Poems By Richard Chenevix Trench: New ed |
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AN INCIDENT VERSIFIED. |
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86
AN INCIDENT VERSIFIED.
Far in the south there is a jutting ledge
Of rocks, scarce peering o'er the water's edge,
Where earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales,
That in their course have filled a thousand sails,
And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep,
Till now they make the nimble spirit leap
Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath,
And stir it like the ocean depths beneath.
Two that were strangers to that sunny land,
And to each other, met upon this strand;
One seemed to keep so slight a hold of life,
That when he willed, without the spirit's strife,
He might let go—not as sometimes we see
Lean o'er a precipice an agëd tree,
Whose gnarlëd roots grow barer day by day,
For aye the strong rains falling wash away
Some portion of the black and scanty mould
That clung around them; yet they keep their hold,
And like a dead man's fingers seem to clasp
The bare earth with an agonizing grasp—
He rather was a flower upon a ledge
Of verdant meadow by a river's edge,
Which softly loosens with its treacherous flow
In gradual lapse the moistened soil below;
While to the last in beauty and in bloom
That flower is scattering incense o'er its tomb,
And with the dews upon it, and the breath
Of the fresh morning round it, sinks to death.
Of rocks, scarce peering o'er the water's edge,
Where earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales,
That in their course have filled a thousand sails,
And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep,
Till now they make the nimble spirit leap
Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath,
And stir it like the ocean depths beneath.
Two that were strangers to that sunny land,
And to each other, met upon this strand;
One seemed to keep so slight a hold of life,
That when he willed, without the spirit's strife,
He might let go—not as sometimes we see
Lean o'er a precipice an agëd tree,
Whose gnarlëd roots grow barer day by day,
For aye the strong rains falling wash away
Some portion of the black and scanty mould
That clung around them; yet they keep their hold,
And like a dead man's fingers seem to clasp
The bare earth with an agonizing grasp—
He rather was a flower upon a ledge
Of verdant meadow by a river's edge,
Which softly loosens with its treacherous flow
In gradual lapse the moistened soil below;
While to the last in beauty and in bloom
That flower is scattering incense o'er its tomb,
87
Of the fresh morning round it, sinks to death.
They met the following day, and many more
They paced together this low ridge of shore,
Till one fair eve, the other with intent
To lure him out, unto his chamber went;
But straight retired again with noiseless pace,
For with a subtle gauze flung o'er his face
Upon his bed he lay, serene and still
And quiet, even as one who takes his fill
Of a delight he does not fear to lose.
So blest he seemed, the other could not choose
To wake him, but went down the narrow stair;
And when he met an aged attendant there,
She ceased her work to tell him, when he said,
Her patient then on happy slumber fed,
But that anon he would return once more,—
Her inmate had expired an hour before.
They paced together this low ridge of shore,
Till one fair eve, the other with intent
To lure him out, unto his chamber went;
But straight retired again with noiseless pace,
For with a subtle gauze flung o'er his face
Upon his bed he lay, serene and still
And quiet, even as one who takes his fill
Of a delight he does not fear to lose.
So blest he seemed, the other could not choose
To wake him, but went down the narrow stair;
And when he met an aged attendant there,
She ceased her work to tell him, when he said,
Her patient then on happy slumber fed,
But that anon he would return once more,—
Her inmate had expired an hour before.
I know not by what chance he thus was thrown
On a far shore, untended and alone,
To live or die; for as I after learned,
There were in England many hearts that yearned
To know his safety, and such tears were shed
For him as grace the living and the dead.
On a far shore, untended and alone,
To live or die; for as I after learned,
There were in England many hearts that yearned
To know his safety, and such tears were shed
For him as grace the living and the dead.
| Poems | |