 | Here be blue and white violets from the garden wherein grew meadowsweet |  |
PASSING.
O gather round me, fond and few!
'Tis eventime, and ere the dew
Has hung its diamond on the rue
Or on the sorrel leaf,
My soul, so long a restless bird
Whose wings upon the cage God heard,
Shall win its sunshine, undisturbed,
And sing farewell to grief.
'Tis eventime, and ere the dew
Has hung its diamond on the rue
Or on the sorrel leaf,
My soul, so long a restless bird
Whose wings upon the cage God heard,
Shall win its sunshine, undisturbed,
And sing farewell to grief.
Is Laura here? Ah, angel-friend,
My life had made a bitter end
Without your hands and lips to send
The traveller on his road!
If God to us who die denies
All faces far from Paradise
I will not, Love, forget your eyes
That helped me bear my load.
My life had made a bitter end
Without your hands and lips to send
The traveller on his road!
If God to us who die denies
All faces far from Paradise
I will not, Love, forget your eyes
That helped me bear my load.
Will you remember for my sake
The islet of the girdled lake
Whose mountains in the water make
A dim, inverted range?
These giants through the gaping crust
Of earth Time's hand may haply thrust,
But memories of the pearl of trust
Serve no fine laws of change.
The islet of the girdled lake
Whose mountains in the water make
A dim, inverted range?
These giants through the gaping crust
Of earth Time's hand may haply thrust,
But memories of the pearl of trust
Serve no fine laws of change.
I will remember lanes we trod,
The lark that made divine its clod,
Aye, at the very feet of God
I will remember you!
So urgent that my soul might pass
From slender songs of bud and grass
To forge the chant should sound—alas!—
Far up the aisles of blue!
The lark that made divine its clod,
Aye, at the very feet of God
I will remember you!
So urgent that my soul might pass
From slender songs of bud and grass
To forge the chant should sound—alas!—
Far up the aisles of blue!
Oh, if the modest little lyre,
My plaything, ever did aspire
To strike a sudden verse of fire
Your spirit smote the strings!
While fervour lingered in your face,
Like western glows of evening grace,
I sought my haunts—some secret place—
And babbled with the springs.
My plaything, ever did aspire
To strike a sudden verse of fire
Your spirit smote the strings!
While fervour lingered in your face,
Like western glows of evening grace,
I sought my haunts—some secret place—
And babbled with the springs.
Your spirit, rarer than the lone
Great star that clasps Creation's zone,
Dreamed in a cloudland of its own
Obeying no behest:
Apollo gave my rustic muse
One only choice—Sing not, or choose
Lyrics of cherries, corn and yews—
And these are in your breast!
Great star that clasps Creation's zone,
Dreamed in a cloudland of its own
Obeying no behest:
Apollo gave my rustic muse
One only choice—Sing not, or choose
Lyrics of cherries, corn and yews—
And these are in your breast!
Tho' singing but the shy and sweet
Untrod by multitudes of feet,
Songs bounded by the brook and wheat,
I have not failed in this—
The only lure my woodland note,
To win all England's whitest throat!
O bards in gold and fire who wrote,
Be yours all other bliss!
Untrod by multitudes of feet,
Songs bounded by the brook and wheat,
I have not failed in this—
The only lure my woodland note,
To win all England's whitest throat!
O bards in gold and fire who wrote,
Be yours all other bliss!
Noble it is to lead the van,
And make man tenderer to man;
Noble to preach some shining plan
Of changing men to gods!
I felt the honours of the task,
But, looking backward, loved to bask
Content to learn, to only ask
Laura, my birds, my clods!
And make man tenderer to man;
Noble to preach some shining plan
Of changing men to gods!
I felt the honours of the task,
But, looking backward, loved to bask
Content to learn, to only ask
Laura, my birds, my clods!
Dearest, you know two brothers' strife
Warred round the rapture of your life;
For either craved you as his wife,
And well you loved them both:
On me the marvel of you came,
Whereat my brother's heart was flame;
Years have not served his wrath to tame,
For he was sorely wroth.
Warred round the rapture of your life;
For either craved you as his wife,
And well you loved them both:
On me the marvel of you came,
Whereat my brother's heart was flame;
Years have not served his wrath to tame,
For he was sorely wroth.
But now the ancient rancour flies—
Melting affection in his eyes,
He weeps because his brother dies—
Thank Death who brings me this!
You love him, Laura. For my sake
Let me, tho' dying, live to make
This man my heir, that he may take
Your brow, your breast, your kiss.
Melting affection in his eyes,
He weeps because his brother dies—
Thank Death who brings me this!
You love him, Laura. For my sake
Let me, tho' dying, live to make
This man my heir, that he may take
Your brow, your breast, your kiss.
And when you pause amid the lakes
To worship where the mountain shakes
In rainbow-film and foamy flakes,
The waters from its flanks,
Pray that my soul may live to see
Joy springing from this trinity;
For all its flower and fruit must be
My heritage of thanks.
To worship where the mountain shakes
In rainbow-film and foamy flakes,
The waters from its flanks,
Pray that my soul may live to see
Joy springing from this trinity;
For all its flower and fruit must be
My heritage of thanks.
Come closer, brother! Clasp her hand.
The while they fall—these grains of sand—
I am a monarch whose command
Evokes a swift consent.
When I am dead, and on my mound
Daisies and drops of rain abound,
Remember me as one who found
In sacrifice content.
The while they fall—these grains of sand—
I am a monarch whose command
Evokes a swift consent.
When I am dead, and on my mound
Daisies and drops of rain abound,
Remember me as one who found
In sacrifice content.
Ah, surely, having birds and shades
And dewy violets in the glades
Which, stolen from their dark green blades,
May sweeten Laura's lace,
You will at eve when upward springs
The glory of her voice that rings
More clearly than the skylark sings
Forgive my honoured face.
And dewy violets in the glades
Which, stolen from their dark green blades,
May sweeten Laura's lace,
You will at eve when upward springs
The glory of her voice that rings
More clearly than the skylark sings
Forgive my honoured face.
And if the years be stern or mild
Pour out upon my widowed child
A love almighty, undefiled—
This is the wage I crave!
And sometimes (for I shall be dead)
Oh, let her come with roses red!
And on the cross above my head
Carve this to keep my grave:—
Pour out upon my widowed child
A love almighty, undefiled—
This is the wage I crave!
And sometimes (for I shall be dead)
Oh, let her come with roses red!
And on the cross above my head
Carve this to keep my grave:—
He sang a simple forest song;
To him the day was never long
Amid the blooms and feathered throng
He loved with all his heart:
He took the hand he knew was pure;
He preached the faith he felt was sure;
God taught him how he should endure
And gird him to depart.
To him the day was never long
Amid the blooms and feathered throng
He loved with all his heart:
He took the hand he knew was pure;
He preached the faith he felt was sure;
God taught him how he should endure
And gird him to depart.
Our Father—Ah, I cannot see—
Forgive our trespasses as we
Forgive in memory of Thee—
A bird! She sings my knell!
O wealth of rapture all too late,
My little lyre, the spoil of fate,
To speechlessness is consecrate!
Laura, my love, farewell!
Forgive our trespasses as we
Forgive in memory of Thee—
A bird! She sings my knell!
O wealth of rapture all too late,
My little lyre, the spoil of fate,
To speechlessness is consecrate!
Laura, my love, farewell!
| Here be blue and white violets from the garden wherein grew meadowsweet | |