The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

The mighty stars pursue their course
And the waves break with ordered force,
Heedless of man;
All things flow outward from their source,
As they began.

One prophet more whose rash weak thought
Set law and time and force at nought
Has passed away:
And still the green bright spring is brought
From winter grey.

The primrose and the crocus bold
Still fill with pale or with deep gold
The grass of spring:
Still the first sure thrush as of old
Starts up to sing.

The cowslips yellow and violets blue
Drape fields and banks in diverse hue;
Nought fails us yet;
Each spring's soft head hath glory new
For coronet.

As surely as summer comes, the rose
In all its old rich grandeur blows,
And gardens shine,
And the fierce tiger-lily glows;
Then comes the vine.

The prophet who predicted all
Should end so soon, himself must fall:
The world swings on.
Bright months flash by, dull seasons crawl,
Till all are gone.

But when the fresh clear mornings break
On sea or shore or mountain-lake
The same sun's might
Bids still the same sweet flowers awake
And bathe in light.

The green immense smooth-curling seas
Shake lions' manes before the breeze
And no man stays
The vast advancing files of these:
They go their ways.

The rash-tongued seer himself is dead;
But no rose blooms to-day less red:
No bell less blue.
More light upon man's path is shed
Than his thought knew.

He passes: and the stars awake,
And not one lessens for his sake
Its wonted fire;
Still hearts will bound, and hearts will break,
At Love's desire!

Will there be one hour less of bloom,
Because he passes to his doom
And leaves love here?
Man's is the light,—his is the gloom,
His is the fear.

If there be judgment, 'tis for him
Within the death-land dark and dim:
This world is bright;
Aye, brighter now that prophet grim
Is lost in night.

The birds may sing, the sun may shine,
The blue grapes ripen on the vine,
The hill-tops gleam,
The wind may whisper to the pine
Its latest dream:

The butterfly may love the rose,
The red bee in the hive repose
Beside his queen,
Without one fear lest God disclose
Hell's sudden sheen.

The emerald flies may buzz and wheel,
The lizard through the leaves may steal
With sides that flash;
The Last Day's thunder will not peal
With sudden crash.

The fisher standing by the stream
May watch the silver salmon gleam
Above the weir;
God will not trumpet through his dream
“The end draws near!”

The girl may pluck forget-me-not,—
Not dreading lest the stream turn hot,
The flowers turn white,
As God in anger sears the spot
With lightning-light.

The youth may watch his true love's eyes,
Without a fear lest horror rise
Therein and dread
At sight of hell's fierce underskies
Of angry red.

The world awakes; the prophet sleeps.
With laughter in its eyes it leaps
Towards newer things:
And as its fruited corn it reaps,
Its great heart sings!

Not yet its end is.—Many a day
Shall the brave world spin on its way
Through joy and dole:
Through dawns of gold and eves of grey
Its wheels shall roll.

While woman breathes, the world-heart glows
Most young and fervent; while the rose
Each year is red,
The world's tired spirit may repose,
But is not dead!

July, 1881.