The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems By Gerald Massey. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarged |
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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
 | The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
LINES INSCRIBED TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.
God bless you, Brave One, in our dearth,
Your life shall leave a trailing glory;
And round the poor Man's homely hearth
We proudly tell your suffering's story.
Your life shall leave a trailing glory;
And round the poor Man's homely hearth
We proudly tell your suffering's story.
All Saviour-souls have sacrificed,
With nought but noble faith for guerdon;
And ere the world hath crown'd the Christ,
The man to death hath borne the burden!
With nought but noble faith for guerdon;
And ere the world hath crown'd the Christ,
The man to death hath borne the burden!
The Savage broke the glass that brought
The heavens nearer, saith the legend!
Even so the Bigots welcome aught
That makes our vision starrier-region'd!
The heavens nearer, saith the legend!
Even so the Bigots welcome aught
That makes our vision starrier-region'd!
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They lay their Corner-stones in dark
Deep waters, who up-build in beauty,
On Earth's old heart, their Triumph-Arc
That crowns with glory lives of duty.
Deep waters, who up-build in beauty,
On Earth's old heart, their Triumph-Arc
That crowns with glory lives of duty.
And meekly still the Martyrs go
To keep with Pain their solemn bridal!
And still they walk the fire who bow
Not down to worship Custom's idol.
To keep with Pain their solemn bridal!
And still they walk the fire who bow
Not down to worship Custom's idol.
In fieriest forge of martyrdom,
Their swords of soul must weld and brighten:
Tear-bathed, from fiercest furnace, come
Their lives, heroic-temper'd—Titan!
Their swords of soul must weld and brighten:
Tear-bathed, from fiercest furnace, come
Their lives, heroic-temper'd—Titan!
And heart-strings sweetest music make
When swept by Suffering's fiery fingers!
And thro' soul-shadows starriest break
The glories on God's brave light-bringers.
When swept by Suffering's fiery fingers!
And thro' soul-shadows starriest break
The glories on God's brave light-bringers.
Take heart! tho' sown in tears and blood,
No seed that's quick with love, hath perisht,
Tho' dropt in barren byeways—God
Some glorious flower of life hath cherisht.
No seed that's quick with love, hath perisht,
Tho' dropt in barren byeways—God
Some glorious flower of life hath cherisht.
Take heart; the rude dust dark To-day,
Soars a new-lighted sphere To-morrow!
And wings of splendour burst the clay
That clasps us in Death's fruitful furrow.
Soars a new-lighted sphere To-morrow!
And wings of splendour burst the clay
That clasps us in Death's fruitful furrow.
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A SONG IN THE CITY.
Coining the heart, brain, and sinew, to gold,
Till we sink in the dark, on the pauper's dole,
Feeling for ever the flowerless mould,
Growing about the uncrownéd soul!
O, God! O God! must this evermore be
The lot of the Children of Poverty?
The Spring is calling from brae and bower,
In the twinkling sheen of the sunny hour,
Earth smiles in her golden green;
There's music below, in the glistering leaves,
There's music above, and heaven's blue bosom heaves
The silvery clouds between;
The boughs of the woodland are nodding in play,
And wooingly beckon my spirit away—
I hear the dreamy hum
Of bees in the lime-tree, and birds on the spray;
And they, too, are calling my thinking away;
But I cannot—cannot come.
Visions of verdant and heart-cooling places
Will steal on my soul like a golden spring-rain,
Bringing the lost light of brave, vanisht faces;
Till all my life blossoms with beauty again.
But O, for a glimpse of the flower-laden Morning,
That makes the heart leap up, and knock at heaven's door!
O for the green lane, the green field, the green wood,
To take in, by heartfuls, their greenness once more!
How I yearn to lie down in the lush-flower'd meadows,
And nestle in leaves, and the sleep of the shadows,
Where violets in the cool gloom are awaking,
There, let my soul burst from its cavern of clay,
To float down the warm spring, away and away!
For I was not made merely for money-making.
Till we sink in the dark, on the pauper's dole,
Feeling for ever the flowerless mould,
Growing about the uncrownéd soul!
O, God! O God! must this evermore be
The lot of the Children of Poverty?
The Spring is calling from brae and bower,
In the twinkling sheen of the sunny hour,
Earth smiles in her golden green;
There's music below, in the glistering leaves,
There's music above, and heaven's blue bosom heaves
The silvery clouds between;
The boughs of the woodland are nodding in play,
And wooingly beckon my spirit away—
I hear the dreamy hum
Of bees in the lime-tree, and birds on the spray;
And they, too, are calling my thinking away;
But I cannot—cannot come.
Visions of verdant and heart-cooling places
Will steal on my soul like a golden spring-rain,
Bringing the lost light of brave, vanisht faces;
Till all my life blossoms with beauty again.
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That makes the heart leap up, and knock at heaven's door!
O for the green lane, the green field, the green wood,
To take in, by heartfuls, their greenness once more!
How I yearn to lie down in the lush-flower'd meadows,
And nestle in leaves, and the sleep of the shadows,
Where violets in the cool gloom are awaking,
There, let my soul burst from its cavern of clay,
To float down the warm spring, away and away!
For I was not made merely for money-making.
At my wearisome task I oftentimes turn,
From my bride, and my monitress, Duty,
Forgetting the strife, and the wrestle of life,
To talk with the spirit of beauty.
The multitude's hum, and the chinking of gold,
Grow hush as the dying of day,
For on wings, pulsing music, with joy untold,
My heart is up, and away!
Glad as the bird in the tree-top chanting
Its anthem of Liberty;
With its heart in its musical gratitude panting,
And O, 'tis a bliss to be!
Once more to drink in the life-breathing air,
Lapt in luxurious flowers—
To recall again the pleasures that were
In Infancy's innocent hours—
To wash the earth-stains and the dust from my soul,
In nature's reviving tears, once more;
To feast at her banquet, and drink from her bowl
Rich dew, for the heart's hot core.
Ah me! ah me! it is heavenly then,
And hints of the spirit-world, near alway,
Are stirring, and stirr'd, at my heart again,
Like leaves to the kiss of May:
It is but a dream, yet 'tis passing sweet,
And when from its spells my spirit is waking,
Dark is my heart, and the wild tears start;
For I was not made merely for money-making.
From my bride, and my monitress, Duty,
Forgetting the strife, and the wrestle of life,
To talk with the spirit of beauty.
The multitude's hum, and the chinking of gold,
Grow hush as the dying of day,
For on wings, pulsing music, with joy untold,
My heart is up, and away!
Glad as the bird in the tree-top chanting
Its anthem of Liberty;
With its heart in its musical gratitude panting,
And O, 'tis a bliss to be!
Once more to drink in the life-breathing air,
Lapt in luxurious flowers—
To recall again the pleasures that were
In Infancy's innocent hours—
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In nature's reviving tears, once more;
To feast at her banquet, and drink from her bowl
Rich dew, for the heart's hot core.
Ah me! ah me! it is heavenly then,
And hints of the spirit-world, near alway,
Are stirring, and stirr'd, at my heart again,
Like leaves to the kiss of May:
It is but a dream, yet 'tis passing sweet,
And when from its spells my spirit is waking,
Dark is my heart, and the wild tears start;
For I was not made merely for money-making.
My soul leaneth out, to the whisperings
Of the mighty, the marvellous spirits of old;
And heaven-ward soareth to strengthen her wings,
When Labour relapseth its earthly hold;
And breathless with awfullest beauty,—it listens,
To catch the Night's deep, starry mystery;
Or in mine eyes, dissolved, it glistens,
Big, for the moan of Humanity.
Much that is written within its chamber,
Much that is shrined in the mind's living amber,
Much of this thought of mine,—
I fain would struggle and give to birth;
For I would not pass away from earth,
And make no sign!
I yearn to utter, what might live on,
In the world's heart, when I am gone.
I would not plod on, like these slaves of gold,
Who shut up their souls, in a dusky cave:
I would see the world better, and nobler-soul'd,
Ere I lay me down in my green turf-grave.
I may toil till my life is filled with dreariness,
Toil till my heart is a wreck in its weariness,
Toil for ever, for tear-steept bread,
Till I go down to the silent dead.
But, by this yearning, this hoping, this aching,
I was not made merely for money-making.
Of the mighty, the marvellous spirits of old;
And heaven-ward soareth to strengthen her wings,
When Labour relapseth its earthly hold;
And breathless with awfullest beauty,—it listens,
To catch the Night's deep, starry mystery;
Or in mine eyes, dissolved, it glistens,
Big, for the moan of Humanity.
Much that is written within its chamber,
Much that is shrined in the mind's living amber,
Much of this thought of mine,—
I fain would struggle and give to birth;
For I would not pass away from earth,
And make no sign!
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In the world's heart, when I am gone.
I would not plod on, like these slaves of gold,
Who shut up their souls, in a dusky cave:
I would see the world better, and nobler-soul'd,
Ere I lay me down in my green turf-grave.
I may toil till my life is filled with dreariness,
Toil till my heart is a wreck in its weariness,
Toil for ever, for tear-steept bread,
Till I go down to the silent dead.
But, by this yearning, this hoping, this aching,
I was not made merely for money-making.
THE FAMINE-SMITTEN.
In the tears of the Morning—The smiles of the sun,
The green Earth's adorning
Told spring had begun!
Warm woods donn'd their beauty, wrought
Through long still nights,
And musical breezes brought
Flowery delights:
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Rich in light, with sweet sound,
And the glad waters dasht
Their starry spray round!
The wood-bines up-climbing,
Laught out, pink and golden,
And bees made sweet chiming
In roses half-folden.
But where was that infant-band,
Wont in spring weather
To wander forth, hand-in-hand,
Violets to gather?
Ah misery! they slept,
The dear blossoms of love!
Where the green branches wept,
And the grass crept above;
Melodious gladness
Throbb'd thro' the rich air,
But the anguish of madness
Rent Poverty's lair;
For Famine had smitten
Its pride of life low,
And agony written
On heart and on brow.
Sweet from the boughs the birds
Sang in their mirth,
The lark messaged heaven-wards
Blessings from earth—
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Loves lay in dearth.
They heard not, nor heeded,
The sounds of life o'er them!
They felt not, nor needed,
The hot tears wept for them!
But earth-flowers were springing
O'er human flowers' grave,
And, O God! what heart-wringing
Their tender looks gave!
They died! died of hunger—
By bitter want blasted!
While wealth for the Wronger
Ran over untasted—
While Pomp, in joy's rosy bow'rs,
Wasted life's measure,
Chiding the lagging hours,
Wearied of pleasure!
They died! while men hoarded
The free gifts of God:
They died! 't is recorded
In letters of blood.
Yet the corn on the hills
Waves its showery gold crown;
Still Nature's lap fills
With the good heaven drops down.
O! this world might be lighted
With Eden's first smile—
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With Freedom for Toil:
But they wring out our blood
For their banquet of gold!
They annul laws of God,
Soul and body are sold!
Hark now! hall and palace,
Ring out, dome and rafter!
Ay, laugh on, ye callous!
In Hell there'll be laughter:
But tremble, hell-makers;
The shorn among men—
The world's image-breakers
Grow mighty again;
There be stern times a-coming,
The dark days of reck'ning,
The storms are up-looming—
The Nemesis wak'ning!
On heaven, blood shall call,
Earth quake with pent thunder,
And shackle and thrall
Shall be riven asunder.
It will come, it shall come,
Impede it what may:
Up, People! and welcome
Your glorious day.
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PEACE.
Yes, Peace is beautiful; and I do yearnFor her to clasp the World's poor tortured heart,
As sweet spring warmth doth brood o'er coming flowers.
But peace with these Leviathans of blood—
Who pirate crimson seas, devouring men?
Give them the hand of brotherhood—whose fangs
Are in our hearts with the grim blood-hound's grip?
Wouldst see Peace, idiot-like, with smirk and smile,
A-planting flowers to coronal Truth's grave?
Peace, merry-making round the funeral pyre,
Where Freedom, fiery-curtained, weds with death?
Peace, mirroring her form by pools of blood,—
Crowning the Croat in Vienna's fosse,
With all sweet influences of thankful eyes,
For murder of the glorious Burschenschaft?
Peace with Oppression, which doth tear dear friends
And brothers from our side to-day, and comes
To eat our hearts and drink our blood to-morrow?
Out on't! it is the Tyrant's cunning cant,
The robe of sheen flung o'er its deadly daggers,
Which start to life, whene'er it hugs to death.
I answer, War!—war with the cause of war,—
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War with curst Gold, which is an endless war
On Love, and God, and our Humanity!
Brothers, I bid ye forth to glorious war!
Patch fig-leaves o'er the naked truth no more.
The stream of Time runs red with our best blood!
Time's seed-field we have sown with fratricide,
And dragon's teeth have sprung, ay, in our hearts.
O! we have fought and bled on land and sea,
Heapt glory's car with myriads of the brave,
Spilt blood by oceans—treasures by the million,
At every Tyrant's beck. Had we but shed
Such warm and eloquent blood for Freedom's faith,
War's star in heaven had lost its name ere now.
“Brothers!” I cried,—well, Brothers, brother slaves!
O! but to give ye slaves their valiant heart,
Whose dumb, dead dust is worth your living souls—
Dear God! 't were sweet to kiss the scaffold-block!
I'd proudly leap death's darkness, to let shine
The Future's promise thro' your sorrow's tears!
Sorrow? ah, no! ye feel not sense so holy:
The worm of misery riots in your hearts—
Ye hear your younglings in the drear midnight
Make moan for bread, when ye have none to give!—
Ye drain your life, warm, for the vulture's drink!
The groaning land is choked with living death.
O! ye are mated to the things of scorn.
And I have heard your miserable madness
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Pledging your murderers to the hell they've made!
Ah, Christ! was it for this, thou sudden sun,
Didst light these centuries with thy dying smile?—
Was it for this, so many and so many
Have hackt their spirit-swords against our fetters
And killing cords, that bleed our hearts to death—
Wept griefs might turn the soul grey in an hour—
Broke their great hearts for love, and, in despair,
Dasht their immortal crowns to earth, and died?
Was it for this the countless Host of Martyrs,
Becrown'd and robed in fiery martyrdom,
Beat out a golden-aged Future from
The angel-metal of their noble lives—
Clomb the red scaffold—strain'd their weary eyes,
Across the mists of ages, for one glimpse
Of midnight burning into that bright Dawn
Now bursting golden, up the skies of time?
When will ye put your human glory on?
How long will ye lie darkling desolate,
With barren brain, blind life, and fallow heart?
The hollow yearning grave will kindly close,
And flowers spring where the mould lay freshly dark!
The leaves will burst from out the naked'st boughs,
Fire-ripen'd into glorious greenery,
Waste Moor and Fen will kindle into spring:
How long will ye lie darkling desolate?
Lord God Almighty! what a spring of freedom
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O! if aught moving thrills a brother's love,
Which pleads for utterance in blinding tears,
Then let these words burn living in your souls,
Snatch Fear's cold hand from off your palsied hearts,
And send the intrepid shudder through your veins.
Helots of Albion! Penury's nurslings! rise,
And swear, in God's name, and in Heaven's or Hell's,
Ye will bear witness at the birth of Freedom!
Arise, and front the blessed light of Heaven,
With tyrant-quailing manhood in your looks!
Arise, go forth to glorious war for right,
And justice, and mankind's high destiny!
Arise, 't is Freedom's bleeding fight, strike home
Wherever tyrants lift the gorgon-head!
There is a chasm in the coming years,
A-gape for strife's Niagara of blood—
Or to be bridged by brave hearts linkt in love.
The world is stirring with its mighty purpose:
No more be laggards in the march of men.
The Vulture Despotism spreads wide its wings
Right royally, to give ye broader mark!
And the hag Evil sickens unto death,
With her sore travail o'er the birth of Good.
And yet shall War's red-letter'd creed die out;
Where blood is running, shall the wild-flowers blow;
Where men are groaning, shall their children sing;
And Peace and Love re-Genesis the world.
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A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE.
Earth, garnisht Bride-like, bares her bosom to the nestling Night,
Who hath come down in glory from the golden halls of light;
Who hath come down in glory from the golden halls of light;
Ten thousand tender, starry eyes smile o'er the world at rest,
The weary world—husht like an infant on its mother's breast!
The weary world—husht like an infant on its mother's breast!
The great old hills thrust up their foreheads in rich-sleeping light:
How proudly-grand, and still they stand, worshipping God to-night!
How proudly-grand, and still they stand, worshipping God to-night!
The flowers have hung their cups with gems of their own sweetness wrought,
And muse upon their stems, in smiling ecstasy of thought:
And muse upon their stems, in smiling ecstasy of thought:
They have banquetted on beauty, at the fragrant Eve's red lips,
And fold in charméd rest, with crowns upon their velvet tips.
And fold in charméd rest, with crowns upon their velvet tips.
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No green tide sweeps the sea of leaves, no wind-sigh stirs the sod,
While Holiness broods dove-like on the soul, begetting God.
While Holiness broods dove-like on the soul, begetting God.
Sweet hour! thou wak'st the feeling that we never know by day,
For Angel eyes look down, and read the spirit 'neath the clay:
For Angel eyes look down, and read the spirit 'neath the clay:
Even while I list, such music stealeth in upon my soul,
As though adown heaven's stair of stars, the seraph-harpings stole—
As though adown heaven's stair of stars, the seraph-harpings stole—
Or I could grasp the immortal part of life, and soar, and soar,
Such strong wings take me, and my heart hath found such hidden lore!
Such strong wings take me, and my heart hath found such hidden lore!
It flings aside the weight of years, and lovingly goes back,
To that sweet time, the dear old days, that glisten on its track!
To that sweet time, the dear old days, that glisten on its track!
Life's wither'd leaves grow green again, and fresh with Childhood's spring,
As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbowring:—
As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbowring:—
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The Past, with all its gather'd charms, beckons me back in joy,
And loving hearts, and open arms, re-clasp me as a boy.
And loving hearts, and open arms, re-clasp me as a boy.
The voices of the Loved and Lost are stirring at my heart,
And Memory's miser'd treasures leap to life, with sudden start,—
And Memory's miser'd treasures leap to life, with sudden start,—
As through her darken'd windows, warm and glad sunlight creeps in,
And Lang-syne, glimpst in glorious tears, my toil-worn heart doth win.
And Lang-syne, glimpst in glorious tears, my toil-worn heart doth win.
Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou hast lookt and smiled, Mother,
And I am sitting by thy side, at heart a very child, Mother!
And I am sitting by thy side, at heart a very child, Mother!
I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, much as in those hours,
When all my wealth was in thy love, and in the birds and flowers,
When all my wealth was in thy love, and in the birds and flowers,
When the long summer days were short, for my glad soul to live
The golden fulness of the bliss, each happy hour could give.
The golden fulness of the bliss, each happy hour could give.
When Heaven sang to my innocence, and every leafy grove
And forest ached with music, as a young heart aches with love.
And forest ached with music, as a young heart aches with love.
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When life oped like a flower, where clung my lips, to quaff its honey,
And joys throng'd like a shower of gold king-cups in meadows sunny.
And joys throng'd like a shower of gold king-cups in meadows sunny.
I'll tell thee, Mother! since we met, stern changes have come o'er me:
Then life smiled like a paradise, the world was all before me.
Then life smiled like a paradise, the world was all before me.
O! I was full of trustful faith, and, in my glee and gladness,
Deem'd not that others had begun as bright, whose end was madness.
Deem'd not that others had begun as bright, whose end was madness.
I knew not smiles could light up eyes, like Sunset's laughing glow
On some cold stream, which burns above, while all runs dark below;
On some cold stream, which burns above, while all runs dark below;
That on Love's summer sea, great souls go down, while some, grown cold,
Seal up affection's living spring, and sell their love for gold;
Seal up affection's living spring, and sell their love for gold;
How they on whom we'd staked the heart forget the early vow,
And they who swore to love through life would pass all coldly now;
And they who swore to love through life would pass all coldly now;
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How, in the soul's dark hour, Love's temple-veil is rent in twain,
And the heart quivers thorn-crown'd on the cross of fiery pain.
And the heart quivers thorn-crown'd on the cross of fiery pain.
And shatter'd idols, broken dreams, come crowding on my brain,
As speaks the spirit-voice of days that never come again.
As speaks the spirit-voice of days that never come again.
It tells of golden moments lost—heart sear'd—blind Passion's thrall;
Life's spring-tide blossoms run to waste, Love's honey turn'd to gall.
Life's spring-tide blossoms run to waste, Love's honey turn'd to gall.
It tells how many and often high resolve and purpose strong,
Shaped on the anvil of my heart, have died upon my tongue.
Shaped on the anvil of my heart, have died upon my tongue.
I left thee, Mother, in sweet May, the merry month of flowers,
To toil away in dusky gloom the golden summer-hours.
To toil away in dusky gloom the golden summer-hours.
I left my world of love behind, with soul for life a-thirsting,
My burning eyelid dropt no tear, although my heart was bursting.
My burning eyelid dropt no tear, although my heart was bursting.
For I had knit my soul to climb, with poverty its burden;
Give me but time, O give me time, and I would win the guerdon.
Give me but time, O give me time, and I would win the guerdon.
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Ah, Mother! many a heart that all my aspiration cherisht
Hath fallen in the trampling strife, and in the life-march perisht.
Hath fallen in the trampling strife, and in the life-march perisht.
We see the bleeding victims lie upon the world's grim Altar,
And one by one young feelings die, and dark doubts make us falter.
And one by one young feelings die, and dark doubts make us falter.
Mother, the world hath wreakt its part on me, with scathing power,
Yet the best life that heaves my heart runs for thee at this hour.
Yet the best life that heaves my heart runs for thee at this hour.
And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes with sweet tears wet,
I know there wells a spring of love through all my being yet.
I know there wells a spring of love through all my being yet.
| The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems | |