Lays of the Scottish cavaliers and other poems By William Edmondstoune Aytoun ... Fourteenth edition |
 |
 | MISCELLANEOUS POEMS |
 | Lays of the Scottish cavaliers and other poems |  |
253
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
255
BLIND OLD MILTON
Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun
May shine upon my old and time-worn head,
For the last time, perchance. My race is run;
And soon amidst the ever-silent dead
I must repose, it may be, half forgot.
Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread
For many a year, with those who trembled not
To buckle on their armour for the fight,
And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;
And I have never bowed me to his might,
Nor knelt before him—for I bear within
My heart the sternest consciousness of right,
And that perpetual hate of gilded sin
Which made me what I am; and though the stain
Of poverty be on me, yet I win
More honour by it than the blinded train
Who hug their willing servitude, and bow
Unto the weakest and the most profane.
Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go
Before the footstool of my Maker, where
I hope to stand as undebased as now!
May shine upon my old and time-worn head,
For the last time, perchance. My race is run;
And soon amidst the ever-silent dead
I must repose, it may be, half forgot.
Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread
For many a year, with those who trembled not
To buckle on their armour for the fight,
And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;
And I have never bowed me to his might,
Nor knelt before him—for I bear within
My heart the sternest consciousness of right,
256
Which made me what I am; and though the stain
Of poverty be on me, yet I win
More honour by it than the blinded train
Who hug their willing servitude, and bow
Unto the weakest and the most profane.
Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go
Before the footstool of my Maker, where
I hope to stand as undebased as now!
Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair
Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind,
I feel the odours that perfume the air,
And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.
Within my heart I picture them, and then
I almost can forget that I am blind,
And old, and hated by my fellow-men.
Yet would I fain once more behold the grace
Of nature ere I die, and gaze again
Upon her living and rejoicing face—
Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,
My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace—
I hear thy voice, so musical and mild,
The patient sole interpreter, by whom
So many years of sadness are beguiled;
For it hath made my small and scanty room
Peopled with glowing visions of the past.
But I will calmly bend me to my doom,
And wait the hour which is approaching fast,
When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,
And heaven itself be opened up at last
To him who dared foretell its mysteries.
I have had visions in this drear eclipse
Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,
Striving to utter with my earthly lips
What the diviner soul had half divined,
Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse
Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined
Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven
All outward strife and tumult from my mind,
And humbled me, until I have forgiven
My bitter enemies, and only seek
To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.
Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind,
I feel the odours that perfume the air,
And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.
Within my heart I picture them, and then
I almost can forget that I am blind,
And old, and hated by my fellow-men.
Yet would I fain once more behold the grace
Of nature ere I die, and gaze again
Upon her living and rejoicing face—
Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,
My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace—
257
The patient sole interpreter, by whom
So many years of sadness are beguiled;
For it hath made my small and scanty room
Peopled with glowing visions of the past.
But I will calmly bend me to my doom,
And wait the hour which is approaching fast,
When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,
And heaven itself be opened up at last
To him who dared foretell its mysteries.
I have had visions in this drear eclipse
Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,
Striving to utter with my earthly lips
What the diviner soul had half divined,
Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse
Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined
Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven
All outward strife and tumult from my mind,
And humbled me, until I have forgiven
My bitter enemies, and only seek
To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.
258
Yet I am weak—oh! how entirely weak,
For one who may not love nor suffer more!
Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,
And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,
Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,
Which made the beautiful Italian shore,
In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,
An Eden and a Paradise to me.
Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west
Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
In search of odours from the orange bowers?
Still, on thy slopes of verdure, does the bee
Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?
And Philomel her plaintive chant prolong
'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,
Making the summer one perpetual song?
Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride
I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,
With that fair youthful vision by my side,
In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain?
O my adorèd angel! O my bride!
Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,
My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem
To wander with thee, hand in hand, again,
By the bright margin of that flowing stream.
I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet
Than fancied music floating in a dream,
Possess my being; from afar I greet
The waving of thy garments in the glade,
And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—
What time as one half eager, half afraid,
Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,
And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed
The secret of the heart from whence they sprung.
Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven
Gave up an angel beautiful and young,
Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven;
A bright Aurora for the starry sphere
Where all is love, and even life forgiven.
Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear!
Dost thou await me in thy blest abode!
While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,
And count each step along the rugged road;
A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,
And eager to lay down my weary load!
For one who may not love nor suffer more!
Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,
And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,
Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,
Which made the beautiful Italian shore,
In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,
An Eden and a Paradise to me.
Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west
Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
In search of odours from the orange bowers?
Still, on thy slopes of verdure, does the bee
Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?
And Philomel her plaintive chant prolong
'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,
Making the summer one perpetual song?
Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride
I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,
With that fair youthful vision by my side,
In whose bright eyes I looked—and not in vain?
O my adorèd angel! O my bride!
259
My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem
To wander with thee, hand in hand, again,
By the bright margin of that flowing stream.
I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet
Than fancied music floating in a dream,
Possess my being; from afar I greet
The waving of thy garments in the glade,
And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—
What time as one half eager, half afraid,
Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,
And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed
The secret of the heart from whence they sprung.
Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven
Gave up an angel beautiful and young,
Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven;
A bright Aurora for the starry sphere
Where all is love, and even life forgiven.
Bride of immortal beauty—ever dear!
Dost thou await me in thy blest abode!
While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,
And count each step along the rugged road;
260
And eager to lay down my weary load!
I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave.
Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell
Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,
Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,
Retains within its mystic urn the hum
Heard in the sea-grots were the Nereids dwell—
Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they come
Between me and my rest, nor can I make
Those agèd visitors of sorrow dumb.
Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!
Nor wander back with sullen steps again;
For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take
In such a journey, nor endure the pain.
The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;
So let them ever uninvoked remain,
And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.
Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,
Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:
No second spring can come to make them blow,
But in the silent winter of the grave
They lie with blighted love and buried woe.
Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell
Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,
Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,
Retains within its mystic urn the hum
Heard in the sea-grots were the Nereids dwell—
Old thoughts still haunt me—unawares they come
Between me and my rest, nor can I make
Those agèd visitors of sorrow dumb.
Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!
Nor wander back with sullen steps again;
For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take
In such a journey, nor endure the pain.
The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;
So let them ever uninvoked remain,
And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.
Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,
Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:
261
But in the silent winter of the grave
They lie with blighted love and buried woe.
I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,
Nor slothful lay in the Circean bower;
Nor did I yield myself the willing slave
Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power.
No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;
For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;
Man—made in God's own image—and I felt
How of our own accord we courted shame,
Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,
And so renounced the great and glorious claim
Of freedom, our immortal heritage.
I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,
Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage;
How Error stole behind the steps of Truth,
And cast delusion on the sacred page.
So, as a champion, even in early youth
I waged my battle with a purpose keen:
Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth
Of serpent jealousy. And I have been
With starry Galileo in his cell—
That wise magician with the brow serene,
Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell
The wonders of the planetary sphere,
And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel
On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.
And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane—
Names once so gracious to an English ear—
In days that never may return again.
My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard
Whenever Freedom raised her cry of pain,
And the faint effort of the humble bard
Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy,
To speak in words of thunder. What reward
Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I
Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,
Without a hope or wish, except to die.
But truth, asserted once, must still abide,
Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs
Which day and night gush from the mountain-side,
Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings,
Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,
But cannot conquer with the force it brings.
Nor slothful lay in the Circean bower;
Nor did I yield myself the willing slave
Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power.
No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;
For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;
Man—made in God's own image—and I felt
How of our own accord we courted shame,
Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,
And so renounced the great and glorious claim
Of freedom, our immortal heritage.
I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,
Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage;
How Error stole behind the steps of Truth,
And cast delusion on the sacred page.
So, as a champion, even in early youth
I waged my battle with a purpose keen:
262
Of serpent jealousy. And I have been
With starry Galileo in his cell—
That wise magician with the brow serene,
Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell
The wonders of the planetary sphere,
And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel
On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.
And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane—
Names once so gracious to an English ear—
In days that never may return again.
My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard
Whenever Freedom raised her cry of pain,
And the faint effort of the humble bard
Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy,
To speak in words of thunder. What reward
Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I
Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,
Without a hope or wish, except to die.
But truth, asserted once, must still abide,
Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs
Which day and night gush from the mountain-side,
263
Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,
But cannot conquer with the force it brings.
Yet I, who ever felt another's woe
More keenly than my own untold distress;
I, who have battled with the common foe,
And broke for years the bread of bitterness;
Who never yet abandoned or betrayed
The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,
Am left alone to wither in the shade,
A weak old man, deserted by his kind—
Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!
More keenly than my own untold distress;
I, who have battled with the common foe,
And broke for years the bread of bitterness;
Who never yet abandoned or betrayed
The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,
Am left alone to wither in the shade,
A weak old man, deserted by his kind—
Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!
Oh, let me not repine! A quiet mind,
Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;
Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,
In the rich promise of eternal day.
Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,
Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:
And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,
Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate
Now sits, his task of life-long labour done,
Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,
After sore journey through this world of sin,
In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,
Until the door shall ope and let him in.
Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;
Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,
In the rich promise of eternal day.
Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,
Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:
264
Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate
Now sits, his task of life-long labour done,
Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,
After sore journey through this world of sin,
In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,
Until the door shall ope and let him in.
270
HERMOTIMUS
I
“Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber?Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest;
Sleep will bring thee dreams in starry number—
Let him come to thee and be thy guest.
Midnight now is past—
Husband! come at last—
Lay thy throbbing head upon my breast.”
271
II
“Weary am I, but my soul is waking;Fain I'd lay me gently by thy side,
But my spirit then, its home forsaking,
Thro' the realms of space would wander wide—
Everything forgot,
What would be thy lot,
If I came not back to thee, my bride!
III
“Music, like the lute of young Apollo,Vibrates even now within mine ear;
Soft and silver voices bid me follow—
Yet my soul is dull and will not hear.
Waking it will stay:
Let me watch till day—
Fainter will they come and disappear.”
272
IV
“Speak not thus to me, my own—my dearest!These are but the phantoms of thy brain;
Nothing can befall thee which thou fearest,
Thou shalt wake to love and life again.
Were thy sleep thy last,
I would hold thee fast—
Thou shouldst strive against me, but in vain.
V
“Eros will protect us, and will hover,Guardian-like, above thee all the night,
Jealous of thee, as of some fond lover
Chiding back the rosy-fingered light—
He will be thine aid:
Canst thou feel afraid
When his torch above us burneth bright?
273
VI
“Lo! the cressets of the night are waning,Old Orion hastens from the sky;
Only thou of all things art remaining
Unrefreshed by slumber—thou and I.
Sound and sense are still,
Even the distant rill
Murmurs fainter now, and languidly.
VII
“Come and rest thee, husband!”—and no longerCould the young man that fond call resist:
Vainly was he warned, for love was stronger—
Warmly did he press her to his breast.
Warmly met she his;
Kiss succeeded kiss,
Till their eyelids closed, with sleep oppressed.
274
VIII
Soon Aurora left her early pillow,And the heavens grew rosy-rich and rare;
Laughed the dewy plain and glassy billow,
For the Golden God himself was there;
And the vapour-screen
Rose the hills between,
Steaming up, like incense, in the air.
IX
O'er her husband sat Ione bending—Marble-like and marble-hued he lay;
Underneath her raven locks descending,
Paler seemed his face and ashen grey;
And so white his brow,
White and cold as snow—
“Husband!—Gods! his soul hath passed away!”
275
X
Raise ye up the pile with gloomy shadow—Heap it with the mournful cypress-bough!—
And they raised the pile upon the meadow,
And they heaped the mournful cypress too;
And they laid the dead
On his funeral bed,
And they kindled up the flames below.
XI
Night again was come; but oh, how lonelyTo the mourner did that night appear!
Peace nor rest it brought, but sorrow only,
Vain repinings and unwonted fear.
Dimly burned the lamp—
Chill the air and damp—
And the winds without were moaning drear.
276
XII
Hush! a voice in solemn whispers speaking,Breaks within the twilight of the room;
And Ione, loud and wildly shrieking,
Starts and gazes through the ghastly gloom.
Nothing sees she there—
All is empty air,
All is empty as a rifled tomb.
XIII
Once again the voice beside her sounded,Low, and faint, and solemn was its tone—
“Nor by form nor shade am I surrounded,
Fleshly home and dwelling have I none.
They are passed away—
Woe is me! to-day
Hath robbed me of myself, and made me lone.
277
XIV
“Vainly were the words of parting spoken;Ever more must Charon turn from me.
Still my thread of life remains unbroken,
And unbroken ever it must be;
Only they may rest
Whom the Fates' behest
From their mortal mansion setteth free.
XV
“I have seen the robes of Hermes glisten—Seen him wave afar his serpent wand;
But to me the Herald would not listen—
When the dead swept by at his command,
Not with that pale crew
Durst I venture too—
Ever shut for me the quiet land.
278
XVI
“Day and night before the dreary portal,Phantom-shapes, the guards of Hades, lie;
None of heavenly kind, nor yet of mortal,
May unchallenged pass the warders by.
None that path may go,
If he cannot show
His drear passport to eternity.
XVII
“Cruel was the spirit-power thou gavest—Fatal, O Apollo, was thy love!
Pythian! Archer! brightest God and bravest,
Hear, oh hear me from thy throne above!
Let me not, I pray,
Thus be cast away:
Plead for me, thy slave—O plead to Jove!
279
XVIII
“I have heard thee with the Muses singing—Heard that full melodious voice of thine,
Silver-clear throughout the ether ringing—
Seen thy locks in golden clusters shine;
And thine eye so bright,
With its innate light,
Hath ere now been bent so low as mine.
XIX
“Hast thou lost the wish—the will—to cherishThose who trusted in thy godlike power?
Hyacinthus did not wholly perish!
Still he lives, the firstling of thy bower;
Still he feels thy rays,
Fondly meets thy gaze,
Though but now the spirit of a flower.
280
XX
“Hear me, Phœbus! Hear me and deliver!Lo! the morning breaketh from afar—
God! thou comest bright and great as ever—
Night goes back before thy burning car;
All her lamps are gone—
Lucifer alone
Lingers still for thee—the blessed star!
XXI
‘Hear me, Phœbus!”—And therewith descendedThrough the window-arch a glory-gleam,
All effulgent—and with music blended;
For such solemn sounds arose as stream
From the Memnon-lyre,
When the morning fire
Gilds the giant's forehead with its beam.
281
XXII
“Thou hast heard thy servant's prayer, Apollo!Thou dost call me, mighty God of Day!
Fare-thee-well, Ione!”—And more hollow
Came the phantom voice, then died away.
When the slaves arose,
Not in calm repose—
Not in sleep, but death, their mistress lay.
282
ŒNONE
On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow,
Sate a young and lovely woman,
Weeping ever, weeping low.
Drearily throughout the forest
Did the winds of autumn blow,
And the clouds above were flying,
And Scamander rolled below.
Where the pine and cypress grow,
Sate a young and lovely woman,
Weeping ever, weeping low.
Drearily throughout the forest
Did the winds of autumn blow,
And the clouds above were flying,
And Scamander rolled below.
“Faithless Paris! cruel Paris!”
Thus the poor deserted spake—
“Wherefore thus so strangely leave me?
Why thy loving bride forsake?
Why no tender word at parting—
Why no kiss, no farewell take?
Would that I could but forget thee!
Would this throbbing heart might break!
Thus the poor deserted spake—
“Wherefore thus so strangely leave me?
Why thy loving bride forsake?
283
Why no kiss, no farewell take?
Would that I could but forget thee!
Would this throbbing heart might break!
“Is my face no longer blooming?
Are my eyes no longer bright?
Ah! my tears have made them dimmer,
And my cheeks are pale and white.
I have wept since early morning,
I shall weep the livelong night;
Now I long for sullen darkness,
As I once have longed for light.
Are my eyes no longer bright?
Ah! my tears have made them dimmer,
And my cheeks are pale and white.
I have wept since early morning,
I shall weep the livelong night;
Now I long for sullen darkness,
As I once have longed for light.
“Paris! canst thou then be cruel!
Fair, and young, and brave thou art—
Can it be that in thy bosom
Lies so cold, so hard a heart?
Children were we bred together—
She who bore me suckled thee;
I have been thine old companion,
When thou hadst no more but me.
Fair, and young, and brave thou art—
Can it be that in thy bosom
Lies so cold, so hard a heart?
Children were we bred together—
She who bore me suckled thee;
I have been thine old companion,
When thou hadst no more but me.
284
“I have watched thee in thy slumbers,
When the shadow of a dream
Passed across thy smiling features,
Like the ripple on a stream;
And so sweetly were the visions
Pictured there with lively grace,
That I half could read their import
By the changes on thy face.
When the shadow of a dream
Passed across thy smiling features,
Like the ripple on a stream;
And so sweetly were the visions
Pictured there with lively grace,
That I half could read their import
By the changes on thy face.
“When I sang of Ariadne,
Sang the old and mournful tale,
How her faithless lover, Theseus,
Left her to lament and wail;
Then thine eyes would fill and glisten,
Her complaint could soften thee:
Thou hast wept for Ariadne—
Theseus' self might weep for me!
Sang the old and mournful tale,
How her faithless lover, Theseus,
Left her to lament and wail;
Then thine eyes would fill and glisten,
Her complaint could soften thee:
Thou hast wept for Ariadne—
Theseus' self might weep for me!
“Thou may'st find another maiden
With a fairer face than mine—
With a gayer voice and sweeter,
And a spirit liker thine:
For if e'er my beauty bound thee,
Lost and broken is the spell;
But thou canst not find another
That will love thee half so well.
With a fairer face than mine—
With a gayer voice and sweeter,
And a spirit liker thine:
285
Lost and broken is the spell;
But thou canst not find another
That will love thee half so well.
“O thou hollow ship, that bearest
Paris o'er the faithless deep!
Wouldst thou leave him on some island
Where alone the waters weep;
Where no human foot is moulded
In the wet and yellow sand—
Leave him there, thou hollow vessel!
Leave him on that lonely strand!
Paris o'er the faithless deep!
Wouldst thou leave him on some island
Where alone the waters weep;
Where no human foot is moulded
In the wet and yellow sand—
Leave him there, thou hollow vessel!
Leave him on that lonely strand!
“Then his heart will surely soften,
When his foolish hopes decay,
And his older love rekindle,
As the new one dies away.
Visionary hills will haunt him,
Rising from the glassy sea,
And his thoughts will wander homeward
Unto Ida and to me.
When his foolish hopes decay,
And his older love rekindle,
As the new one dies away.
Visionary hills will haunt him,
Rising from the glassy sea,
And his thoughts will wander homeward
Unto Ida and to me.
286
“O! that like a little swallow
I could reach that lonely spot!
All his errors would be pardoned,
All the weary past forgot.
Never should he wander from me—
Never should he more depart;
For these arms would be his prison,
And his home would be my heart!”
I could reach that lonely spot!
All his errors would be pardoned,
All the weary past forgot.
Never should he wander from me—
Never should he more depart;
For these arms would be his prison,
And his home would be my heart!”
Thus lamented fair Œnone,
Weeping ever, weeping low,
On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow.
In the self-same hour Cassandra
Shrieked her prophecy of woe,
And into the Spartan dwelling
Did the faithless Paris go.
Weeping ever, weeping low,
On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow.
In the self-same hour Cassandra
Shrieked her prophecy of woe,
And into the Spartan dwelling
Did the faithless Paris go.
287
THE BURIED FLOWER
I
In the silence of my chamber,When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmèd sleep,
II
Oft I hear the angel voicesThat have thrilled me long ago,—
Voices of my lost companions,
Lying deep beneath the snow.
288
III
O, the garden I remember,In the gay and sunny spring,
When our laughter made the thickets
And the arching alleys ring!
IV
O the merry burst of gladness!O the soft and tender tone!
O the whisper never uttered
Save to one fond ear alone!
V
O the light of life that sparkledIn those bright and bounteous eyes!
O the blush of happy beauty,
Tell-tale of the heart's surprise!
VI
O the radiant light that girdledField and forest, land and sea,
When we all were young together,
And the earth was new to me!
289
VII
Where are now the flowers we tended?Withered, broken, branch and stem;
Where are now the hopes we cherished?
Scattered to the winds with them.
VIII
For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!Nursed in hope and reared in love,
Looking fondly ever upward
To the clear blue heaven above:
IX
Smiling on the sun that cheered us,Rising lightly from the rain,
Never folding up your freshness
Save to give it forth again:
X
Never shaken, save by accentsFrom a tongue that was not free,
As the modest blossom trembles
At the wooing of the bee.
290
XI
O! 'tis sad to lie and reckonAll the days of faded youth,
All the vows that we believed in,
All the words we spoke in truth.
XII
Severed—were it severed onlyBy an idle thought of strife,
Such as time may knit together;
Not the broken chord of life!
XIII
O my heart! that once so trulyKept another's time and tune,
Heart, that kindled in the morning,
Look around thee in the noon!
XIV
Where are they who gave the impulseTo thy earliest thought and flow?
Look across the ruined garden—
All are withered, dropped, or low!
291
XV
Seek the birthplace of the Lily,Dearer to the boyish dream
Than the golden cups of Eden,
Floating on its slumberous stream;
XVI
Never more shalt thou behold her—She, the noblest, fairest, best:
She that rose in fullest beauty,
Like a queen, above the rest.
XVII
Only still I keep her imageAs a thought that cannot die;
He who raised the shade of Helen
Had no greater power than I.
XVIII
O! I fling my spirit backward,And I pass o'er years of pain;
All I loved is rising round me,
All the lost returns again.
292
XIX
Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes,Warmly as ye did before!
Bloom again, ye happy gardens,
With the radiant tints of yore!
XX
Warble out in spray and thicket,All ye choristers unseen;
Let the leafy woodland echo
With an anthem to its queen!
XXI
Lo! she cometh in her beauty,Stately with a Juno grace,
Raven locks, Madonna-braided
O'er her sweet and blushing face:
XXII
Eyes of deepest violet, beamingWith the love that knows not shame—
Lips, that thrill my inmost being,
With the utterance of a name.
293
XXIII
And I bend the knee before her,As a captive ought to bow,—
Pray thee, listen to my pleading,
Sovereign of my soul art thou!
XXIV
O my dear and gentle lady!Let me show thee all my pain,
Ere the words that late were prisoned
Sink into my heart again.
XXV
Love, they say, is very fearfulEre its curtain be withdrawn,
Trembling at the thought of error
As the shadows scare the fawn.
XXVI
Love hath bound me to thee, lady!Since the well-remembered day
When I first beheld thee coming
In the light of lustrous May.
294
XXVII
Not a word I dared to utter—More than he who, long ago,
Saw the heavenly shapes descending
Over Ida's slopes of snow;
XXVIII
When a low and solemn musicFloated through the listening grove,
And the throstle's song was silenced,
And the doling of the dove:
XXIX
When immortal beauty openedAll its charms to mortal sight,
And the awe of worship blended
With the throbbing of delight.
XXX
As the shepherd stood before themTrembling in the Phrygian dell,
Even so my soul and being
Owned the magic of the spell;
295
XXXI
And I watched thee ever fondly,Watched thee, dearest! from afar,
With the mute and humble homage
Of the Indian to a star.
XXXII
Thou wert still the lady FloraIn her morning garb of bloom;
Where thou wert was light and glory,
Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom.
XXXIII
So for many a day I followed,For a long and weary while,
Ere my heart rose up to bless thee
For the yielding of a smile,—
XXXIV
Ere thy words were few and brokenAs they answered back to mine,
Ere my lips had power to thank thee
For the gift vouchsafed by thine.
296
XXXV
Then a mighty gush of passionThrough my inmost being ran;
Then my older life was ended,
And a dearer course began.
XXXVI
Dearer!—O! I cannot tell theeWhat a load was swept away,
What a world of doubt and darkness
Faded in the dawning day!
XXXVII
All my error, all my weakness,All my vain delusions fled;
Hope again revived, and gladness
Waved its wings above my head.
XXXVIII
Like the wanderer of the desert,When, across the dreary sand,
Breathes the perfume from the thickets
Bordering on the promised land:
297
XXXIX
When afar he sees the palm-treesCresting o'er the lonely well,
When he hears the pleasant tinkle
Of the distant camel's bell:
XL
So a fresh and glad emotionRose within my swelling breast,
And I hurried swiftly onwards
To the haven of my rest.
XLI
Thou wert there with word and welcome,With thy smile so purely sweet;
And I laid my heart before thee,
Laid it, darling! at thy feet.—
XLII
O ye words that sound so hollowAs I now recall your tone!
What are ye but empty echoes
Of a passion crushed and gone?
298
XLIII
Wherefore should I seek to kindleLight, when all around is gloom?
Wherefore should I raise a phantom
O'er the dark and silent tomb?
XLIV
Early wert thou taken, Mary!In thy fair and glorious prime,
Ere the bees had ceased to murmur
Through the umbrage of the lime.
XLV
Buds were blowing, waters flowing,Birds were singing on the tree,
Everything was bright and glowing,
When the angels came for thee.
XLVI
Death had laid aside his terror,And he found thee calm and mild,
Lying in thy robes of whiteness,
Like a pure and stainless child.
299
XLVII
Hardly had the mountain-violetSpread its blossoms on the sod,
Ere they laid the turf above thee,
And thy spirit rose to God.
XLVIII
Early wert thou taken, Mary!And I know 'tis vain to weep—
Tears of mine can never wake thee
From thy sad and silent sleep.
XLIX
O away! my thoughts are earthward!Not asleep, my love, art thou!
Dwelling in the land of glory
With the saints and angels now.
L
Brighter, fairer far than living,With no trace of woe or pain,
Robed in everlasting beauty,
Shall I see thee once again,
300
LI
By the light that never fadeth,Underneath eternal skies,
When the dawn of resurrection
Breaks o'er deathless Paradise.
301
THE OLD CAMP
WRITTEN IN A ROMAN FORTIFICATION IN BAVARIA
I
There is a cloud before the sun,The wind is hushed and still,
And silently the waters run
Beneath the sombre hill.
The sky is dark in every place
As is the earth below:
Methinks it wore the self-same face
Two thousand years ago.
302
II
No light is on the ancient wall,No light upon the mound;
The very trees, so thick and tall,
Cast gloom, not shade, around.
So silent is the place and cold,
So far from human ken,
It hath a look that makes me old,
And spectres time again.
III
I listen, half in thought to hearThe Roman trumpet blow—
I search for glint of helm and spear
Amidst the forest-bough;
And armour rings, and voices swell—
I hear the legion's tramp,
And mark the lonely sentinel
Who guards the lonely camp.
303
IV
Methinks I have no other home,No other hearth to find;
For nothing save the thought of Rome
Is stirring in my mind.
And all that I have heard or dreamed,
And all I had forgot,
Are rising up, as though they seemed
The household of the spot.
V
And all the names that Romans knewSeem just as known to me,
As if I were a Roman too—
A Roman born and free:
And I could rise at Cæsar's name,
As though it were a charm
To draw sharp lightning from the tame,
And brace the coward's arm.
304
VI
And yet if yonder sky were blue,And earth were sunny gay,
If nature wore the witching hue
That decked her yesterday—
The mound, the trench, the rampart's space
Would move me nothing more
Than many a sweet sequestered place
That I have marked before.
VII
I could not feel the breezes bringRich odours from the trees,
I could not hear the linnets sing,
And think on themes like these.
The painted insects as they pass
In swift and motley strife,
The very lizard in the grass
Would scare me back to life.
305
VIII
Then is the past so gloomy nowThat it may never bear
The open smile of nature's brow,
Or meet the sunny air?
I know not that—but joy is power,
However short it last;
And joy befits the present hour,
If sadness fits the past.
306
DANUBE AND THE EUXINE
1848
“Danube, Danube! wherefore com'st thouRed and raging to my caves?
Wherefore leap thy swollen waters
Madly through the broken waves?
Wherefore is thy tide so sullied
With a hue unknown to me;
Wherefore dost thou bring pollution
To the old and sacred sea?”
307
I am brimming full and red;
Glorious tokens do I bring thee
From my distant channel-bed.
I have been a Christian river
Dull and slow this many a year,
Rolling down my torpid waters
Through a silence morne and drear;
Have not felt the tread of armies
Trampling on my reedy shore;
Have not heard the trumpet calling,
Or the cannon's echoing roar;
Only listened to the laughter
From the village and the town,
And the church-bells, ever jangling,
As the weary day went down.
So I lay and sorely pondered
On the days long since gone by,
When my old primæval forests
Echoed to the war-man's cry;
When the race of Thor and Odin
Held their battles by my side,
308
Warmly with my chilly tide.
Father Euxine! thou rememb'rest
How I brought thee tribute then—
Swollen corpses, gashed and gory,
Heads and limbs of slaughtered men?
Father Euxine! be thou joyful!
I am running red once more—
Not with heathen blood, as early,
But with gallant Christian gore!
For the old times are returning,
And the Cross is broken down,
And I hear the tocsin sounding
In the village and the town:
And the glare of burning cities
Soon shall light me on my way—
Ha! my heart is big and jocund
With the draught I drank to-day.
Ha! I feel my strength awakened,
And my brethren shout to me;
Each is leaping red and joyous
To his own awaiting sea.
309
Through their wild anarchic land,
Everywhere are Christians falling
By their brother Christians' hand!
Yea, the old times are returning,
And the olden gods are here!
Take my tribute, Father Euxine,
To thy waters dark and drear!
Therefore come I with my torrents,
Shaking castle, crag, and town;
Therefore, with my arms uplifted,
Sweep I herd and herdsman down;
Therefore leap I to thy bosom
With a loud triumphal roar—
Greet me, greet me, Father Euxine—
I am Christian stream no more!”
| Lays of the Scottish cavaliers and other poems | |