 | The Drama of Kings |  |
xv
PROEM.
Still blowing and growing,
With sound like torrents flowing,
The Storm of God in thunder
Hath raged the whole night long:
Now in the grey of morning,
With never a note of warning,
O wonder! just under
Mine eaves there sounds a song!
With sound like torrents flowing,
The Storm of God in thunder
Hath raged the whole night long:
Now in the grey of morning,
With never a note of warning,
O wonder! just under
Mine eaves there sounds a song!
There springing and singing,
To the bare branches clinging,
Just as the clouds are raising,
A Bird sings fresh and loud—
Sings tho' the rain is falling,
Sings while the winds are calling,
Sings praising, and gazing
Up to the breaking cloud.
To the bare branches clinging,
Just as the clouds are raising,
A Bird sings fresh and loud—
Sings tho' the rain is falling,
Sings while the winds are calling,
Sings praising, and gazing
Up to the breaking cloud.
O ditty of pity,
Sung just without the City,
Sung in the dark to heighten
The waking hope of light,
Sung, lest the heart should harden,
By a white bird in my garden,
To lighten and brighten
After a woeful night!
Sung just without the City,
Sung in the dark to heighten
The waking hope of light,
xvi
By a white bird in my garden,
To lighten and brighten
After a woeful night!
And higher, with fire
Of passionate desire,
While heaven's eye of azure
Is opening far away,
The white bird sings full cheerly
Of all that man loves dearly,
A measure for pleasure
Of the bright birth of day.
Of passionate desire,
While heaven's eye of azure
Is opening far away,
The white bird sings full cheerly
Of all that man loves dearly,
A measure for pleasure
Of the bright birth of day.
Deriding the tiding,
The soul within me biding
Smiles at the song to cheer it,
But drinks the sound like wine.
Hark! louder yet of summer
Sings out the sweet newcomer—
The spirit, to hear it,
Trembles to tears divine.
The soul within me biding
Smiles at the song to cheer it,
But drinks the sound like wine.
Hark! louder yet of summer
Sings out the sweet newcomer—
The spirit, to hear it,
Trembles to tears divine.
Bright ranger! white stranger!
Singing most loud in danger,
Whom storm nor wrath can frighten,
Who hast no note for care,
Teach me to turn thy ditty
Into brave words of pity,
To brighten and lighten
Man's passionate despair!
Singing most loud in danger,
Whom storm nor wrath can frighten,
Who hast no note for care,
Teach me to turn thy ditty
Into brave words of pity,
To brighten and lighten
Man's passionate despair!
xvii
When, flying and dying,
The Storm of God is crying,
Now when they least desire me
Who wake and look around,
Lest from ill-dreams they harden,
O white bird in my garden,
Inspire me and fire me
With thy prophetic sound!
The Storm of God is crying,
Now when they least desire me
Who wake and look around,
Lest from ill-dreams they harden,
O white bird in my garden,
Inspire me and fire me
With thy prophetic sound!
Robert Buchanan. May, 1871.
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