The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems By James D. Burns ... Second Edition |
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THE VILLAGE FESTIVAL. |
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| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
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| XXIII. |
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| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
 | The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems |  |
180
THE VILLAGE FESTIVAL.
The bells ring out,—the villagers
Are keeping feast to-day,
Gay groups are winding through the vines
In pilgrim-like array,—
Some singing to the viols shrill
That tinkle on the way.
Are keeping feast to-day,
Gay groups are winding through the vines
In pilgrim-like array,—
Some singing to the viols shrill
That tinkle on the way.
The banner on the chapel-tower
Droops down the flag-staff tall,
The shadows of the leafy planes
Are quivering round the wall,
And the spirit of a joyous time
Is brooding over all.
Droops down the flag-staff tall,
The shadows of the leafy planes
Are quivering round the wall,
And the spirit of a joyous time
Is brooding over all.
But pain and sorrow tread behind
The dancing steps of joy;
Some shadow hovering dark will oft
Life's brightest hour alloy:
Hard by the careless throng I see
A mother with her boy.
The dancing steps of joy;
Some shadow hovering dark will oft
Life's brightest hour alloy:
Hard by the careless throng I see
A mother with her boy.
181
She sits before her cottage door,
Beneath a shady vine,—
In vain to her the music sounds,
In vain the sun doth shine;—
She only sees her little child
In mortal sickness pine.
Beneath a shady vine,—
In vain to her the music sounds,
In vain the sun doth shine;—
She only sees her little child
In mortal sickness pine.
He lieth moaning on her knee,
While she would soothe his pain,—
There is fever seething in the blood,
And throbbing in the vein;—
Alas! that little wasted cheek
Will never bloom again.
While she would soothe his pain,—
There is fever seething in the blood,
And throbbing in the vein;—
Alas! that little wasted cheek
Will never bloom again.
His voice no more at noon and eve
Will ring beside the hearth,—
No more his laugh her heavy heart
Will lighten with its mirth;—
His little joys have lain, alas!
Within a narrow girth.
Will ring beside the hearth,—
No more his laugh her heavy heart
Will lighten with its mirth;—
His little joys have lain, alas!
Within a narrow girth.
Soon will a sad array be seen
Slow-winding down the dell,—
Before the priest the surpliced boy
Will swing his funeral bell;
And the people at their doors will say,
“'Tis little Manuel!”
Slow-winding down the dell,—
Before the priest the surpliced boy
Will swing his funeral bell;
And the people at their doors will say,
“'Tis little Manuel!”
182
Wherefore, with vacant eye she sees
The folk pass to and fro,—
She looks, but heeds not who they be,
Nor how they come and go;—
She only feels upon her heart
The clutch of deadly woe.
The folk pass to and fro,—
She looks, but heeds not who they be,
Nor how they come and go;—
She only feels upon her heart
The clutch of deadly woe.
In after days, when of this feast
She hears the neighbours tell,
She will be silent, but the time
She will remember well;—
“That summer,” she will think, “I lost
My darling Manuel!”
She hears the neighbours tell,
She will be silent, but the time
She will remember well;—
“That summer,” she will think, “I lost
My darling Manuel!”
To her this grief will be a date
Through all the coming years,—
A pillar on her way, to which
She will often turn with tears;—
How many such a monument
Along life's path appears!
Through all the coming years,—
A pillar on her way, to which
She will often turn with tears;—
How many such a monument
Along life's path appears!
For the traces left by joy are faint,—
His step is light and free;
But the footprints of our suffering,
So deeply stamped they be,
That they never wear out from the sands
Of wreck-strewn memory.
His step is light and free;
But the footprints of our suffering,
So deeply stamped they be,
That they never wear out from the sands
Of wreck-strewn memory.
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