 | A Lost Epic and Other Poems |  |
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THE STONE FACE.
Lo! here the first sun strikes the cold grey peak—
Broad August! and in shining wreaths the mist
Creeps up from crag to crag against the dawn,
While far below, still sleeping in the dusk,
Ringed from the great world's trouble and unrest,
The little mountain village lies a-row,
Fringed with the fragrant selvage of the pines.
Broad August! and in shining wreaths the mist
Creeps up from crag to crag against the dawn,
While far below, still sleeping in the dusk,
Ringed from the great world's trouble and unrest,
The little mountain village lies a-row,
Fringed with the fragrant selvage of the pines.
Descend the glimmering pass, and as you go,—
The sun outrunning you with golden feet
Till all the red-tiled, white-walled rustic world
Laughs out, from grass to gilded weather-cock,
With gladsome colour and with breezy life—
Look backward to the peak! Look back and pause!
For lo! the huge grey crags will all have blent
And grown into a countenance of stone:
An aged, sweet, majestic face, whose eyes,
With wondrous human tenderness, look down
Upon the valley and the little lives
That come and go in their eternal gaze.
The sun outrunning you with golden feet
Till all the red-tiled, white-walled rustic world
Laughs out, from grass to gilded weather-cock,
With gladsome colour and with breezy life—
Look backward to the peak! Look back and pause!
For lo! the huge grey crags will all have blent
And grown into a countenance of stone:
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With wondrous human tenderness, look down
Upon the valley and the little lives
That come and go in their eternal gaze.
In the dim days of old, when snowy beards
Belied the childlike hearts that ne'er grew grey,
A strange tradition in the valley told
How in the golden future should be born,
Within the range of those calm kindly eyes,
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face should be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave, sweet face of stone.
Belied the childlike hearts that ne'er grew grey,
A strange tradition in the valley told
How in the golden future should be born,
Within the range of those calm kindly eyes,
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face should be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave, sweet face of stone.
The little lives went ever to and fro,
Toiled, suffered, loved, enjoyed, and passed away;
The generations died—the legend lived!
A legend only—a legend often told,
Cherished and half believed, for, evermore,
The aged and majestic face looked down
With wondrous human tenderness and truth.
Toiled, suffered, loved, enjoyed, and passed away;
The generations died—the legend lived!
A legend only—a legend often told,
Cherished and half believed, for, evermore,
The aged and majestic face looked down
With wondrous human tenderness and truth.
'Twas Christmas night, two hundred years ago.
Deep on the hills the snow lay; deep and white,
Lay hushing all the valley, road and roof,
Until the clock struck midnight. Then the bells
Rang in the holly and the mistletoe;
Rang in the merry maskers and the waits;
Rang in all gentle thoughts and generous cheer;
And lanterns glimmered on the fleecy roads,
And sounds of singing moved from house to house.
Soft rosy lights filled all the frosty heavens
With tremulous floating splendour, and the stars
Shone keen and golden through it, and the wind
Blew little flakes of cloud like leaves of flowers
Across the night; and in the magical
Warm flush of colour, every icy peak,
And all the long white ridges of the hills,
The snowy village roofs, the ghostly pines,
Sprang out with startling clearness; and the face—
The great stone face, now bearded with the snow,
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair—
Seemed to lean closer in the rosy light;
And that same night a peasant's child was born!
Deep on the hills the snow lay; deep and white,
Lay hushing all the valley, road and roof,
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Rang in the holly and the mistletoe;
Rang in the merry maskers and the waits;
Rang in all gentle thoughts and generous cheer;
And lanterns glimmered on the fleecy roads,
And sounds of singing moved from house to house.
Soft rosy lights filled all the frosty heavens
With tremulous floating splendour, and the stars
Shone keen and golden through it, and the wind
Blew little flakes of cloud like leaves of flowers
Across the night; and in the magical
Warm flush of colour, every icy peak,
And all the long white ridges of the hills,
The snowy village roofs, the ghostly pines,
Sprang out with startling clearness; and the face—
The great stone face, now bearded with the snow,
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair—
Seemed to lean closer in the rosy light;
And that same night a peasant's child was born!
The babe throve lustily and grew apace;
The years went by, and when the great blue eyes
Had learned to trace that visage on the heights,
The mother told the legend of old days,
The promise of that happy future time.
And marvelling, the lad drank in the tale,
Mused on it, watched the aged face of stone,
And longed for that bright future—longed to see
In living flesh and blood that gracious mien,
And those dark eyes of majesty. Strange dreams
Awakened in his heart, as day by day
He raised his ardent eyes up to the peaks—
Strange dreams of helpfulness to all the world,
Of wisdom and of power to right all wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
The years went by, and when the great blue eyes
Had learned to trace that visage on the heights,
The mother told the legend of old days,
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And marvelling, the lad drank in the tale,
Mused on it, watched the aged face of stone,
And longed for that bright future—longed to see
In living flesh and blood that gracious mien,
And those dark eyes of majesty. Strange dreams
Awakened in his heart, as day by day
He raised his ardent eyes up to the peaks—
Strange dreams of helpfulness to all the world,
Of wisdom and of power to right all wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
He nurtured his keen boyhood on the thoughts
Of great dead men, nor overlooked the lore
Of that green throbbing world of flower and plant,
Bird, reptile, insect, rock, and passing cloud;
And all he learnt grew into melody
Within his heart.
Of great dead men, nor overlooked the lore
Of that green throbbing world of flower and plant,
Bird, reptile, insect, rock, and passing cloud;
And all he learnt grew into melody
Within his heart.
The Vicar marked the lad,
Advised him, lent him books, and gave him aid
To master those great tongues, now tongues no more—
Eye-symbols and a music of the brain—
Until at length, when he had quite outgrown
His little wondering self and now could look
Upon the mighty face of stone and smile
To think with what a simple passionate faith
He had believed that myth,—the rocky mask
Had half-fulfilled the promise of the myth,
And stamped some semblance of its tenderness
And large sweet power upon the student's mind.
Advised him, lent him books, and gave him aid
To master those great tongues, now tongues no more—
Eye-symbols and a music of the brain—
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His little wondering self and now could look
Upon the mighty face of stone and smile
To think with what a simple passionate faith
He had believed that myth,—the rocky mask
Had half-fulfilled the promise of the myth,
And stamped some semblance of its tenderness
And large sweet power upon the student's mind.
Friends were not wanting to the youth, and soon
He left his humble cottage in the hills
And laboured in the city's learnèd halls,
Toiled day and night to win the glorious meed
Of being helpful unto all the world,
Of being wise with power to right some wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
He left his humble cottage in the hills
And laboured in the city's learnèd halls,
Toiled day and night to win the glorious meed
Of being helpful unto all the world,
Of being wise with power to right some wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
Nor laboured vainly; for when he returned
Once more and saw the face among the peaks—
And smiled at childish memories, his friend,
The aged Vicar, was content to rest
And let the younger man achieve for both.
Once more and saw the face among the peaks—
And smiled at childish memories, his friend,
The aged Vicar, was content to rest
And let the younger man achieve for both.
Years sped in glad whole-hearted toil. He served,
From early manhood to a reverend age
The peaceful peasant people; ministered
In helpful sympathetic ways; fulfilled
In days of famine, sickness, hopeless need,
The golden promise of the legend old;
Became, unconsciously and unobserved,
All that the village folk had hoped in him
Who should resemble that great face of stone.
From early manhood to a reverend age
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In helpful sympathetic ways; fulfilled
In days of famine, sickness, hopeless need,
The golden promise of the legend old;
Became, unconsciously and unobserved,
All that the village folk had hoped in him
Who should resemble that great face of stone.
When old age came upon him, oft he stood
And gazed with dim fond eyes upon the face
Whose gracious semblance of humanity
Had thrilled his childish heart and filled his life
With noblest duties; often too he told,
With frail hand laid upon the little head
Of lass or lad, the legend of the face.
And gazed with dim fond eyes upon the face
Whose gracious semblance of humanity
Had thrilled his childish heart and filled his life
With noblest duties; often too he told,
With frail hand laid upon the little head
Of lass or lad, the legend of the face.
Like all the little lives that come and go
Before the steadfast gaze of those stone eyes,
He too departed, full of years and honour.
And as he lay dead, cold; his beard like snow
Scattered in silvery masses on his breast;
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair
Loose on the pillow; and his people gazed
The last time on those kindly lineaments,
They felt a sudden tremor round their hearts,
For lo! the face seemed changed—familiar still,
But changed in some wise strangely. Then at length
One gazed and turning to the window drew
The curtains open. Snow was on the hills,
And snow hushed all the valley, and rosy lights
Filled all the frosty heavens, and the face—
The vast stone visage, in the tremulous flush
Seemed to lean closer, and the gazers saw
His and those great stone features were the same.
Before the steadfast gaze of those stone eyes,
He too departed, full of years and honour.
And as he lay dead, cold; his beard like snow
Scattered in silvery masses on his breast;
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair
Loose on the pillow; and his people gazed
The last time on those kindly lineaments,
They felt a sudden tremor round their hearts,
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But changed in some wise strangely. Then at length
One gazed and turning to the window drew
The curtains open. Snow was on the hills,
And snow hushed all the valley, and rosy lights
Filled all the frosty heavens, and the face—
The vast stone visage, in the tremulous flush
Seemed to lean closer, and the gazers saw
His and those great stone features were the same.
And this was Christmas night, but all was still!
A hundred years ago and folk yet lived
Who saw those faces, knew they were the same.
But generations die and legends live!
The little lives beneath those eyes eterne
Toil, suffer, love, enjoy, and pass away;
And still the people in the valley tell
How in the golden future will be born
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face shall be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave sweet face of stone!
A legend only, never gravely told,
Not even half believed in these shrewd days
When childhood listens with a grey-beard's heart!
Who saw those faces, knew they were the same.
But generations die and legends live!
The little lives beneath those eyes eterne
Toil, suffer, love, enjoy, and pass away;
And still the people in the valley tell
How in the golden future will be born
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face shall be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave sweet face of stone!
A legend only, never gravely told,
Not even half believed in these shrewd days
When childhood listens with a grey-beard's heart!
| A Lost Epic and Other Poems | |