 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
3
ODES AND IDYLLS
5
MONNOW
AN ODE
“Then Christian and Hopeful out-went them again, and
went till they came to a delicate Plain called Ease, where they
went with much content: but that plain was but narrow, so
they were quickly got over it.”
The road was weary; and beside the road,
Beyond the meadow quivering in the sun,
The crystal Monnow murmured as it flowed;
Monnow, the clearest of clear streams that run
By shingly reaches, where the cattle drink,
Through islets dense with shadowy burdock-leaves,
By high red scarps, with alders on the brink,
In glimmering pools;—a leaping troutlet weaves
Swift rings, that cross and circle, till the ripples sink.
Beyond the meadow quivering in the sun,
The crystal Monnow murmured as it flowed;
Monnow, the clearest of clear streams that run
By shingly reaches, where the cattle drink,
Through islets dense with shadowy burdock-leaves,
By high red scarps, with alders on the brink,
In glimmering pools;—a leaping troutlet weaves
Swift rings, that cross and circle, till the ripples sink.
It is the Spring! How swift her tripping feet
Tread these sequestered valleys, though she dare
Not venture yet, where winds blow shrill and fleet,
And all the down is washed with keener air;
Yet here each quickset hedge is green with gems;
The bold moist king-cup stares upon the sun
From oozy creeks; the sweetbriar's polished stems
Grow rough with crumpled tufts, and one by one,
The cowslips wave a crown of clustered diadems.
Tread these sequestered valleys, though she dare
6
And all the down is washed with keener air;
Yet here each quickset hedge is green with gems;
The bold moist king-cup stares upon the sun
From oozy creeks; the sweetbriar's polished stems
Grow rough with crumpled tufts, and one by one,
The cowslips wave a crown of clustered diadems.
Here will I lie a little, till the sun
Slope westward, and the vale be brimmed with shade,
And hear the bubbling waters briskly run,
Till every drowsy sound,—the clinking spade,
Lowing of cattle from the windy down,
Crying of cocks, the slowly-creaking wain,
In deep content the peaceful thought shall drown,
Ay, even the measured puffing of the train,
That hurries busy hearts from town to dusty town.
Slope westward, and the vale be brimmed with shade,
And hear the bubbling waters briskly run,
Till every drowsy sound,—the clinking spade,
Lowing of cattle from the windy down,
Crying of cocks, the slowly-creaking wain,
In deep content the peaceful thought shall drown,
Ay, even the measured puffing of the train,
That hurries busy hearts from town to dusty town.
Stream, stream, thou hast a spirit, hast a soul,
I doubt not—thou art real, as I to thee:
Neckan or Nymph, fond Fay or merry Troll,—
Some conscious self, some breathing mystery!
No copse but hath its Dryad, each dark stone
Its crouching Lemur: oh, the foolish dream!
We have driv'n far hence, for all their piteous moan,
Our faithful sprites:—but thou, swift-leaping stream,
O presence, and O voice, by me art surely known!
I doubt not—thou art real, as I to thee:
Neckan or Nymph, fond Fay or merry Troll,—
Some conscious self, some breathing mystery!
No copse but hath its Dryad, each dark stone
7
We have driv'n far hence, for all their piteous moan,
Our faithful sprites:—but thou, swift-leaping stream,
O presence, and O voice, by me art surely known!
I know thy secret! how thy shivering rill
Leaps high on Cusop bluff, among the stones:
Till swelled by Escley brook, from Vagar hill,
Then, where by Craswall Chapel sleep the bones
Of grey-frocked friars, is heard a larger sound:—
'Tis Olchon, dimpling o'er his stony bed,
Olchon, from many a rood of moorland ground,
From heathery dingles, bare, unvisited,—
Him too thou dost enfold, and onward thou art bound.
Leaps high on Cusop bluff, among the stones:
Till swelled by Escley brook, from Vagar hill,
Then, where by Craswall Chapel sleep the bones
Of grey-frocked friars, is heard a larger sound:—
'Tis Olchon, dimpling o'er his stony bed,
Olchon, from many a rood of moorland ground,
From heathery dingles, bare, unvisited,—
Him too thou dost enfold, and onward thou art bound.
Onward, aye onward;—fed by falling streams,
Still changing, yet eternally the same;—
And men are born beside thee, dream their dreams,
And leave the fading shadow of a name;
Still thou dost leap, and carve thy shelving shore,
And push each boulder further from its home,
Till, in the widening vale, thou hear'st the roar
Of wide-flung breakers, white with crested foam,
And drink'st the pungent brine along thy oozy floor.
Still changing, yet eternally the same;—
And men are born beside thee, dream their dreams,
And leave the fading shadow of a name;
Still thou dost leap, and carve thy shelving shore,
And push each boulder further from its home,
Till, in the widening vale, thou hear'st the roar
8
And drink'st the pungent brine along thy oozy floor.
What art thou? the philosopher shall say!
A tempered element, that suns distil,
In some convenient fissure bound to stray!
And one would claim thee for his grumbling mill,
And one would praise thee that thou may'st be drawn
Through fretted watercourse, and brimming leat,
To fill the blade, to quicken lea and lawn,
To make the grass rich and the pasture sweet,
And fill the dripping pitcher in the half-lit dawn.
A tempered element, that suns distil,
In some convenient fissure bound to stray!
And one would claim thee for his grumbling mill,
And one would praise thee that thou may'st be drawn
Through fretted watercourse, and brimming leat,
To fill the blade, to quicken lea and lawn,
To make the grass rich and the pasture sweet,
And fill the dripping pitcher in the half-lit dawn.
I blame not thee! all things of hourly birth
Are born for simple service; serve thou too!
But I that linger sadly on the earth,
Shortlived as fire, and fading as the dew,
Must dream thou hast a fairer destiny,
For him that marks thee truly: thou art meet
To gather healing from the gusty sky,
To give cool thoughts to travel-laden feet,
To serve unknown a secret ministry
Of honour and delight, and mysteries pure and sweet.
Are born for simple service; serve thou too!
But I that linger sadly on the earth,
Shortlived as fire, and fading as the dew,
Must dream thou hast a fairer destiny,
For him that marks thee truly: thou art meet
To gather healing from the gusty sky,
To give cool thoughts to travel-laden feet,
To serve unknown a secret ministry
Of honour and delight, and mysteries pure and sweet.
9
To me to-day thou speakest! let me hear
Thy certain voice, that hearing, I may taste
Thy sweet light-hearted rapture, void of fear
And envy, swift without inglorious haste.
Now that the level sunlight softly broods
On park and pasture, over field and fell,
And dims with haze the moorland solitudes,
I am attuned to listen, apt to spell
The solemn secret, hid in leagues of dreaming woods.
Thy certain voice, that hearing, I may taste
Thy sweet light-hearted rapture, void of fear
And envy, swift without inglorious haste.
Now that the level sunlight softly broods
On park and pasture, over field and fell,
And dims with haze the moorland solitudes,
I am attuned to listen, apt to spell
The solemn secret, hid in leagues of dreaming woods.
Ay, by thy tender pleading, gracious stream,
I am made patient: I am one with light
And glory; one with every sacred dream
Of pure delays and undiminished might.
One little step ascended nearer Heaven,
One vantage gained, that, howsoe'er I grieve,—
By din of fretful days dismayed and driven,—
Deep in my soul 'tis easier to believe
That all things are made new, all dark desires forgiven.
I am made patient: I am one with light
And glory; one with every sacred dream
Of pure delays and undiminished might.
One little step ascended nearer Heaven,
One vantage gained, that, howsoe'er I grieve,—
By din of fretful days dismayed and driven,—
Deep in my soul 'tis easier to believe
That all things are made new, all dark desires forgiven.
But see, the sun descends o'er Cusop hill,
And sudden shivers down the dingle run;
Cold is thy voice, inhospitable thrill,
That mock'st the smouldering embers of the sun.
The glory fades: my dreams are cold, are cold!
Homewards I hasten; yet within my heart
A treasure sleeps, not bought with any gold,
That shall outlast the striving and the smart
That weary hand and brain, where men are bought and sold.
And sudden shivers down the dingle run;
Cold is thy voice, inhospitable thrill,
That mock'st the smouldering embers of the sun.
The glory fades: my dreams are cold, are cold!
Homewards I hasten; yet within my heart
A treasure sleeps, not bought with any gold,
10
That weary hand and brain, where men are bought and sold.
Monnow, yet hear me, till my tale be done!
Speed all thy rushing waters, leap and dart,
Forget my mournful questioning: softly run!
Hast thou not spoken with me, heart to heart?
Such golden hours are few, as beacon-pyres
In high hill-places, that, one festal night,
Leap into roaring and tumultous fires,
To spell a people's joy from height to height
And bridge the jubilant tracts with infinite desires.
Speed all thy rushing waters, leap and dart,
Forget my mournful questioning: softly run!
Hast thou not spoken with me, heart to heart?
Such golden hours are few, as beacon-pyres
In high hill-places, that, one festal night,
Leap into roaring and tumultous fires,
To spell a people's joy from height to height
And bridge the jubilant tracts with infinite desires.
11
FRITILLARIES
Ay, he was dull and churlish, slow of speech
And diffident; he had no piteous arts,
No tricks of sly imposture;—but betrayed
The pride of rustic unaffectedness,
The sick disdain that frets a simple life,
Thrusting itself in unaccustomed haunts.
For now he plucked his faltering courage up,
And now the throng unnerved him;—long he stood
In wistful indecision, holding out
His sorry packages of wizened flowers,
Ill tied with clumsy fingers, trebly rude;
Yet half ashamed to seem to recommend
Their sordid limpness; shamefaced, with the air
Of some shy woodland creature that, ensnared
To make a show for gazers, is too proud
To win their welcome by caressing wiles,
Yet dumbly vexed at their indifference.
And diffident; he had no piteous arts,
No tricks of sly imposture;—but betrayed
The pride of rustic unaffectedness,
The sick disdain that frets a simple life,
Thrusting itself in unaccustomed haunts.
For now he plucked his faltering courage up,
And now the throng unnerved him;—long he stood
In wistful indecision, holding out
His sorry packages of wizened flowers,
Ill tied with clumsy fingers, trebly rude;
Yet half ashamed to seem to recommend
Their sordid limpness; shamefaced, with the air
Of some shy woodland creature that, ensnared
To make a show for gazers, is too proud
To win their welcome by caressing wiles,
Yet dumbly vexed at their indifference.
The summer day drew on; the early mists
That hid the topmost branches of the lime,
And screened the parapets and pinnacles,
Melted beneath the morning; the hot sun
Stared o'er the chimneys, and the dust was deep:
Then once again I saw him, as he stole
A furtive hand to break a crust of bread,
And ate ashamed—while still his sorry stock
Was undiminished; so again I came
Upon him, when the sun was flaring hot,
And his poor wares were undiminished still.
Then I was lost in pity, and drew near,
And asked him whence he came and what he sold,
And he “from Ensham, o'er the Oxford downs”—
(Muttering a score of undistinguished names)—
“Had walked all night, starting when twilight fell”;
“And these,” I questioned, “are fritillaries?”
“Snakeheads,” he answered, “rare outlandish things,
For such as love them; saw them in a croft
That fringed an upland down, a spot remote
From roads and houses, all unvisited;—
Had thought that townsfolk cared for curious things;
Himself he loved them, thought them magical;
Had now no work;—no fault of his;—the time
Was difficult, and there were hands enough
And mouths too many; so he brought them here;
Had thought he might have made a little by them.”
All this and more in simple speech he told,
Wondering and pleased that one should hearken to him.
That hid the topmost branches of the lime,
And screened the parapets and pinnacles,
Melted beneath the morning; the hot sun
Stared o'er the chimneys, and the dust was deep:
12
A furtive hand to break a crust of bread,
And ate ashamed—while still his sorry stock
Was undiminished; so again I came
Upon him, when the sun was flaring hot,
And his poor wares were undiminished still.
Then I was lost in pity, and drew near,
And asked him whence he came and what he sold,
And he “from Ensham, o'er the Oxford downs”—
(Muttering a score of undistinguished names)—
“Had walked all night, starting when twilight fell”;
“And these,” I questioned, “are fritillaries?”
“Snakeheads,” he answered, “rare outlandish things,
For such as love them; saw them in a croft
That fringed an upland down, a spot remote
From roads and houses, all unvisited;—
Had thought that townsfolk cared for curious things;
Himself he loved them, thought them magical;
Had now no work;—no fault of his;—the time
Was difficult, and there were hands enough
And mouths too many; so he brought them here;
Had thought he might have made a little by them.”
All this and more in simple speech he told,
Wondering and pleased that one should hearken to him.
I bent and fingered; rare and curious things
Indeed! no kinship theirs with homely flowers,
That bloom on gravelled hills, or in the waste,
Or in the tumbled pasture;—withered, dry,
Faint-tinted, spotted like an ocelot's skin,
Streaked like the banded viper, with their lean
Sleek stalks; uncanny, indeterminate;
Left, like the wrack of some unmeasured flood,
From dim primeval flora, fronds that waved
And branched long since in solitary fens,
Spurned by the bear and ragged buffalo;
Then,—when the blue-eyed tribes made head, and pierced
The forest, pricked the waste and made a home,—
Flared out, too wild to blossom 'neath the eyes
Of prying man; expired in sick disdain,
Yet left some score of shameless progeny,
In secret woods, like those resisting hordes,
That driven to Cornwall's fretted promontories,
Or hid in far Menevia, skulked and writhed
In mountain fastness, spake a clumsy tongue,
And kept unheeding their untutored ways.
Indeed! no kinship theirs with homely flowers,
13
Or in the tumbled pasture;—withered, dry,
Faint-tinted, spotted like an ocelot's skin,
Streaked like the banded viper, with their lean
Sleek stalks; uncanny, indeterminate;
Left, like the wrack of some unmeasured flood,
From dim primeval flora, fronds that waved
And branched long since in solitary fens,
Spurned by the bear and ragged buffalo;
Then,—when the blue-eyed tribes made head, and pierced
The forest, pricked the waste and made a home,—
Flared out, too wild to blossom 'neath the eyes
Of prying man; expired in sick disdain,
Yet left some score of shameless progeny,
In secret woods, like those resisting hordes,
That driven to Cornwall's fretted promontories,
Or hid in far Menevia, skulked and writhed
In mountain fastness, spake a clumsy tongue,
And kept unheeding their untutored ways.
“Would I buy more?” I would not: yet I gave
A coin, that made him stare and think me fool
Or foolish: then in gratitude he spoke,
Because I loved them, he would dig me roots,
And I should raise the strange unsightly things
Far from their own securer wilderness.
A coin, that made him stare and think me fool
Or foolish: then in gratitude he spoke,
Because I loved them, he would dig me roots,
And I should raise the strange unsightly things
Far from their own securer wilderness.
And so he did me reverence, and was gone
To ponder on the ways of city folk,
To cast his wasted wrecks unsold away,
Then seek elate the inviolable depths
Of woodland, far sequestered villages,
Where never stranger comes from year to year,—
Since in the world is no fit place to dwell.
To ponder on the ways of city folk,
To cast his wasted wrecks unsold away,
14
Of woodland, far sequestered villages,
Where never stranger comes from year to year,—
Since in the world is no fit place to dwell.
So dreams the poet, rises, breaks away
From his austere, unenvied reverie,
And strides toward the indifferent world, to learn
If he have power to move, to break their mirth,
To bid the laughter dwindle into sighs,
Or fill hard eyelids with absolving tears.
From his austere, unenvied reverie,
And strides toward the indifferent world, to learn
If he have power to move, to break their mirth,
To bid the laughter dwindle into sighs,
Or fill hard eyelids with absolving tears.
Strange growths he carries, children of dismay
And madness, echoes of the eternal voice
Half-heard through April woodlands, sound of winds
And bubbling streams, and dewy fancies pure
Pulled in dim thickets, when the upward rays
Gush from the intense rim of the hidden sun.
And madness, echoes of the eternal voice
Half-heard through April woodlands, sound of winds
And bubbling streams, and dewy fancies pure
Pulled in dim thickets, when the upward rays
Gush from the intense rim of the hidden sun.
He proffers, but the world will none of these;—
They clutch their toys, they strive for sensual bliss,
And few have leisure for the scent of Spring,
Save such as flying to the woodland, gain
Sharp sight through grief that tames the fevered pulse,
Or such as walking swiftly, find old Death
Sit in a sheltered arbour by the road;
And start from lean conventions, wrinkled fears,
To cast their eyes for once upon the stars.
They clutch their toys, they strive for sensual bliss,
And few have leisure for the scent of Spring,
Save such as flying to the woodland, gain
Sharp sight through grief that tames the fevered pulse,
Or such as walking swiftly, find old Death
Sit in a sheltered arbour by the road;
And start from lean conventions, wrinkled fears,
To cast their eyes for once upon the stars.
15
And so the wistful poet is disowned,
Draws back into himself, and drowns his soul
In some ethereal vision; to the sea
He hears the streams grow larger, feels the day
Shine purer, though uncleanly voices call,
And though the funeral horns blow harsh and high,
He sees the smile upon the face of God.
Draws back into himself, and drowns his soul
In some ethereal vision; to the sea
He hears the streams grow larger, feels the day
Shine purer, though uncleanly voices call,
And though the funeral horns blow harsh and high,
He sees the smile upon the face of God.
16
CHURCH WINDOWS
Old craftsmen of the Galilean lake,
Seems it not strange to you all day to stand
In these high minster windows, looking down
Upon uplifted faces, folded palms?
Each in his niche of costly carven work,
Crocket and spire and finial overhead,
And underfoot such radiant stones as those
Ye dreamed of, when your pure uplifted thought,
Withdrawn a moment from the raging world
That God makes fair and men make horrible,
Took shape in bright imaginings, and traced
The pearly city, paved with limpid gold,
Foursquare, mysterious.
Seems it not strange to you all day to stand
In these high minster windows, looking down
Upon uplifted faces, folded palms?
Each in his niche of costly carven work,
Crocket and spire and finial overhead,
And underfoot such radiant stones as those
Ye dreamed of, when your pure uplifted thought,
Withdrawn a moment from the raging world
That God makes fair and men make horrible,
Took shape in bright imaginings, and traced
The pearly city, paved with limpid gold,
Foursquare, mysterious.
Seems it strange to you
To feel the high sun beat and stream at noon
Through your ensanguined vesture, through the hands
Once rough with spray and cordage, now at length
White as some dainty scholar's, wan and thin
With long seclusion, while the altered ray,
Through curious gems and holy aureoles,
Paints hues of Paradise on sculptured stone?
Or when the organ rises, growing bold,
With all his crowded trumpets, soaring flutes,
Grave mellow diapasons, gushing out
With such a flood of sound, the leaden bands
That bind you, throb in shattering ecstasy,
What wonder if you dream that peace on earth
Grows perfect, and your kingdom comes indeed?
To feel the high sun beat and stream at noon
Through your ensanguined vesture, through the hands
Once rough with spray and cordage, now at length
White as some dainty scholar's, wan and thin
With long seclusion, while the altered ray,
Through curious gems and holy aureoles,
Paints hues of Paradise on sculptured stone?
17
With all his crowded trumpets, soaring flutes,
Grave mellow diapasons, gushing out
With such a flood of sound, the leaden bands
That bind you, throb in shattering ecstasy,
What wonder if you dream that peace on earth
Grows perfect, and your kingdom comes indeed?
Start ye to hear, in soft mellifluous tones,
When all the throng is hushed, the words ye said
In ignorance, before ye yet were wise,
The childish question, the uncertain claim,
The tale of all your desperate treachery,
(Before the Spirit flamed above your brows,)
When love and adoration were too weak
To meet the stern set look of scribes and priests,
The unclean jests of riotous legionaries,
And the long gleaming of those Roman spears?
When all the throng is hushed, the words ye said
In ignorance, before ye yet were wise,
The childish question, the uncertain claim,
The tale of all your desperate treachery,
(Before the Spirit flamed above your brows,)
When love and adoration were too weak
To meet the stern set look of scribes and priests,
The unclean jests of riotous legionaries,
And the long gleaming of those Roman spears?
Or when the hush is deepest, and you hear
The fiery speech of the forerunner, John,
John the wild hermit, the unquiet heart
Who cried and yearned and was unsatisfied,
And then the mild majestic voice of Him
Who was your Master first, and then your God,
(Too late for hope, but not too late for faith,)
And memory deepens till you almost see
The rolling wilderness, with ridge and vale,
Run to the Northern heights, the Mount, the streets
Of white Capernaum, and the boat that swayed
Upon the swelling of the azure tide,
While He yet spake; and evermore the ring
Of wondering faces, waiting to be fed.
The fiery speech of the forerunner, John,
John the wild hermit, the unquiet heart
Who cried and yearned and was unsatisfied,
And then the mild majestic voice of Him
Who was your Master first, and then your God,
(Too late for hope, but not too late for faith,)
And memory deepens till you almost see
The rolling wilderness, with ridge and vale,
Run to the Northern heights, the Mount, the streets
Of white Capernaum, and the boat that swayed
18
While He yet spake; and evermore the ring
Of wondering faces, waiting to be fed.
And do ye smile in sweet austerity
To hear yourselves extolled, your faltering faith,
Your weak endeavourings to pierce beyond
The night, the stars, the little labouring world,
To that high throne so infinitely far;
When the pale preacher waxing eloquent
Would make you demigods, not patient men
Who wept, and wondered, and but half believed?
To hear yourselves extolled, your faltering faith,
Your weak endeavourings to pierce beyond
The night, the stars, the little labouring world,
To that high throne so infinitely far;
When the pale preacher waxing eloquent
Would make you demigods, not patient men
Who wept, and wondered, and but half believed?
Then, when the lordly crowd streams out, to join
The merry world, and shoulder welcome cares,
And the mute handful of enraptured souls
Bend low in utter prayer, or gather round
To hear the words ye heard in Zion once,
In that bare upper room, when secret dread
O'ershadowed all the board, ere yet the night
Fell, and the stammering traitor crept apart
Too dark at heart to join the vesper hymn;
When bread and wine, too high for angels' food,
In paten rich and sacred chalice gleam,
Till veiled in secret snowy linen, stands
The unfinished feast, too sacred to behold,
Unlike the fragments of the meat divine,
Called in an instant from the winds of heaven,
Ye stored in sorry baskets, so to stay
Your hunger in the inhospitable wild.—
Say, is it strange? The world is full of woe,
Sharp torments, drear bewildering agonies,
Yet full of sweet surprises, sins forgiven,
And hopes fulfilled beyond the reach of hope.
The merry world, and shoulder welcome cares,
And the mute handful of enraptured souls
Bend low in utter prayer, or gather round
To hear the words ye heard in Zion once,
In that bare upper room, when secret dread
O'ershadowed all the board, ere yet the night
Fell, and the stammering traitor crept apart
Too dark at heart to join the vesper hymn;
When bread and wine, too high for angels' food,
In paten rich and sacred chalice gleam,
Till veiled in secret snowy linen, stands
The unfinished feast, too sacred to behold,
Unlike the fragments of the meat divine,
Called in an instant from the winds of heaven,
Ye stored in sorry baskets, so to stay
Your hunger in the inhospitable wild.—
Say, is it strange? The world is full of woe,
19
Yet full of sweet surprises, sins forgiven,
And hopes fulfilled beyond the reach of hope.
And He that in your midst is lifted up,
Branded and buffeted and crowned with scorn,
Looks with clear eyes beyond the low-hung mist
We move in, reads the secret of the stars,
Asks of the Father, and is not denied
The knowledge not allowed to restless brains,
The eternal cause, the all-sufficing end.
Branded and buffeted and crowned with scorn,
Looks with clear eyes beyond the low-hung mist
We move in, reads the secret of the stars,
Asks of the Father, and is not denied
The knowledge not allowed to restless brains,
The eternal cause, the all-sufficing end.
20
IN THE IRON CAGE
The saddest sight! Oh, there are sights and sounds
And thoughts enough in this brief world of ours
To wet with tears the stony face of Time,
Who has seen the suns flame out, the mountains piled,
And guesses at the vast designs of God.
And thoughts enough in this brief world of ours
To wet with tears the stony face of Time,
Who has seen the suns flame out, the mountains piled,
And guesses at the vast designs of God.
What think His angels, as they go and come
On some prodigious errand duly bent,
Whirled in the howling wind, or veiled in cloud,
Or in the shadowy columns of the rain,
To battle with the careless mountain peak
Or rend the forest, or intently charged
With storm and ruin for some innocent vale?
Care they for human griefs, for lifelong woes?
And would they stay the hand that strikes the blow,
Wipe, if they could, the bitter tears away?
And do they hide the head and steel the eye,
Too pure to question those permitted wrongs,
Too pitiful to see them and be glad?
On some prodigious errand duly bent,
Whirled in the howling wind, or veiled in cloud,
Or in the shadowy columns of the rain,
To battle with the careless mountain peak
Or rend the forest, or intently charged
With storm and ruin for some innocent vale?
Care they for human griefs, for lifelong woes?
And would they stay the hand that strikes the blow,
Wipe, if they could, the bitter tears away?
And do they hide the head and steel the eye,
Too pure to question those permitted wrongs,
Too pitiful to see them and be glad?
'Twas summer, summer on the pineclad mound,
On the low pastures and the rushing stream,
On the brown ribs of high enormous hills,
And on the cold transparencies of snow.
The great house blinked through all its shuttered blinds,
Light happy laughter echoed in the court,
And here and there an eager couple met
With interchange of airy compliment,
Light foot and fluttering vesture:—happy souls
Who live and still are fed, they know not how
Nor why, and mock the easy heaven they gave,
And that uneasy doom that waits for all.
On the low pastures and the rushing stream,
21
And on the cold transparencies of snow.
The great house blinked through all its shuttered blinds,
Light happy laughter echoed in the court,
And here and there an eager couple met
With interchange of airy compliment,
Light foot and fluttering vesture:—happy souls
Who live and still are fed, they know not how
Nor why, and mock the easy heaven they gave,
And that uneasy doom that waits for all.
Or down the steps a dusty climber came
Reddened and roughened, ripe with early suns,
Attended by a grave and frieze-clad guide:
Here in an arbour, screened by trailing vines,
A group of sturdy Swabians hourly sate;—
A score of bottles clinked upon the board,
And vapour streamed from many an oozy pipe.
Meanwhile they made unlovely argument
With shrill, insistent voices, of the way
They came, and what the cost of bite and sup.
Reddened and roughened, ripe with early suns,
Attended by a grave and frieze-clad guide:
Here in an arbour, screened by trailing vines,
A group of sturdy Swabians hourly sate;—
A score of bottles clinked upon the board,
And vapour streamed from many an oozy pipe.
Meanwhile they made unlovely argument
With shrill, insistent voices, of the way
They came, and what the cost of bite and sup.
I laughed, and thought the world was well content,
Not beautiful, nor wanting to be wise,
But kind and comely, gay and bountiful;
Heedless of all it fared so far to see,
The steadfast faces of the monstrous hills,
The far white horns, the black-ribbed precipices,
The good grave thunder of the waterfall
Among his dripping gorges, and the talk
Of streams, and whisper of the tasselled pines.
Not beautiful, nor wanting to be wise,
But kind and comely, gay and bountiful;
Heedless of all it fared so far to see,
The steadfast faces of the monstrous hills,
The far white horns, the black-ribbed precipices,
The good grave thunder of the waterfall
22
Of streams, and whisper of the tasselled pines.
Meanwhile I viewed, aside the merry din,
An iron cage bedizened and festooned,
That grimly in a sunless corner stood;
And peering in, amid the shadow, saw
The melancholy brooding yellow eyes
Of a great ruffled bird, that moping sate
With all his seemly feathers staring rough;
His great claws listlessly involved the perch,
His beak close shut, as in a dismal muse.
An iron cage bedizened and festooned,
That grimly in a sunless corner stood;
And peering in, amid the shadow, saw
The melancholy brooding yellow eyes
Of a great ruffled bird, that moping sate
With all his seemly feathers staring rough;
His great claws listlessly involved the perch,
His beak close shut, as in a dismal muse.
Suddenly from the court there broke and blared,
With delicate shiver of the violin,
And the low crooning of the labouring horn,
And piping tremulous flute, a minuet
Penned by a merry master of old time,
Amid the roses in a bower of May,
Thoughtless, and redolent of youth and love;—
Till all the jovial loiterers drew round
And hushed their prattle, and had thoughts of heaven.
With delicate shiver of the violin,
And the low crooning of the labouring horn,
And piping tremulous flute, a minuet
Penned by a merry master of old time,
Amid the roses in a bower of May,
Thoughtless, and redolent of youth and love;—
Till all the jovial loiterers drew round
And hushed their prattle, and had thoughts of heaven.
But those wild eyes dwelt ever on the hills,
Unmoved and unregarding—and a child
That strayed alone came idly to the cage,
And pushed a wondering finger: growing bold
He smoothed the starting down, and felt the mail
Of those black horny claws: but when he saw
The sad bird heeded not the shy caress,
Grew vexed, and reached, and smote him on the wing,
So that he staggered sidelong on the perch,
But gript again, and never turned his head.
Unmoved and unregarding—and a child
That strayed alone came idly to the cage,
And pushed a wondering finger: growing bold
He smoothed the starting down, and felt the mail
Of those black horny claws: but when he saw
The sad bird heeded not the shy caress,
23
So that he staggered sidelong on the perch,
But gript again, and never turned his head.
In that dim brain and dull bewildered sense,
He seemed once more to sail aloft the breeze,
To feel the strong sun beating on his wings,
To tread once more the powdered peak, and peer
Through all his cloudy valleys: or beneath
The dripping brow of some o'er-arching rock,
With harsh screams chide his loitering partner home.
He seemed once more to sail aloft the breeze,
To feel the strong sun beating on his wings,
To tread once more the powdered peak, and peer
Through all his cloudy valleys: or beneath
The dripping brow of some o'er-arching rock,
With harsh screams chide his loitering partner home.
Up to the hills he lifted longing eyes,
And waited for the help that never came;
Too proud to wonder what had torn him thence,
Too sad to mourn, too strong to be consoled.
And waited for the help that never came;
Too proud to wonder what had torn him thence,
Too sad to mourn, too strong to be consoled.
24
THOMAS GRAY
Utrumque sacro digna silentio
Mirantur umbrae dicere;—
Mirantur umbrae dicere;—
(Time; March, 1771. Place;—Rooms in the Hitcham Building of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. Gray is understood to speak.)
'Twas at Ferrara, in a palace court,—
The shafts methought of that vast colonnade
Too slim and slight to bear the incumbent mass
Of plinth and ashlar, and the luscious wreaths
Of fruit and foliage looped from knob to knob—
But that I hardly noted: 'twas a bird,
A monstrous bird, the tyrant of the crag,
With gilded claws and beak—a yellower fire
Flamed in his eye—that dragged a gilded chain
And ponderous ball, and loathed his servitude.
And once he raised himself with urgent wings
Winnowing the drowsy air, and grasped the frieze
With shrieking claws—but soon the swinging weight
Thrust him, all glaring, to the dust again,
So that he fiercely beat his prisoned wings,
And bit the unyielding metal, vexed at heart;—
I could have wept to hear the portress laugh.
The shafts methought of that vast colonnade
Too slim and slight to bear the incumbent mass
Of plinth and ashlar, and the luscious wreaths
Of fruit and foliage looped from knob to knob—
But that I hardly noted: 'twas a bird,
A monstrous bird, the tyrant of the crag,
With gilded claws and beak—a yellower fire
Flamed in his eye—that dragged a gilded chain
And ponderous ball, and loathed his servitude.
And once he raised himself with urgent wings
Winnowing the drowsy air, and grasped the frieze
With shrieking claws—but soon the swinging weight
Thrust him, all glaring, to the dust again,
So that he fiercely beat his prisoned wings,
And bit the unyielding metal, vexed at heart;—
25
And I of late, raising these weary eyes,
That taint the radiant beam with motes that flit
Across my vision, thick as summer flies,
Have seemed to see the baffled gaze, the glance
That sad bird cast about him, as he stared,
And snuffed the fragrant enervated air.
So strange a heaviness has grown of late
About me, from the hour when glimmering dawn
Peers through my latticed panes, and from the court
The wholesome sounds smite the distempered brain
With most unmanning horror, clutch the heart
In difficult panic, thick with labouring sighs;
Then in that shadow-land the dreaming mind—
Like some new fly with crumpled wings undried,
Breathless and dizzy from her unborn trance,—
Retraces step by step her backward road,
Down to the gates of nothing; dips her brush
To dash with radiant dyes what might have been,
But smears what is, and what is yet to be,
In most portentous dimness.
That taint the radiant beam with motes that flit
Across my vision, thick as summer flies,
Have seemed to see the baffled gaze, the glance
That sad bird cast about him, as he stared,
And snuffed the fragrant enervated air.
So strange a heaviness has grown of late
About me, from the hour when glimmering dawn
Peers through my latticed panes, and from the court
The wholesome sounds smite the distempered brain
With most unmanning horror, clutch the heart
In difficult panic, thick with labouring sighs;
Then in that shadow-land the dreaming mind—
Like some new fly with crumpled wings undried,
Breathless and dizzy from her unborn trance,—
Retraces step by step her backward road,
Down to the gates of nothing; dips her brush
To dash with radiant dyes what might have been,
But smears what is, and what is yet to be,
In most portentous dimness.
First I see
My mother, tender, careful, hard beset
With sordid fears and fierce unloving words,
And almost maddened with the faltering touch
Of all those baby hands about her breast,
That clung a moment and unclasped again,
And were not: yet to me, sad heir, bequeathed
The intolerable legacy of love,—
Dumb love, that dares not own itself enthralled,
Creep to the dear confessional of fate,
But from some piteous instinct, hangs amazed,
And slips into the silent throng again.
My mother, tender, careful, hard beset
With sordid fears and fierce unloving words,
And almost maddened with the faltering touch
Of all those baby hands about her breast,
That clung a moment and unclasped again,
And were not: yet to me, sad heir, bequeathed
The intolerable legacy of love,—
26
Creep to the dear confessional of fate,
But from some piteous instinct, hangs amazed,
And slips into the silent throng again.
Next, I remember how, a puny child,
I drowsed and fretted o'er the outlandish task,
Hard haunting names and misbegotten words,
Like barbarous arms and shells from over sea,—
Till all at once, as men, that pierce a well
And batter, dizzied with their own hot breath,
Drill through some cool and limpid reservoir,
And hear the din of waters breaking out,
Cooled through old years in green unnoted caves,
So, as I fumed, I was at once aware
Of magic hands that beckoned, robes that waved,
As though some pompous multitude swept by;
As Hermes drove to regions vexed and dim
The helpless ghosts, so Virgil waved his wand,
And faces grew upon the hollow air,
The snarling trumpets, and the noise of war.
I drowsed and fretted o'er the outlandish task,
Hard haunting names and misbegotten words,
Like barbarous arms and shells from over sea,—
Till all at once, as men, that pierce a well
And batter, dizzied with their own hot breath,
Drill through some cool and limpid reservoir,
And hear the din of waters breaking out,
Cooled through old years in green unnoted caves,
So, as I fumed, I was at once aware
Of magic hands that beckoned, robes that waved,
As though some pompous multitude swept by;
As Hermes drove to regions vexed and dim
The helpless ghosts, so Virgil waved his wand,
And faces grew upon the hollow air,
The snarling trumpets, and the noise of war.
And once, but once, since that wild thunder-stroke,
The voice of waters, deep, ineffable,
Hath thrilled my heart, when Ossian, shaggy-haired,
And veiled in flying rack of ragged cloud,
Swept from the Northern wild, and smote his harp
With such a stormy elemental rage,
It made me mad,—he with such yearning deep,
With such unconscious savage nakedness,
Out of the world's youth, impotent, half-beast,
Half-hero, leaned and cried upon the air.
The voice of waters, deep, ineffable,
Hath thrilled my heart, when Ossian, shaggy-haired,
And veiled in flying rack of ragged cloud,
Swept from the Northern wild, and smote his harp
With such a stormy elemental rage,
It made me mad,—he with such yearning deep,
With such unconscious savage nakedness,
27
Half-hero, leaned and cried upon the air.
My sober manhood gained, not apt for jest
Or loud uproarious revel, such a maze
Of intertwined and tortuous passages,
By which mankind wind backward to the dim
And wailing Chaos, to the feet of God,
Yawned vague before me, that I hastened on,
And so, through many a dim and dreaming day,
Wandered alone in labyrinthine glooms,
And trackless wastes, with sight of giant souls,
Whose robes I seemed to touch, and see their brows
Contracted grim, and hear their muttered speech:
Bishops and earls, tyrants and orators,
Hugh with caressing gestures, Hereward
With lion's mane, Morcar and Waltheof,
Edward Confessor with his maiden flush,
And Alfred, with a demon at his brain
And clouded eyes at council; Alcuin
And stately Charlemagne; the pomp of Rome,—
Pale Nero softly smiling, Cato stern,
Imperial Cæsar with his haggard brow,
And Sulla with the blotched and seamy face;
Or Alexander flashed, a meteor light,
In sudden radiance; Alcibiades
Divinely insolent, and Socrates
Battered and bruised in some prodigious strife.
All these I saw, and lingered, glad at heart,
In stately harbourage of gardens cool,
By splashing fountains, leafy colonnades,
White temples, bosomed deep in swelling woods,
Where slender statues seemed to tread on air.
Or loud uproarious revel, such a maze
Of intertwined and tortuous passages,
By which mankind wind backward to the dim
And wailing Chaos, to the feet of God,
Yawned vague before me, that I hastened on,
And so, through many a dim and dreaming day,
Wandered alone in labyrinthine glooms,
And trackless wastes, with sight of giant souls,
Whose robes I seemed to touch, and see their brows
Contracted grim, and hear their muttered speech:
Bishops and earls, tyrants and orators,
Hugh with caressing gestures, Hereward
With lion's mane, Morcar and Waltheof,
Edward Confessor with his maiden flush,
And Alfred, with a demon at his brain
And clouded eyes at council; Alcuin
And stately Charlemagne; the pomp of Rome,—
Pale Nero softly smiling, Cato stern,
Imperial Cæsar with his haggard brow,
And Sulla with the blotched and seamy face;
Or Alexander flashed, a meteor light,
In sudden radiance; Alcibiades
Divinely insolent, and Socrates
Battered and bruised in some prodigious strife.
All these I saw, and lingered, glad at heart,
In stately harbourage of gardens cool,
By splashing fountains, leafy colonnades,
28
Where slender statues seemed to tread on air.
And lastly, wearied of that bright young world
Of eager glances, laughing certainty,
I turned away, and drove my plough afield
In tangled wastes, Bengala and Cathay,
And stumbled through the tombs of nameless kings,
Old dynasties, and fierce outlandish saints,
Gods, demigods, till like a river vast
From cold Siberian hills, the stream of time,
By haggard capes and icy promontories,
Weltered and widened to a shapeless sea.
Of eager glances, laughing certainty,
I turned away, and drove my plough afield
In tangled wastes, Bengala and Cathay,
And stumbled through the tombs of nameless kings,
Old dynasties, and fierce outlandish saints,
Gods, demigods, till like a river vast
From cold Siberian hills, the stream of time,
By haggard capes and icy promontories,
Weltered and widened to a shapeless sea.
Yet to what purpose all this waste of years?
These vast abandoned schemes, these hopeless hopes?
I know not: save it were to warm and soothe
The shuddering soul, that fills its prison walls,
When blank and bare, with scrawls of boding fate,
And filmy shapes and dreary fantasies,
Yet pleased perchance — I bare my inmost thought!—
With shadowy fame, that like a royal cloak
Hung loose, and masked my wasted, naked frame.
And, while I scorned the crowd, yet pleased to note
That I was noted,—ah the sorry thought!—
When idle babblers hushed their vacant talk
To gaze at me, and whisper I was one
Who held deep converse with the secret muse.
It pleased me, ay it pleased, to wrest respect
For me, the scrivener's son, from ancient names,
Effete inheritors of sires, whose deeds
Are stamped and blazoned on the storied page;—
For witness ye:—beside our garden-end,
Behind the leafy butts, where Ridley loved
To walk, and con the scripture o'er and o'er,—
The hollow vaulted sphere of plaster, daubed
To show the posture of the firmament
To gazers, wondering at the measured chinks,
The levers and the wheels, who briskly praise
Our learned eccentric's ingenuities
Agape, yet never wondered at the stars,
Or stayed to gaze upon the enormous night.
These vast abandoned schemes, these hopeless hopes?
I know not: save it were to warm and soothe
The shuddering soul, that fills its prison walls,
When blank and bare, with scrawls of boding fate,
And filmy shapes and dreary fantasies,
Yet pleased perchance — I bare my inmost thought!—
With shadowy fame, that like a royal cloak
Hung loose, and masked my wasted, naked frame.
And, while I scorned the crowd, yet pleased to note
That I was noted,—ah the sorry thought!—
When idle babblers hushed their vacant talk
To gaze at me, and whisper I was one
Who held deep converse with the secret muse.
It pleased me, ay it pleased, to wrest respect
29
Effete inheritors of sires, whose deeds
Are stamped and blazoned on the storied page;—
For witness ye:—beside our garden-end,
Behind the leafy butts, where Ridley loved
To walk, and con the scripture o'er and o'er,—
The hollow vaulted sphere of plaster, daubed
To show the posture of the firmament
To gazers, wondering at the measured chinks,
The levers and the wheels, who briskly praise
Our learned eccentric's ingenuities
Agape, yet never wondered at the stars,
Or stayed to gaze upon the enormous night.
O Earth, farewell, my Earth, whom I have loved
More like a patient lover than a child,
O leafy aisles, and winding rushy glades,
Deep forest dingles, where I loved to lie
Sequestered, while the sun wheeled overhead,
And westering tinged the glimmering boles with fire;—
The ragged raincloud beating from the West,
The pure and spacious morning:—I have watched
With faithful heart, and fond obsequious eye,
The sweep of punctual seasons, when the spring
Enlaced the privet hedge with tender spears,
And sudden greenness leapt from bush to bush,
When swelled the peach, when bulged the buxom plum,
When birds were mute, or fluted shrill and high,
What time the figtree furled her leafy claw,
And yellowing planetrees dangled velvet balls.
More like a patient lover than a child,
O leafy aisles, and winding rushy glades,
Deep forest dingles, where I loved to lie
Sequestered, while the sun wheeled overhead,
And westering tinged the glimmering boles with fire;—
The ragged raincloud beating from the West,
The pure and spacious morning:—I have watched
With faithful heart, and fond obsequious eye,
The sweep of punctual seasons, when the spring
Enlaced the privet hedge with tender spears,
30
When swelled the peach, when bulged the buxom plum,
When birds were mute, or fluted shrill and high,
What time the figtree furled her leafy claw,
And yellowing planetrees dangled velvet balls.
Ay, in pursuit of some unheeded spirit,
My weary foot in trackless solitudes
Has threaded slow, by high and heathery moors,
Through passes, where the dripping ledges lean
Together, and the writhing rowan clings,
And shows her fretted leaf against the sky,
Up to the brows of white and haggard rocks,
And shoots of stone, and caves, where clammy drops
Distil in horror from flinty the brows
Of mountains, monstrous fantasies of God.
My weary foot in trackless solitudes
Has threaded slow, by high and heathery moors,
Through passes, where the dripping ledges lean
Together, and the writhing rowan clings,
And shows her fretted leaf against the sky,
Up to the brows of white and haggard rocks,
And shoots of stone, and caves, where clammy drops
Distil in horror from flinty the brows
Of mountains, monstrous fantasies of God.
All these I would have sung, but dim constraint
Pressed close my stammering lips and trembling tongue;
It needs some ready singer, some young heart
To throw a sacred sunshine of its own
On these dark haunts, and read the riddle right
Of monstrous laws, that work their purpose out
For trembling man, unheeding how they crush
A thousand hopes, so one sure step be gained,
One soul set higher on the stairs of God.
Not I, who scarce, through sad laborious days,
Can write, and blot, and write the languid verse,
Erase the erring strophe, gild the rhyme,
Set and reset the curious epithet,
And prune the rich parenthesis away;
Then thrust, but with a secret tenderness,
As erring maidens clasp their babes of shame,
My puny, piteous weakling from the doors.
Pressed close my stammering lips and trembling tongue;
It needs some ready singer, some young heart
To throw a sacred sunshine of its own
On these dark haunts, and read the riddle right
Of monstrous laws, that work their purpose out
For trembling man, unheeding how they crush
A thousand hopes, so one sure step be gained,
One soul set higher on the stairs of God.
Not I, who scarce, through sad laborious days,
Can write, and blot, and write the languid verse,
Erase the erring strophe, gild the rhyme,
31
And prune the rich parenthesis away;
Then thrust, but with a secret tenderness,
As erring maidens clasp their babes of shame,
My puny, piteous weakling from the doors.
And you, my friends, whose souls are knit with mine,
I would not linger late, and make parade
Of ceremonious weakness, fond adieux,
With grave-eyed piteous faces round my bed;
For some are passed beyond the life I know,
Who smile and beckon me in sudden dreams
With most unearthly radiance; some forget
The gracious years, or flourish, whirled away
On fuller tides; Horace, the ailing lord
Of plaster palaces and hollow groves,
Absorbed in half-a-hundred tiny arts,
Master of none; who cannot learn to merge
The fretful patron in the equal friend;—
The plump precentor, with his tragedies
And pompous odes, that tune their notes from mine
Yet droop and wither to a sickly end.
And last and dearest, he who flashed across
My wintry gloom, a sweet and vivid ray,
Flashed from a land of ancient mountainous snows,
Himself more pure, and charmed me from myself,
Out of my shadowy cave of bitter thoughts,
To that forgotten sunshine—seized my hands
With laughing hands, and drew from me my store
Of hoarded learning, while I learnt from him,
From those pure eyes so sweetly raised to mine,
By youthful jest and petulant questioning,
To stablish and repair my ancient faith
In gracious love and sweet humanities,
That in my sunless gloom had half decayed.
I would not linger late, and make parade
Of ceremonious weakness, fond adieux,
With grave-eyed piteous faces round my bed;
For some are passed beyond the life I know,
Who smile and beckon me in sudden dreams
With most unearthly radiance; some forget
The gracious years, or flourish, whirled away
On fuller tides; Horace, the ailing lord
Of plaster palaces and hollow groves,
Absorbed in half-a-hundred tiny arts,
Master of none; who cannot learn to merge
The fretful patron in the equal friend;—
The plump precentor, with his tragedies
And pompous odes, that tune their notes from mine
Yet droop and wither to a sickly end.
And last and dearest, he who flashed across
My wintry gloom, a sweet and vivid ray,
32
Himself more pure, and charmed me from myself,
Out of my shadowy cave of bitter thoughts,
To that forgotten sunshine—seized my hands
With laughing hands, and drew from me my store
Of hoarded learning, while I learnt from him,
From those pure eyes so sweetly raised to mine,
By youthful jest and petulant questioning,
To stablish and repair my ancient faith
In gracious love and sweet humanities,
That in my sunless gloom had half decayed.
Farewell, beloved; child of my heart, farewell!
And ere the dark stream thrust me from the shore,
Know that these failing lips at last pronounced
A thousand blessings on my tender child.
And ere the dark stream thrust me from the shore,
Know that these failing lips at last pronounced
A thousand blessings on my tender child.
And now once more, before the dizzy will
Relax her tremulous grip, ere nerve and limb
Prove traitor to the faint and failing brain,
I will look forth upon the spacious heaven,
Will mount the battlemented tower, and see
League upon league the interminable fen
Ripple his steely waters to the wind,
Glint in the horizon, break in reedy waves
On wooded islands crowned with byre and barn,
Where all day long the goodman biding hears
No sound save clack of waters, or the drum
Of bittern, or the curlew's whistle faint,
Or scream of ruffs, that stamp the marge to mire,
Or booming of a culver down the marsh,
Or grave entreating bells, that ring the folk
To sermon, in the pauses of the wind.
Relax her tremulous grip, ere nerve and limb
Prove traitor to the faint and failing brain,
I will look forth upon the spacious heaven,
Will mount the battlemented tower, and see
League upon league the interminable fen
Ripple his steely waters to the wind,
Glint in the horizon, break in reedy waves
On wooded islands crowned with byre and barn,
Where all day long the goodman biding hears
33
Of bittern, or the curlew's whistle faint,
Or scream of ruffs, that stamp the marge to mire,
Or booming of a culver down the marsh,
Or grave entreating bells, that ring the folk
To sermon, in the pauses of the wind.
But I, beyond the fen, the holy towers,
Beyond the sluggish sea that laps the ooze
With melancholy murmur, hear a cry
That calls me, and is answered by the lapse
Of pulses throbbing faint, intimate pangs
Abhorred; as old dismantled priories,
That seem to doze across the summer fields,
Yet slip, dismembered by the intruding frost,
That cracks their hoary bones, and as they muse,
With sudden start and shock portend decay.
Beyond the sluggish sea that laps the ooze
With melancholy murmur, hear a cry
That calls me, and is answered by the lapse
Of pulses throbbing faint, intimate pangs
Abhorred; as old dismantled priories,
That seem to doze across the summer fields,
Yet slip, dismembered by the intruding frost,
That cracks their hoary bones, and as they muse,
With sudden start and shock portend decay.
Dr. Roger Long, Master of Pembroke and Lowndean Professor of Astronomy (d. 1770), a learned and eccentric man, constructed a species of orrery or celestial sphere in a domed building in the corner of the inner court of Pembroke.
34
PEACE
Along the lonely valley's grassy floor
I wandered long; the seaward breeze blew cool
Over the grey stones and the windswept moor;
And foaming down from pool to emerald pool
The clear stream leapt; on either side the high
Grey bastions steadfast hung; how still the vale!
No sound save rustling grasses, or the cry
Of sheep on bare hill-ledges, or the wail
Of gulls aloft, on vague and aimless quest that sail.
I wandered long; the seaward breeze blew cool
Over the grey stones and the windswept moor;
And foaming down from pool to emerald pool
The clear stream leapt; on either side the high
Grey bastions steadfast hung; how still the vale!
No sound save rustling grasses, or the cry
Of sheep on bare hill-ledges, or the wail
Of gulls aloft, on vague and aimless quest that sail.
Yet here at length is peace, or seeming peace;—
Elsewhere the world may change, but ah, not here!
Far to the South the shameless towns increase,
Their smoke-stained fronts the rumbling factories rear,
Yet here, it seems, a thousand years ago,
The dreaming mind no difference might descry;
Even so the hills were silent; even so
The crisp grass clung—the wistful wind crept by,
The dimpled pool lay smiling at the stainless sky.
Elsewhere the world may change, but ah, not here!
Far to the South the shameless towns increase,
Their smoke-stained fronts the rumbling factories rear,
Yet here, it seems, a thousand years ago,
The dreaming mind no difference might descry;
Even so the hills were silent; even so
35
The dimpled pool lay smiling at the stainless sky.
Higher I mount, thridding the trackless hill,
O'er tumbled cataracts of shapeless stones,
Till now the streams are silent, where the chill
And shivering mountain shows his haggard bones.
I gain the peak; and lo, the fertile land
Lies like a chart; the river wanders wide
In shining loops; on yellow leagues of sand
Soft creeps the white-rimmed sea—and, far descried,
The shadowy hills of hope beyond the golden tide!
O'er tumbled cataracts of shapeless stones,
Till now the streams are silent, where the chill
And shivering mountain shows his haggard bones.
I gain the peak; and lo, the fertile land
Lies like a chart; the river wanders wide
In shining loops; on yellow leagues of sand
Soft creeps the white-rimmed sea—and, far descried,
The shadowy hills of hope beyond the golden tide!
From hamlet roofs, embowered deep in wood,
The blue smoke rising hangs; the burdened heart
Saith softly to itself, “'twere surely good
Within yon quiet land to dwell apart!”
Yet there poor hearts are restless, even there
They pine for love, they scheme for simple gain,
And some are sunk in heavy-eyed despair,
And weary life of lasting rest is fain,
And fevered sufferers count the sad slow hours of pain.
The blue smoke rising hangs; the burdened heart
Saith softly to itself, “'twere surely good
Within yon quiet land to dwell apart!”
Yet there poor hearts are restless, even there
They pine for love, they scheme for simple gain,
And some are sunk in heavy-eyed despair,
And weary life of lasting rest is fain,
And fevered sufferers count the sad slow hours of pain.
“Nay, nay, not thus,” the ardent mind replies,
“Long is delight and short the hour of woe;
Warm hearts are glad with children's happy cries,
And lovers linger when the light is low.”
Ah me, I know it—but the brightness done,
The failing life its darkening harbour nears,—
A heap of mouldering turf, a carven stone,
A lonely grief that fades, through faithful tears,
Fades to a gentle tale among the shadowy years.
“Long is delight and short the hour of woe;
36
And lovers linger when the light is low.”
Ah me, I know it—but the brightness done,
The failing life its darkening harbour nears,—
A heap of mouldering turf, a carven stone,
A lonely grief that fades, through faithful tears,
Fades to a gentle tale among the shadowy years.
I am not weary of the kindly earth,
Nay, I am fain of honour and delight;
I bless the patient hour that gave me birth,
I shudder at the nearer-creeping night;
But I have dreams of something deeper yet,
A steadfast joy that daily should increase,
Warm glowing 'neath the ashes of regret;
Not dull content that comes when ardours cease,
But peace divinely bright, unconquerable peace.
Nay, I am fain of honour and delight;
I bless the patient hour that gave me birth,
I shudder at the nearer-creeping night;
But I have dreams of something deeper yet,
A steadfast joy that daily should increase,
Warm glowing 'neath the ashes of regret;
Not dull content that comes when ardours cease,
But peace divinely bright, unconquerable peace.
Each morn I would arise with tranquil heart,
Not boding ill unknown, and simply take
The burden of the day, and play my part
As not for self, but for some loved one's sake;
For love makes light of trouble, if it gain
The smile of the Beloved, if it know
That One is spared the lightest touch of pain;
For this is life's best guerdon, to forego
Light pleasure, if it serve the Best-beloved so.
Not boding ill unknown, and simply take
The burden of the day, and play my part
As not for self, but for some loved one's sake;
For love makes light of trouble, if it gain
The smile of the Beloved, if it know
That One is spared the lightest touch of pain;
For this is life's best guerdon, to forego
Light pleasure, if it serve the Best-beloved so.
37
Life is not life, if in inglorious sloth
The dull days pass, the years unheeded roll;
The grievous message comes, the friend is wroth,
And little slights must sting the aching soul;
Tho' I be bent on service, even then
Rich gratitude for heedless favours given,
Impatient deeds, that win from patient men
Much thanks, upbraid me, who so ill have striven,
Yet give me gracious glimpses of the mind of Heaven.
The dull days pass, the years unheeded roll;
The grievous message comes, the friend is wroth,
And little slights must sting the aching soul;
Tho' I be bent on service, even then
Rich gratitude for heedless favours given,
Impatient deeds, that win from patient men
Much thanks, upbraid me, who so ill have striven,
Yet give me gracious glimpses of the mind of Heaven.
Not here nor there is peace to be achieved,
The mind must change, and not the earthly scene;
And how shall he who once hath truly grieved
Gain hope and strength to be secure, serene?
Not by forgetting shall such rest be earned,
Nor with closed eyes that dare not see the light,
But facing loss and death, and having learned
What hope remains, what heritage of might—
Then on the fearful heart dawns the unhoped-for light.
The mind must change, and not the earthly scene;
And how shall he who once hath truly grieved
Gain hope and strength to be secure, serene?
Not by forgetting shall such rest be earned,
Nor with closed eyes that dare not see the light,
But facing loss and death, and having learned
What hope remains, what heritage of might—
Then on the fearful heart dawns the unhoped-for light.
And not in youth can this be inly seen,
Not till the years have dimmed the dinted shield;
Not till the stern thought of what might have been
Hath pierced the spirit, and the wound is healed.
Youth dreams of love and conquest, generous dreams,
Nought is too high but he shall dare to climb;
Then, when in mid ascent the summit seems
More steep than Heaven itself, more old than Time,
Then dawns the light, and makes the broken life sublime.
Not till the years have dimmed the dinted shield;
Not till the stern thought of what might have been
38
Youth dreams of love and conquest, generous dreams,
Nought is too high but he shall dare to climb;
Then, when in mid ascent the summit seems
More steep than Heaven itself, more old than Time,
Then dawns the light, and makes the broken life sublime.
Then falls the stress of battle, which shall prove
What spirit best inspired the ardent dream;
And only he that based his hope in love
Shall reach the height where dawns the fitful gleam;
For one is marred in sickness, one in health,
And one is fettered with a chain of care,
And one is spent in piling useless wealth,
And one in petty triumphs, thin as air,
And few set foot upon the upward-climbing stair.
What spirit best inspired the ardent dream;
And only he that based his hope in love
Shall reach the height where dawns the fitful gleam;
For one is marred in sickness, one in health,
And one is fettered with a chain of care,
And one is spent in piling useless wealth,
And one in petty triumphs, thin as air,
And few set foot upon the upward-climbing stair.
But he that hath not bound his clouded mind
With care, or foolish hope, or vile desire,
He shall be strong, and resolute to find
True gold in ashes of the sinking fire;
He, if the world shall call him, simply great,
Shall do high deeds, and care not for the praise;
Or be high place denied, not less elate,
In some green corner shall live out his days,
And lavish all his best in simple seemly ways.
With care, or foolish hope, or vile desire,
He shall be strong, and resolute to find
True gold in ashes of the sinking fire;
He, if the world shall call him, simply great,
Shall do high deeds, and care not for the praise;
Or be high place denied, not less elate,
In some green corner shall live out his days,
And lavish all his best in simple seemly ways.
39
Then when the sands of life fall rare and light,
Then when the spent keel grates upon the sand,
No matter whether victor in the fight
Or vanquished, so the fight was greatly planned!
His soul shall be all lit with golden gleams,
As when, between the darkness and the day,
The sinking sun, with thrice-ennobling beams,
Gilds with unearthly grace and richer ray
Familiar fields and trees, covert and winding way.
Then when the spent keel grates upon the sand,
No matter whether victor in the fight
Or vanquished, so the fight was greatly planned!
His soul shall be all lit with golden gleams,
As when, between the darkness and the day,
The sinking sun, with thrice-ennobling beams,
Gilds with unearthly grace and richer ray
Familiar fields and trees, covert and winding way.
Peace, Peace, what art thou? Is it truth they hold
Who deem that in the world thou art not found?
I know indeed thou art not bought or sold,
But I have seen thee, robed in sight and sound;
An hour ago, where yonder glimmering pool
Gleams in the brown moor like a silver isle,
I sate to hear the water lapping cool;
She came, my dreaming spirit to beguile,
Finger on lip, and downcast eyes that seemed to smile.
Who deem that in the world thou art not found?
I know indeed thou art not bought or sold,
But I have seen thee, robed in sight and sound;
An hour ago, where yonder glimmering pool
Gleams in the brown moor like a silver isle,
I sate to hear the water lapping cool;
She came, my dreaming spirit to beguile,
Finger on lip, and downcast eyes that seemed to smile.
Nay, she is near us yet—'tis only we
Have lost the skill to hear her shyly pass,
When she with swift and viewless mystery
Fleets like the breeze across the bending grass;
Not in the gaps of profitable toil,
Not in weak intervals of feverish haste
May she be wooed; but when from stain and soil
Our hands are free, and weakness proudly faced,
Then may the gracious form be sisterly embraced.
Have lost the skill to hear her shyly pass,
When she with swift and viewless mystery
Fleets like the breeze across the bending grass;
40
Not in weak intervals of feverish haste
May she be wooed; but when from stain and soil
Our hands are free, and weakness proudly faced,
Then may the gracious form be sisterly embraced.
Ah—unsubstantial prize, ah, faint reward!
Is then the cold gift of thy temperate hand
No carnal triumph of the empurpled sword,
No fiery thought that thrills the awestruck land?
But quiet hours, and sober silent truth,
That not in envy, not in acrid scorn,
Can set aside the elvish dreams of youth,
The haggard fears, of age and languor born,
Patient with both, and if alone yet not forlorn?
Is then the cold gift of thy temperate hand
No carnal triumph of the empurpled sword,
No fiery thought that thrills the awestruck land?
But quiet hours, and sober silent truth,
That not in envy, not in acrid scorn,
Can set aside the elvish dreams of youth,
The haggard fears, of age and languor born,
Patient with both, and if alone yet not forlorn?
While thus I mused, the day as though in pain
Turned pale and shivered; soon the west was cold.
The glancing stonechat piped his thin refrain,
And made the hills more silent, grey, and old.
Swiftly I went, and leaping downwards gained
The green trim valley, leaving sad and stern
The huge rock-ramparts, scarred and torrent-stained,
And bursting swiftly through the crackling fern,
Saw through the tree-stems black the orange sunset burn.
Turned pale and shivered; soon the west was cold.
The glancing stonechat piped his thin refrain,
And made the hills more silent, grey, and old.
Swiftly I went, and leaping downwards gained
The green trim valley, leaving sad and stern
The huge rock-ramparts, scarred and torrent-stained,
And bursting swiftly through the crackling fern,
Saw through the tree-stems black the orange sunset burn.
41
TO OUR MOTHER
(January, 1901)
O pure and true, O faithful heart,
Dear mother of our myriad race,
The Father claims thee,—His thou art—
Far hence in some serener place,
To taste, in that diviner air,
The love that thou hast garnered there.
Dear mother of our myriad race,
The Father claims thee,—His thou art—
Far hence in some serener place,
To taste, in that diviner air,
The love that thou hast garnered there.
O crown of love, to live and bear
Life's highest sorrows, deepest, best!
The griefs that might have sown despair
Bloomed fruitful in thy patient breast.
And now thou goest, robed in light,
From love in faith, to love in sight.
Life's highest sorrows, deepest, best!
The griefs that might have sown despair
Bloomed fruitful in thy patient breast.
And now thou goest, robed in light,
From love in faith, to love in sight.
We dare not speak of glory now;
We will not think of pomp and pride;
Tho' listening nations veil their brow,
And sorrow at Victoria's side.
The silent Orient wondering hears
The tale of all thy gracious years.
We will not think of pomp and pride;
Tho' listening nations veil their brow,
And sorrow at Victoria's side.
The silent Orient wondering hears
The tale of all thy gracious years.
42
For men of after-time shall say,
“She was so humble, being great,
That Reason mocked at civil fray,
And Freedom reigned in sober state;
She ruled, not seemed to rule, her land,
More apt to guide than to command.”
“She was so humble, being great,
That Reason mocked at civil fray,
And Freedom reigned in sober state;
She ruled, not seemed to rule, her land,
More apt to guide than to command.”
And we would mourn thee, not as they
Who weep irreparable loss;
But grateful for the dear delay,
Beneath the shadow of the cross,
Our tearful eyes to Heaven we lift,
And render back the precious gift.
Who weep irreparable loss;
But grateful for the dear delay,
Beneath the shadow of the cross,
Our tearful eyes to Heaven we lift,
And render back the precious gift.
And men must pass, and tears be dried,
And younger hearts who have not known
That tender presence, gracious-eyed,
The loving secret of the throne,
Shall wonder at the proud regret
That crowns thee, and shall crown thee yet.
And younger hearts who have not known
That tender presence, gracious-eyed,
The loving secret of the throne,
Shall wonder at the proud regret
That crowns thee, and shall crown thee yet.
Peace, come away! Thou sleep'st beside
The rugged immemorial sea,
Where year by year thy navies glide,
And dream of ancient victory;—
And thou—thou farest forth to prove
The last, best victory of Love.
The rugged immemorial sea,
Where year by year thy navies glide,
And dream of ancient victory;—
And thou—thou farest forth to prove
The last, best victory of Love.
43
ODE IN MEMORY OF THE RT. HONBLE. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE
Et pavit eos in innocentia cordis sui: et intellectibus manuum
suarum deduxit eos.
Give thanks to God! our Hero is at rest,
Who more than all hath laboured, striven, aspired;
And now hath won his sleep—the last—the best
His soul desired.
Who more than all hath laboured, striven, aspired;
And now hath won his sleep—the last—the best
His soul desired.
Now, though the warlike rumours swiftly run,
Though mighty nations toss in fierce unrest,
Though the harsh thunder of the throbbing gun
Roars in the West,
Though mighty nations toss in fierce unrest,
Though the harsh thunder of the throbbing gun
Roars in the West,
Here all is still: beneath his castle walls
Sprouts blade, and bush, and every tender thing,
And hark, the jocund throstle! how she calls
To Hope and Spring!
Sprouts blade, and bush, and every tender thing,
And hark, the jocund throstle! how she calls
To Hope and Spring!
44
Peace on the smitten hearts that sorrow near!
Now that the toil-worn warrior sinks to sleep,
The nations listen, half afraid to hear
A nation weep;
Now that the toil-worn warrior sinks to sleep,
The nations listen, half afraid to hear
A nation weep;
And patriots weep, strong souls on alien shores,
And men whose feet with saving peace are shod,
And every heart that silently adores
Freedom and God.
And men whose feet with saving peace are shod,
And every heart that silently adores
Freedom and God.
Freedom and God!—these first—but still he served
All peaceful labours, and the world's strong youth;
Yet in the wildest onset, never swerved
From sternest truth.
All peaceful labours, and the world's strong youth;
Yet in the wildest onset, never swerved
From sternest truth.
The fight he scorned not; 'twas the prize he scorned!
He chose the scars and not the gauds of fame,
Gave crowns to others, keeping unadorned
His homely name,
He chose the scars and not the gauds of fame,
Gave crowns to others, keeping unadorned
His homely name,
Spring after spring, beneath the budding elm,
Not worn with toil, yet joyful in release,
He shook the dust of battle from his helm,
And practised peace.
Not worn with toil, yet joyful in release,
He shook the dust of battle from his helm,
And practised peace.
Intent for rest—as he had hardly fought—
Hid from the world, the uproar and the fret,
Plunged in an instant in serener thought,
He could forget!
Hid from the world, the uproar and the fret,
Plunged in an instant in serener thought,
He could forget!
45
While yet his words made havoc of men's fears,
And thrilled reverberant through the spell-bound throng,
Smiling he stept from empire, to the years
Through time, through song,
And thrilled reverberant through the spell-bound throng,
Smiling he stept from empire, to the years
Through time, through song,
Immortal made, old knights and spouses true;
And far as his enkindled eyes could scan,
He shot his arrowy thought, and pierced, and knew
The soul of man.
And far as his enkindled eyes could scan,
He shot his arrowy thought, and pierced, and knew
The soul of man.
Or in the village temple, morn by morn,
He cleansed his pure heart with a humble prayer,
And rose on Zion's songs, beyond the bourne
Of earthly care;
He cleansed his pure heart with a humble prayer,
And rose on Zion's songs, beyond the bourne
Of earthly care;
And last the Father willed one pang of love,
From wisdom's fiercest fire, one glowing coal
Should touch his lips, to chasten and to prove
The stainless soul.
From wisdom's fiercest fire, one glowing coal
Should touch his lips, to chasten and to prove
The stainless soul.
Swift, swift was patience perfect: where he lay,
What heart could fail, what lips could murmur then?
He whispered, 'twixt the darkness and the day,
His faint Amen.
What heart could fail, what lips could murmur then?
He whispered, 'twixt the darkness and the day,
His faint Amen.
Eton, remember! How shall men forget
Thy heroes' roll, thy burden of renown,
The bright surpassing jewels strongly set
Within thy crown,
Thy heroes' roll, thy burden of renown,
The bright surpassing jewels strongly set
Within thy crown,
46
Till God's vast purpose silently enfold
The thoughts that are not and the things that are,
Till mercy reign, in gentle glory rolled
From star to star?
The thoughts that are not and the things that are,
Till mercy reign, in gentle glory rolled
From star to star?
Not mighty deeds, in keenest foresight planned,
Strong words, sweet motions of bewildering grace,
Not these receive at God's all-judging Hand
The loftiest place,
Strong words, sweet motions of bewildering grace,
Not these receive at God's all-judging Hand
The loftiest place,
But they who keep, through warfare and through ease,
Though praise, though hate about their name be blown,
The childlike heart, the childlike faith—for these
Are next the Throne.
Though praise, though hate about their name be blown,
The childlike heart, the childlike faith—for these
Are next the Throne.
47
ODE TO JAPAN
(March, 1902)
Clasp hands across the world,
Across the dim sea-line,
Where with bright flags unfurled
Our navies breast the brine;
Be this our plighted union blest,
Oh ocean-thronèd empires of the East and West!
Across the dim sea-line,
Where with bright flags unfurled
Our navies breast the brine;
Be this our plighted union blest,
Oh ocean-thronèd empires of the East and West!
For you, for us, the thrill
And freshness of the tide,
Where ice-fed rollers fill
High hearts with steadfast pride;
For both, the genial tropic waves
Press warm across the sea, and chafe our shivering caves.
And freshness of the tide,
Where ice-fed rollers fill
High hearts with steadfast pride;
For both, the genial tropic waves
Press warm across the sea, and chafe our shivering caves.
Here, rich with old delays,
Our ripening freedom grows,
As through the unhasting days
Unfolds the lingering rose;
Through sun-fed calm, through smiting shower,
Slow from the pointed bud outbreaks the full-orbed flower.
Our ripening freedom grows,
As through the unhasting days
Unfolds the lingering rose;
Through sun-fed calm, through smiting shower,
Slow from the pointed bud outbreaks the full-orbed flower.
48
But yours—how long the sleep,
How swift the awakening came!
As on your snowfields steep
The suns of summer flame;
At morn the aching channels glare;
At eve the rippling streams leap on the ridgèd stair.
How swift the awakening came!
As on your snowfields steep
The suns of summer flame;
At morn the aching channels glare;
At eve the rippling streams leap on the ridgèd stair.
'Twas yours to dream, to rest,
Self-centred, mute, apart,
While out beyond the West
Strong beat the world's wild heart;
Then in one rapturous hour to rise,
A giant fresh from sleep, and clasp the garnered prize!
Self-centred, mute, apart,
While out beyond the West
Strong beat the world's wild heart;
Then in one rapturous hour to rise,
A giant fresh from sleep, and clasp the garnered prize!
Here, from this English lawn,
Ringed round with ancient trees,
My spirit seeks the dawn
Across the Orient seas.
While dark the lengthening shadows grow,
I paint the land unknown, which yet in dreams know.
Ringed round with ancient trees,
My spirit seeks the dawn
Across the Orient seas.
While dark the lengthening shadows grow,
I paint the land unknown, which yet in dreams know.
Far up among the hills
The scarlet bridges gleam,
Across the crystal rills
That feed the plunging stream;
The forest sings her drowsy tune;
The sharp-winged cuckoo floats across the crescent moon.
The scarlet bridges gleam,
Across the crystal rills
That feed the plunging stream;
The forest sings her drowsy tune;
The sharp-winged cuckoo floats across the crescent moon.
49
Among the blue-ranged heights
Dark gleam the odorous pines;
Star-strewn with holy lights
Glimmer the myriad shrines;
At eve the seaward-creeping breeze
Soft stirs the drowsy bells along the temple frieze.
Dark gleam the odorous pines;
Star-strewn with holy lights
Glimmer the myriad shrines;
At eve the seaward-creeping breeze
Soft stirs the drowsy bells along the temple frieze.
Your snowy mountain draws
To Heaven its tranquil lines;
Within, through sulphurous jaws,
The molten torrent shines;
So calm, so bold, your years shall flow
Pure as yon snows above, a fiery heart below.
To Heaven its tranquil lines;
Within, through sulphurous jaws,
The molten torrent shines;
So calm, so bold, your years shall flow
Pure as yon snows above, a fiery heart below.
From us you shall acquire
Stern labour, sterner truth,
The generous hopes that fire
The Spirit of our youth.
And that strong faith we reckon ours,
Yet have not learned its strength, nor proved its dearest powers.
Stern labour, sterner truth,
The generous hopes that fire
The Spirit of our youth.
And that strong faith we reckon ours,
Yet have not learned its strength, nor proved its dearest powers.
And we from you will learn
To gild our days with grace,
Calm as the lamps that burn
In some still holy place;
The lesson of delight to spell,
To live content with little, to serve beauty well.
To gild our days with grace,
Calm as the lamps that burn
In some still holy place;
The lesson of delight to spell,
To live content with little, to serve beauty well.
Your wisdom, sober, mild,
Shall lend our knowledge wings;
The star, the flower, the child,
The joy of homely things,
The gracious gifts of hand and eye,
And dear familiar peace, and sweetest courtesy.
Shall lend our knowledge wings;
The star, the flower, the child,
The joy of homely things,
50
And dear familiar peace, and sweetest courtesy.
Perchance, some war-vexed hour,
Our thunder-throated ships
Shall thrid the foam, and pour
The death-sleet from their lips.
Together raise the battle-song,
To bruise some impious head, to right some tyrannous wrong.
Our thunder-throated ships
Shall thrid the foam, and pour
The death-sleet from their lips.
Together raise the battle-song,
To bruise some impious head, to right some tyrannous wrong.
But best, if knit with love,
As fairer days increase,
We twain shall learn to prove
The world-wide dream of peace;
And smiling at our ancient fears,
Float hand in loving hand across the golden years.
As fairer days increase,
We twain shall learn to prove
The world-wide dream of peace;
And smiling at our ancient fears,
Float hand in loving hand across the golden years.
51
ODE TO MUSIC
Soul of the world!
Spirit of slumbrous things, whate'er thou art,
Who dreamest smiling, with bright pinions furled,
Deep, deep, beyond the noise of street and mart,
In forest spaces, or in pastures wide,
Where the hot noonday weaves a breathless spell,
Along the unfrequented river-side,
Amid the cool smell of the weedy stream;
Of sight and scent thou dreamest well—
But music is thine earliest and thy latest dream!
Spirit of slumbrous things, whate'er thou art,
Who dreamest smiling, with bright pinions furled,
Deep, deep, beyond the noise of street and mart,
In forest spaces, or in pastures wide,
Where the hot noonday weaves a breathless spell,
Along the unfrequented river-side,
Amid the cool smell of the weedy stream;
Of sight and scent thou dreamest well—
But music is thine earliest and thy latest dream!
O far-off time!
Ere sound was tamed by gracious mastery,
Faint fugue of wakening birds at matin prime,
Or mid-day booming of the laden bee,
Bass of the plunging stream, or softly stirr'd,
The crawling sea's monotonous undertone,
Or windy lowing of the forest herd,
Thin pipe of dancing flies at shut of day,
Winds in wild places making moan—
These were the songs of earth, in artless disarray.
Ere sound was tamed by gracious mastery,
Faint fugue of wakening birds at matin prime,
Or mid-day booming of the laden bee,
Bass of the plunging stream, or softly stirr'd,
The crawling sea's monotonous undertone,
Or windy lowing of the forest herd,
52
Winds in wild places making moan—
These were the songs of earth, in artless disarray.
O march of years!
The simple days are dead, the rich tides roll,
And we, the inheritors of toil and tears,
Utter the ampler message of the soul.
How clear the subtle proem! Murmuring sweet
The soft wood whispers; on the silence leap
The shivering strings, with motion fairy-fleet,
Soul-shattering trumpets, lending fire and glow;
The mighty organ wakes from sleep,
And rolls his thund'rous diapasons, loud and low.
The simple days are dead, the rich tides roll,
And we, the inheritors of toil and tears,
Utter the ampler message of the soul.
How clear the subtle proem! Murmuring sweet
The soft wood whispers; on the silence leap
The shivering strings, with motion fairy-fleet,
Soul-shattering trumpets, lending fire and glow;
The mighty organ wakes from sleep,
And rolls his thund'rous diapasons, loud and low.
Behold us met!
In no light fancy, no inglorious mirth,
But strong to labour, striving well to set
The crown of song upon the brows of earth.
Music, be this thy temple hourly blest,
Of sweet and serious law the abiding-place;
Bid us be patient! Bid us love the best!
Climb, gently climb, to summits yet untrod,
Spirit of sweetness, spirit of grace,
Voice of the soul, soft echo of the mind of God!
In no light fancy, no inglorious mirth,
But strong to labour, striving well to set
The crown of song upon the brows of earth.
Music, be this thy temple hourly blest,
Of sweet and serious law the abiding-place;
Bid us be patient! Bid us love the best!
Climb, gently climb, to summits yet untrod,
Spirit of sweetness, spirit of grace,
Voice of the soul, soft echo of the mind of God!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |