University of Virginia Library


76

ANGULUS TERRARUM.

Within the grey encircling walls
The sun leads on another day,
Where quiet leisure hourly calls
Her votary from the world away.
Philosophy shall lap us round
To dream of spheres where all is well,
Not troubled by the uncertain sound
Of those that prate of heaven and hell.
Grave History shall ply her arts,
To shew us, from the storied page,
That Science cannot harden hearts,
Nor stay the heavenward pilgrimage.
No Muse shall be that shall not lend
Her soaring impulse to the soul,
Discern the lover in the friend,
Or point the failing to the goal.
Staid Clio, queen of human speech,
Urania of the starlit eye,
And the sweet maiden that shall teach
The cheek to blush, the heart to sigh.
Neither shall music be denied
To wing the heart that pants to see
The shrine of beauty, half descried,
Half slighted by the things that be.

77

The sunlight falls on level lawns,
And wooded knolls with kindlier gleam,
And statelier palaces adorn
The reaches of the brimming stream.
The lazy water laps the wall,
Skirting the terraced walks, that go
By storied tower and cool dim hall,
And gardens where the roses blow.
High frown the gabled roofs, and higher
The huddled elms aerial slope;
And peering over all, the spire
That points a finger up in hope.
These all about me: far below
A solemn fountain hourly drips,
Where bronze-wreathed dolphins sprawl and throw
Sweet water from their green-fringed lips.
And on the lawn with restless feet,
And nodding necks of changing shine,
Pigeons patrol, when suns are sweet,
Westward or eastward, all in line.
And in the dark elms half the day
Or white-spired chestnuts light the doves,
Too mild to work, too fond to play,
And croning half-a-hundred loves.

78

Heaven all about us; could we lay
Our hands upon it, it were well;
But oh! how slight a failing may
Turn paradise to dreary hell.
The sordid spirit, and the brute
Impulse, that most, when hearts beat high,
Tugs at his chains, with throes that shoot
And quiver, bidding the good thought die.
And only when the soul is dull
With terror of the looming years,
And scorn of self, they deign to lull
The stings that cost us toil and tears.
All these: and sullen discontent
That chides the smiling suns of May
For burning, yet can find a vent
For humours, when the skies are gray.
These are our foes; and we will live
As though we may not wholly slay
The cares that prick us on to strive,
The fears that prompt us when to pray.
Like men that watch for some great king,
A barren frontier, where the sky
Stoops to the distance, vanishing
In dimness, and the land is dry.

79

Sometimes the red sand-pillars stalk
Across the desert, or the wastes,
Wan like a level water, baulk
The thirsty soul that thither hastes.
Sometimes a thin voice seems to float
Out of the stillness, crying faint;
Or the dull seacrow's dismal note
Sounds, or the bittern's measured plaint.
So long, they know not if they be
Men, or mere phantoms of the night;
Like the pale lights that flicker and flee
In marshlands, where the rush blows white.
Only that northward, when the wind
Draws from the land that once was theirs,
Bells from the city echo, and bind
Sweet music on the wandering airs.
And once they saw a sight so sweet
They scarce could trust their wondering eyes,
The snowbound mountains, at whose feet,
Their king's imperial palace lies.
His word, they said, bade the high tower
Rock to the music of the bells;
His eye, they whispered, hour by hour,
Upon those happy mountains dwells.
Cambridge, 1884. (Cambridge Review).