 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
215
THE BRAGGART MOON.
The Moon moved proud the stars among,And spake aloud with scornful tongue:
‘Stars! minions! rushlights of the sky!
Mean, ineffectual, worthless fry!
Mere drops of waste ungathered light!
Gilt buttons on the coat of night!
My plagiarists,—moon-copyists small!
See how I trample o'er you all.
‘I, how magnificent I shine!
What splendours and what glory mine!
Mark, of what genius possessed,
I grandly march from east to west,
And pour o'er farm and town and tower
My many-sided beams of power.
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Were I divided into bits,
My fragments scattered o'er the blue
Would all be stars as good as you.’
Did any of the stars reply
To this poor braggart of the sky?
With lofty joy I saw them keep
A silence strenuously deep.
They heeded not the scornful tongue;
But each, his family among,
On his dark planet-children glowed,
And in the God-appointed road,
With faithful heart and watchful eye,
Led on his darlings through the sky.
It pleased the Lord our God that soon
There came a change across the Moon;
Like pain we inly strive to hide,
There's blackness gnawing at her side,
Until, with anguish and affright,
She dwindles to a strip of light,
For o'er her face earth's shadow slips
A veil of humbling and eclipse.
Scorn of the stars deserts her eye;
Her tears are dropped about the sky.
There came a change across the Moon;
Like pain we inly strive to hide,
There's blackness gnawing at her side,
Until, with anguish and affright,
She dwindles to a strip of light,
For o'er her face earth's shadow slips
A veil of humbling and eclipse.
Scorn of the stars deserts her eye;
Her tears are dropped about the sky.
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So weeps the poor Moon, sunk in ruth;
Then, suddenly, she sees the truth;
Sees that the light whereof she'd grown
So proud, was nothing of her own,
And that her splendour wholly came
From the God-given solar flame.
O Lord! if I, self-confident,
Then, suddenly, she sees the truth;
Sees that the light whereof she'd grown
So proud, was nothing of her own,
And that her splendour wholly came
From the God-given solar flame.
Should claim as mine what Thou hast lent,
Or ever, penetrate with pride,
Should be disposed to swerve aside
To sign my own certificate
As being good, or wise, or great,
Command this braggart Moon to rise
That moment in my spirit's skies,
And light me up, a thing forlorn,
Meet object for her withering scorn.
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |