves,
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And the cold cloud's troubling tear
On its crystal waters clear,
Like a haunting sorrow gliding down the future of its way.
Oh! the quick, precipitous riot
That breaks upon its quiet,
When lingering by some shady bank in dream-engendering rest!
Oh! the stormy wind that mars
The image of the stars,
When they nestle, heavenly lovers! on their earthly wooer's breast!
That breaks upon its quiet,
When lingering by some shady bank in dream-engendering rest!
Oh! the stormy wind that mars
The image of the stars,
When they nestle, heavenly lovers! on their earthly wooer's breast!
But the wild flowers love thy side;
And the birds sing o'er thy tide;
And the shy deer from the highlands confidingly descends;
And to thee, the son of care,
With a blessing and a prayer,
From life's great wildernesses in a thirsting spirit wends.
And the birds sing o'er thy tide;
And the shy deer from the highlands confidingly descends;
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With a blessing and a prayer,
From life's great wildernesses in a thirsting spirit wends.
And the fairies never seen,
Come tripping o'er the green,
To gaze into thy mirror the live-long summer night;
And the glory of the skies
That the blind earth idly eyes,
Fills the pulses of thy being with the fulness of its light.
Come tripping o'er the green,
To gaze into thy mirror the live-long summer night;
And the glory of the skies
That the blind earth idly eyes,
Fills the pulses of thy being with the fulness of its light.
THE POET'S PRAYER TO THE EVENING WIND.
Wild rider of grey clouds, beneath whose breath
The stars dissolve in mist, or rain, or sleet;
Who chariotest the scudding years to death,
Beneath thy driven tempests' clanging feet!
Thou child of mystery, terrible and strong,
Whose cradle and whose grave unfathomed lies.
Thou first of poets! Thou eternal song!
That born each moment, yet each moment dies!
The stars dissolve in mist, or rain, or sleet;
Who chariotest the scudding years to death,
Beneath thy driven tempests' clanging feet!
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Whose cradle and whose grave unfathomed lies.
Thou first of poets! Thou eternal song!
That born each moment, yet each moment dies!
Keeper of life in ocean, earth, and air,
That else would stagnate in a dull despair!
Dispeller of the mists! whose airy hand
Winnows the dead leaves from the forest-band!
Teach me like thee to sing, untired and strong,
Flooding all earth with one great tide of song;
Heard through each clime, in every language known,
By kindred feeling set to one heart-tone!
That else would stagnate in a dull despair!
Dispeller of the mists! whose airy hand
Winnows the dead leaves from the forest-band!
Teach me like thee to sing, untired and strong,
Flooding all earth with one great tide of song;
Heard through each clime, in every language known,
By kindred feeling set to one heart-tone!
Like thee, now breathing soft from flowery trees,
Now striking tempests through the torpid seas;
Wailing low music on some lonely strand,
Or hurling lightnings with unerring hand;
Scatt'ring the chaff from forth the goodly grain;
Dispelling fears, and cares and doubtings vain;
Till hearts of men upon my impulse sail,
And falsehood's wrecked in truth's victorious gale!
Now striking tempests through the torpid seas;
Wailing low music on some lonely strand,
Or hurling lightnings with unerring hand;
Scatt'ring the chaff from forth the goodly grain;
Dispelling fears, and cares and doubtings vain;
127
And falsehood's wrecked in truth's victorious gale!
And while I live, oh! teach me still to be
A bard, as thou, brave, fetterless, and free.
Past cot and palace, to the weak and strong,
Singing the same great bold unfearing song!
And as thou bear'st sweet scents from strand to strand,
Culling the scattered treasures of the land,
So let me cull each isolated truth,
Where old bards left their thoughts' eternal youth—
Till man, while listening to the harp unseen,
Himself feels greater since the great has been.
A bard, as thou, brave, fetterless, and free.
Past cot and palace, to the weak and strong,
Singing the same great bold unfearing song!
And as thou bear'st sweet scents from strand to strand,
Culling the scattered treasures of the land,
So let me cull each isolated truth,
Where old bards left their thoughts' eternal youth—
Till man, while listening to the harp unseen,
Himself feels greater since the great has been.
And when the years bring labour's last reward,
Then sing my death-song, thou unequalled bard!
And tear my ashes from the clay-cold urn
To whirl them where the suns and planets burn,
And shout aloud, in brotherhood of glee:
“Like me to sing—and to be loved like me!”
Then sing my death-song, thou unequalled bard!
And tear my ashes from the clay-cold urn
To whirl them where the suns and planets burn,
And shout aloud, in brotherhood of glee:
“Like me to sing—and to be loved like me!”
128
THE POET'S INVITATION.
When the sea is still as glass,
And the whispering breezes pass
On messages from zone to zone, or waft from pole to pole
A dewdrop of Savannah sweet,
A particle of Arab heat—
Commingling Nature's essences in one harmonious whole;
And the whispering breezes pass
On messages from zone to zone, or waft from pole to pole
A dewdrop of Savannah sweet,
A particle of Arab heat—
Commingling Nature's essences in one harmonious whole;
When the bright magnetic stars
Seem leaning from their cars,
As drawn by some kind influence from clear familiar skies;
And thoughts, as dreams misprized,
Great truths unrecognised!
Strike sudden chords from forth the world's eternal harmonies;
Seem leaning from their cars,
As drawn by some kind influence from clear familiar skies;
And thoughts, as dreams misprized,
Great truths unrecognised!
Strike sudden chords from forth the world's eternal harmonies;
129
When the sun sets in the sea,
Like Time in Eternity,
And space beyond horizon seems stretching without end:
Then come to an arbour still,
Half-way up a western hill,
That I destined for such an hour, and planted for such a friend.
Like Time in Eternity,
And space beyond horizon seems stretching without end:
Then come to an arbour still,
Half-way up a western hill,
That I destined for such an hour, and planted for such a friend.
A cedar from Assyria,
A willow from St. Helena,
A vine from classic Tusculum, their branches intertwine;
A lily-rose from Mexico,
The vegetable southern snow!
Stands side by side—exotic bride!—with Norway's Scaldic pine.
A willow from St. Helena,
A vine from classic Tusculum, their branches intertwine;
A lily-rose from Mexico,
The vegetable southern snow!
Stands side by side—exotic bride!—with Norway's Scaldic pine.
The seat is formed of precious stone:
A fragment from old Babylon,
From Theseus' wall—Carthago's fall—perchance the Roman's seat!
From Theban Sphinx's heartless breast,
From Aztec ruin of the west,
And a cornice from the Capitol is spread beneath our feet.
A fragment from old Babylon,
130
From Theban Sphinx's heartless breast,
From Aztec ruin of the west,
And a cornice from the Capitol is spread beneath our feet.
And thence you may behold
A map of earth unrolled,
With the steamers on the ocean and the railways on the land;
And hear the city's hum
Up the hillside deadened come—
Like the last ebb of the waters on a far-receding strand.
A map of earth unrolled,
With the steamers on the ocean and the railways on the land;
And hear the city's hum
Up the hillside deadened come—
Like the last ebb of the waters on a far-receding strand.
Oh! there methinks 'twere sweet
To sit in converse meet,
With palpable progression before our vision spread;
And trace the mighty plan
Of the destinies of man,
Measuring the living by the stature of the dead.
To sit in converse meet,
With palpable progression before our vision spread;
And trace the mighty plan
Of the destinies of man,
Measuring the living by the stature of the dead.
131
THE POET'S DEATH.
A brave old warrior of poesy,
Grown grey-haired in the service of his lyre;
A soul like an imprisoned Liberty—
A mind like an imprisoned fire.
Grown grey-haired in the service of his lyre;
A soul like an imprisoned Liberty—
A mind like an imprisoned fire.
Vain tyranny would chain his eagle wings,
Vain malice would his heavenly visions tame:
Still through the prison-bars the angel sings,
Still breaks through dungeon-walls the flashing flame.
Vain malice would his heavenly visions tame:
Still through the prison-bars the angel sings,
Still breaks through dungeon-walls the flashing flame.
Forth, o'er the coldness of the outer world,
Burst from his heart deep feeling's fiery flow;
Thus, from the volcano's rim unfurled,
The lava-banner waves o'er ice and snow.
Burst from his heart deep feeling's fiery flow;
Thus, from the volcano's rim unfurled,
The lava-banner waves o'er ice and snow.
Hail to the bard, who ever sang the right!
Hail to the river on a desert rolled!
Hail to the veteran from the Titan-fight!
Hail to the heart that dies but grows not old!
Hail to the river on a desert rolled!
Hail to the veteran from the Titan-fight!
Hail to the heart that dies but grows not old!
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Slow down the tide of the departing years,
The venerable shadow flits along.
No tears for him, who ne'er gave rise to tears;
His requiem be an echo of his song.
The venerable shadow flits along.
No tears for him, who ne'er gave rise to tears;
His requiem be an echo of his song.
134
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
Darkness on the endless sea;
A wild, wild wailing cry;
And the sun came down—like a fiery frown
Cast from a god on high.
A wild, wild wailing cry;
And the sun came down—like a fiery frown
Cast from a god on high.
A barque stood o'er the shadowy tide,
All shattered, pale and dim,
With a countless crew—and such freightage too,
That it sunk to its gunwale rim.
All shattered, pale and dim,
With a countless crew—and such freightage too,
That it sunk to its gunwale rim.
A steersman gaunt sat at the helm,
A weird, wild phantom form;
His hand like a shade on the rudder was laid,
And he steered in the face of the storm.
A weird, wild phantom form;
His hand like a shade on the rudder was laid,
And he steered in the face of the storm.
135
His changeless eye on the changeless sea;
The crew around him herd;
But they stifled their breath—with the power of Death,
For their terror could find not a word.
The crew around him herd;
But they stifled their breath—with the power of Death,
For their terror could find not a word.
And the sea-roar fell-with a sullen swell,
On their hearts in a palpable fear,
For the name of the sea—was Eternity,
And the barque was the sinking Year.
The crowd seemed each moment to gather and grow,
And the foundering vessel to labour more low,
For the throngs on its deck were the millions of man,
The freightage it carried deed, prospect, and plan,
And Time was the spirit to steer.
On their hearts in a palpable fear,
For the name of the sea—was Eternity,
And the barque was the sinking Year.
The crowd seemed each moment to gather and grow,
And the foundering vessel to labour more low,
For the throngs on its deck were the millions of man,
The freightage it carried deed, prospect, and plan,
And Time was the spirit to steer.
Hark! to whirlwind-trumpet blast,
The wave-hosts, singing as they passed,
Their phalanx closed amain;
From black cloud-batteries, thunder-riven,
The forked artillery of heaven
Poured downward like a rain.
The wave-hosts, singing as they passed,
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From black cloud-batteries, thunder-riven,
The forked artillery of heaven
Poured downward like a rain.
From the dark shroud dies the blast,
Sinks the pennon from the mast,
Leans the vessel o'er the wave,
Like warrior gazing on his grave.
The moon stands over the desolate shore,
A wave-herd, counting her sea-flock o'er—
And at times she descends the cloud-ladder of night,
Walking the deep in a mist of light,
And striking its waters when wearied to rest,
With her ivory wand on their thousand-fold crest;
And the heavy march of the billows fell,
As they counted the seconds with roll and swell—
Till the vessel sank, like a dream o'er fraught,
With its mighty freightage of heart and thought,
As the noon of night was knelling,
From the waters heavily swelling,
With a deep and sullen chime,
And the stars the hours were telling,
With silvery fingers dwelling
On heaven, the dial of Time!
Sinks the pennon from the mast,
Leans the vessel o'er the wave,
Like warrior gazing on his grave.
The moon stands over the desolate shore,
A wave-herd, counting her sea-flock o'er—
And at times she descends the cloud-ladder of night,
Walking the deep in a mist of light,
And striking its waters when wearied to rest,
With her ivory wand on their thousand-fold crest;
And the heavy march of the billows fell,
As they counted the seconds with roll and swell—
Till the vessel sank, like a dream o'er fraught,
With its mighty freightage of heart and thought,
137
From the waters heavily swelling,
With a deep and sullen chime,
And the stars the hours were telling,
With silvery fingers dwelling
On heaven, the dial of Time!
140
THE LANGUAGES.
Greek's a harp we love to hear;Latin is a trumpet clear;
Spanish like an organ swells;
Italian rings its bridal bells;
France, with many a frolic mien,
Tunes her sprightly violin;
Loud the German rolls his drum,
When Russia's clashing cymbals come;
But Britain's sons may well rejoice,
For English is the human voice.
These, with Eastern basses far,
Form the world's great orchestra.
141
THE HARPER WIND.
The wind's a bard—a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.
He sings to the forest that slumbers in shade,
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.
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He sings to the mountain a shrill sharp tone,
And scatters its frosty snow;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.
And scatters its frosty snow;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.
He sings to the ocean a stormy song,
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf rolls strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf rolls strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.
He sings to the tempest that sleeps on a cloud—
And it wakes as it hears his call,
And its thunder-mirth grows deep and loud
In the light of its flashing hall.
And it wakes as it hears his call,
And its thunder-mirth grows deep and loud
In the light of its flashing hall.
But his song is not ever so wild and rude—
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.
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Hear him sing when the eve draws nigh:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call:
When youth is gone with all its brightness,
And hope with its flowers is fading,
When the broken spirit hath lost its lightness,
'Neath care's untimely shading:
And hope with its flowers is fading,
When the broken spirit hath lost its lightness,
'Neath care's untimely shading:
Who sings us a song of early days?
Of the hours too dear to last?
'Tis the wailing wind in his evening-lays,
That comes like a voice of the past.
Of the hours too dear to last?
'Tis the wailing wind in his evening-lays,
That comes like a voice of the past.
When the mariner rests on the silent shore,
Who sings him a song of the main?—
'Tis the wind who tunes to the breaker's roar
His wild harp's boisterous strain!
Who sings him a song of the main?—
'Tis the wind who tunes to the breaker's roar
His wild harp's boisterous strain!
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When the mariner roameth afar from land,
And the night shines down from above—
The soft wind stealing from distant strand,
Sings to him of home and of love!
And the night shines down from above—
The soft wind stealing from distant strand,
Sings to him of home and of love!
When fortune from our hand has passed,
And gladness from our heart,
Hear then how well the fierce proud blast
In our despair takes part.
And gladness from our heart,
Hear then how well the fierce proud blast
In our despair takes part.
When in the lighted and festal hall
We scorn the frivolous scene,
Hear how the wind comes and whoops at the wall,
As though mocking the triflers within.
We scorn the frivolous scene,
Hear how the wind comes and whoops at the wall,
As though mocking the triflers within.
When the lost one rests in the silent tomb,
And none draw nigh to mourn,
And none to cheer in the cold grave's gloom
Cast a floweret frail on his urn:
And none draw nigh to mourn,
And none to cheer in the cold grave's gloom
Cast a floweret frail on his urn:
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Who then will come with sigh and wail,
When all else are passing away?
'Tis the low sweet voice of the evening gale,
That mourns at the close of day.
When all else are passing away?
'Tis the low sweet voice of the evening gale,
That mourns at the close of day.
The wind's a bard, a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays;
And a key that sounds to each human mood
He can strike in his endless lays.
And a many-toned harp he plays;
And a key that sounds to each human mood
He can strike in his endless lays.
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MOONRISE.
What stands upon the Highland?
What walks across the rise,
As tho' a starry island
Were sinking down the skies?
What walks across the rise,
As tho' a starry island
Were sinking down the skies?
What makes the trees so golden?
What decks the mountain-side,
Like a veil of silver folden
Round the white brow of a bride?
What decks the mountain-side,
Like a veil of silver folden
Round the white brow of a bride?
The magic moon is breaking
Like a conqueror from the East,
The waiting world awaking
To a golden fairy-feast.
Like a conqueror from the East,
The waiting world awaking
To a golden fairy-feast.
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She works with touch ethereal
By changes strange to see,
The cypress so funereal
To a lightsome fairy tree;
By changes strange to see,
The cypress so funereal
To a lightsome fairy tree;
Black rocks to marble turning,
Like palaces of kings;
On ruin-windows burning
A festal glory flings;
Like palaces of kings;
On ruin-windows burning
A festal glory flings;
The desert halls uplighting,
While falling shadows glance,
Like courtly crowds uniting
For the banquet or the dance;
While falling shadows glance,
Like courtly crowds uniting
For the banquet or the dance;
With ivory wand she numbers
The stars along the sky,
And breaks the billows' slumbers
With a love-glance of her eye;
The stars along the sky,
And breaks the billows' slumbers
With a love-glance of her eye;
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Along the cornfields dances,
Brings bloom upon the sheaf;
From tree to tree she glances,
And touches leaf by leaf;
Brings bloom upon the sheaf;
From tree to tree she glances,
And touches leaf by leaf;
Wakes birds that sleep in shadows,
Thro' their half-closed eyelids gleams;
With her white torch thro' the meadows
Lights the shy deer to the streams.
Thro' their half-closed eyelids gleams;
With her white torch thro' the meadows
Lights the shy deer to the streams.
The magic moon is breaking
Like a conqueror from the East,
And the joyous world partaking
Of her golden fairy-feast.
Like a conqueror from the East,
And the joyous world partaking
Of her golden fairy-feast.
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THE STEED AND THE RIDER.
In the morning's light advancing
Forward bounds a gallant steed,
Decked with Beauty's goodly housing,
Shod with Youth, Health, Strength, and Speed.
Forward bounds a gallant steed,
Decked with Beauty's goodly housing,
Shod with Youth, Health, Strength, and Speed.
Who will mount the fearless courser?
Who can ride him to the goal,
With the spur of Emulation
And the check of Self-control;
Who can ride him to the goal,
With the spur of Emulation
And the check of Self-control;
Perseverance' solid saddle,
Prudence' trusty bridle-rein,
Enterprise' elastic stirrup,
And Experience' curb of pain?
Prudence' trusty bridle-rein,
Enterprise' elastic stirrup,
And Experience' curb of pain?
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Who will mount the gallant courser?
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
But be wary! oh, be wary!
Long the road—the time unknown!
And at morn the rein is wanting,
And at eve the spur has flown.
Long the road—the time unknown!
And at morn the rein is wanting,
And at eve the spur has flown.
And, ere noon arise, the rider
Oft so far has gone astray,
That when evening's twilight deepens,
He has not recalled the way.
Oft so far has gone astray,
That when evening's twilight deepens,
He has not recalled the way.
Who will mount the gallant courser,
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
151
THE LIFE OF A FLOWER.
Amid the bright'ning glories of the earth,I watched a humble floweret from its birth;
'Twas a pale blossom and a simple one
As e'er held converse with the godlike sun—
Yet e'en on that descends the beam divine,
And drinks the offering from its perfumed shrine.
Up sprung to life its small and tender form,
Amid a short pause of a vernal storm;
When spring once smiled between an azure rent,
Like hope thro' cares, 'mid winter's discontent.
Forth from its dark abode the young flower strove,
As though 'twere kindred to the light above,
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Called that of earth into existence too.
Short time it raised in peace its tender head,
Smiling to God from forth its dewy bed;
Breathed the first sigh, whose perfume sweetly fell
As though an angel prayed within its cell;
And pilgrims passed, and passing paused to say,
“How fair a flower to cheer a wanderer's way!”
They lingered still, when came the chilly storm,
And drove the worldlings from that shrinking form;
Then, true to earthly law, approached to wreak
Its wildest wrath upon the fair and weak.
Then swept the frosty mist, then rose the blast,
And pitying snow entombed it as it passed,
While flying Winter placed in iron hour
An icicle where spring had raised a flower.
The skies were cold—the fields all bare,
And bare the trees, though the buds lurked there;
The birds were silent, the waves were still,
Those voices of forest and river and hill;
And the snow o'er the fountains and flowers was spread,
Like a marble gravestone for the fairy-like dead:
But where was that gentle young child of the sun,
Its sweetest, its first, its most beautiful one?
For what is so dear, howe'er simple its bloom,
As the first bud that brightens the path of our doom?
And bare the trees, though the buds lurked there;
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Those voices of forest and river and hill;
And the snow o'er the fountains and flowers was spread,
Like a marble gravestone for the fairy-like dead:
But where was that gentle young child of the sun,
Its sweetest, its first, its most beautiful one?
For what is so dear, howe'er simple its bloom,
As the first bud that brightens the path of our doom?
The hours came thronging, the hours they passed,
On their chariots of sleet, storm and sunshine, and blast;
They drove over rock, plain and forest, and wave,
And each furrowed deep o'er that desolate grave;
Or with footsteps all careless above it they trod,
Nor reck'd of the pale bloom that liv'd in the sod;
And mortals forgot it had ever been there,
Nor talked they, nor thought, of that visitor fair;
They were thinking too much of what summer would bring,
To cherish the delicate gifts of the spring.
The hours passed by, and the sun shone again,
Writing in letters of green on the plain,
With finger of fire in tracery slow,
Promise of Summer on pages of snow.
On their chariots of sleet, storm and sunshine, and blast;
They drove over rock, plain and forest, and wave,
And each furrowed deep o'er that desolate grave;
Or with footsteps all careless above it they trod,
Nor reck'd of the pale bloom that liv'd in the sod;
And mortals forgot it had ever been there,
Nor talked they, nor thought, of that visitor fair;
They were thinking too much of what summer would bring,
To cherish the delicate gifts of the spring.
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Writing in letters of green on the plain,
With finger of fire in tracery slow,
Promise of Summer on pages of snow.
The wanderer came with his wearisome lot,
And ever as sweet on the self-same spot,
The pale flower waving its beautiful head,
Like an angel returning to man from the dead,
With its bloom and its perfume still grew on his way,
And forced him to pause while it wooed him to stay.
And ever as sweet on the self-same spot,
The pale flower waving its beautiful head,
Like an angel returning to man from the dead,
With its bloom and its perfume still grew on his way,
And forced him to pause while it wooed him to stay.
The skies grew deeper, more dark and more bright,
More dazzling by day and more dreamy by night;
The Sun, like a god to his throne, mounted higher,
Struck the green earth with a sceptre of fire,
And quaffed from the river, the lake and the main,
As tho' they were goblets for godheads to drain.
The hills were parched and rent all o'er,
Like thirst-parted lips on a sandy shore;
The streams and the rivers were tarried and dried—
The veins of the earth that had shrunk o'er their tide;
And a brown burning ball, through the desert of space
The earth still rolled on its endless race.
The leaves fell dead from the motionless trees,
Straight and lank, for there came no breeze
To bear them soft with hand unseen
And sighing song to their grass-graves green.
The verdure was dust and the water was air,
The sun stood throned on a desert bare,
And the pale flower drooped its meek, delicate head,
Like a dying child on a lonely bed.—
The wanderer shrunk from the sun's assault,
'Neath cave and cleft, and arch and vault,
And saw the hot death of the world around,
The burning sky and the burning ground.—
And mortals forgot 'mid their pain and their care,
That the beautiful stranger had ever been there.
The hours they passed on their fiery flight,
More dazzling by day and more dreamy by night;
The Sun, like a god to his throne, mounted higher,
Struck the green earth with a sceptre of fire,
And quaffed from the river, the lake and the main,
As tho' they were goblets for godheads to drain.
The hills were parched and rent all o'er,
Like thirst-parted lips on a sandy shore;
The streams and the rivers were tarried and dried—
The veins of the earth that had shrunk o'er their tide;
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The earth still rolled on its endless race.
The leaves fell dead from the motionless trees,
Straight and lank, for there came no breeze
To bear them soft with hand unseen
And sighing song to their grass-graves green.
The verdure was dust and the water was air,
The sun stood throned on a desert bare,
And the pale flower drooped its meek, delicate head,
Like a dying child on a lonely bed.—
The wanderer shrunk from the sun's assault,
'Neath cave and cleft, and arch and vault,
And saw the hot death of the world around,
The burning sky and the burning ground.—
And mortals forgot 'mid their pain and their care,
That the beautiful stranger had ever been there.
Driving their chariots through furrows of light,
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And a banner of black overshadowed the drought.
'Twas the Thunder, who called on the wind and the rain,
And led his loud armies from highland to plain,
Till leaping with joy at his fiery glance,
The round rain came down with a festal dance.
And the steaming earth quickened its inward life
To gaze on the sun and the thunder's strife.
Then the triumph-note of the victor swells,
His deep drums rolling through the dells,
And waveth his banner all shattered and dun,
Right in the face of the sinking sun,
While with flashes of lightning in solemn array,
On a rainbow-bridge he marches away.
'Twas then the earth at still of night
Put forth its all of fair and bright:
Fountain and flower from stone and sod—
Myriads of altars to one great God.
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Like a buried dream that floweret came;
Like a poet's thought, that long had passed,
Returning from its heaven at last;
As pale, as fair, as sweet of hue,
With perfumed cup and crown of dew.
It came to men's hearts with a throb of pain,
Like a tale long forgotten remembered again—
A something familiar that once had been dear,
That we greet with a sigh, that we leave with a tear.
But over the earth the rich autumn had rolled,
As a guerdon of wealth, its deep colours of gold.
With the fruit on the tree and the grain on the ground,
The vintage above and the harvest around,
The reaper with sickle, the vintner with shear,
To gather and garner the wealth of the year—
Man, who forgot his own heart in that hour,
Was too busy with fruit to remember the flower.
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A shade on the earth and a chill on the air;
Dead from the mother-tree fell leaf by leaf,
While she stood o'er their graves with a statue-like grief;
And over the mountain the hoar frost spread,
Like snows of age on a furrowed head;
The streams crept slow with a hound-like moan;
The lakes were turning as fixed as stone;
All seemed dead but the cloud and the wind—
And where they had passed they left ruin behind.
Then, when all was gone and drear,
The harvest housed, the stubble sear,
With no more to hope in that desolate hour—
The wanderer thought of the young spring-flower:
And forth he went o'er the lonely plain,
Faltering on through a shroud of rain.
His cheek was hollow and wan of hue,
And his steps were many where they'd been few!
His brow was bent, his pace was slow,
His course was wavering to and fro—
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Charged on the steeds of the hurricane-blast.
But the flower was gone where the best must go,
Showing us heaven and leaving us woe—
Gone for ever, that delicate thing,
That had outlived the summer, a child of the spring—
Modest and meek, through the rich autumn's pride
Neglected it blossomed, unheeded it died!
Type of the beautiful wrought in man's fate—
It was slighted too long, it was sought for too late!
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