The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Summer's Poems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Summer's PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Summer's PoemsAuthor: Francis J. LysRelease date: February 21, 2016 [eBook #51277]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Judith Wirawan and The Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SUMMER'S POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: A Summer's PoemsAuthor: Francis J. LysRelease date: February 21, 2016 [eBook #51277]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Judith Wirawan and The Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)

Title: A Summer's Poems

Author: Francis J. Lys

Release date: February 21, 2016 [eBook #51277]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Judith Wirawan and The Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SUMMER'S POEMS ***

F. J. LYS

LONDONSEELEY AND CO. LIMITEDESSEX STREET, STRAND1893

These poems were written,—except No. III., which was partly written two or three weeks earlier,—during a stay of six weeks, in August and September, at Hallstatt, among the mountains of Upper Austria.

They are published at once, not because I am unaware of their defects, but in the hope that, in spite of these, they may give some small pleasure to a few friends and other readers.

F. J. L.

Oxford,September 28th, 1893.

A SUMMER'S POEMS.

I. TO THE MUSE.II. TO A FLOWER.III. LIFE'S VOYAGE.IV. ON RE-READING 'RUTH.'V. Ἒπους σμικροû χἁριν.VI. ON A ROCK IN THE WALDBACH TORRENT.VII. BY THE WALDBACH.VIII. IBIDEM.IX. AUTUMN.X. 'JUSTITIA EXCEDENS TERRIS.'XI. THE WAYS OF LIFE.XII. TO R. H. K. AND J. M. K.

Thy whispers float upon the liquid air,The sunbeams quiver by thy breath made quick,The myriad forest-branches thronging thickThrill with delight thy mystic touch to bear,Like an enchanted harp to fingers fairYielding a music that can soothe the sick,Or heal a heart that cruel pain doth prick;Waters and winds thy living spirit share;Thy wrath is in the thunder, and thy tearsWeep for man's dulness in melodious rain.Mistress, forgive me if on deafened ears,Full of life's clamour and its harsh refrain,Thy words have fallen all these barren years,And take me for thy minister again.

Happy blossom that shinest,Lit by the smiles of the sun,Lavishing of thy finestFragrance on every one;Happy that ne'er repinestFor the day when the dusk is begun,But humbly thy head inclinest,Content that thy work is done.Sorrowing hearts thou cheerest,Bidding them live like thee,Who calmly the wild storm hearestGathering threateningly,And never the dark night fearest,And trustest that, though they beWithered and dead, thy dearestAnother summer shall see.

Sorrowing hearts thou cheerest,Bidding them live like thee,Who calmly the wild storm hearestGathering threateningly,And never the dark night fearest,And trustest that, though they beWithered and dead, thy dearestAnother summer shall see.

Proudly the glad ships breast the buoyant wave,Touched by the radiant fingers of the sun,Exulting in the promise of dawn, and braveOver the deep their unknown race to run,From nothingness that none rememberethOn to the undiscovered haven of death.Out of the impenetrable night they drew,Mist-curtained, moving darkly through the haze;And the East brightened and the breezes blew,And o'er life's widening waters now they gaze,Greet the companions of their voyage, and knowSome dim awakening purpose in them grow.Lightly they sail beneath unclouded skies,Effortless gliding on their easy way,Till the winds gather and the wild floods rise,And tempests frown upon the forehead of day,And they that fared together lonelier drift,Sundered by driving storms and tides that shift.Quenched are the beacon lights that brightly burned,Distant the guiding voices that were near;The frolic temper of the prime is turnedTo weariness, and faith is dimmed with fear:What if one battle against the beating waves,Who knows if he shall win the haven he craves?Where lies the haven, or if there be in soothSome haven of peace for them that wrestle and fight—Who shall be bold to take his trust for truth,The gleams he follows for the world's one light,When to his fellows' eyes as naught they seem,Or but false phantoms of a fading dream?This way or that on waves that rise and fall—Falling and rising aimlessly they drive—Haply some flash of light, some far-off callWakes them a little while to struggle and striveOnward with hope, until it fades again,And leaves them drifting on the dreary main.Blindly the many drift, and drifting dream,—Dream idle dreams, or waking scarce descryAught but the froth and foam and fitful gleamOf clashing cataracts as they thunder by:They feel some short-lived passion in them glow,Or wondering watch the bubbles come and go.And here is one undauntedly that steers—Or there another—steadfast through the surge,Through storm and darkness. What is that which cheersHis spirit in danger? what beyond the vergeOf vision leads him on his perilous path?Sure naught but God's own truth such following hath.Faint the gleams flicker through the earthborn cloud;Trust thou and follow where they seem to lead;Soon will thy sight be clearer, and the shroudOf night be shrivelled, and the day succeed:Light may be stained or hidden, yet 'tis light;Trust thou and follow—'tis not of the night.

Out of the impenetrable night they drew,Mist-curtained, moving darkly through the haze;And the East brightened and the breezes blew,And o'er life's widening waters now they gaze,Greet the companions of their voyage, and knowSome dim awakening purpose in them grow.

Lightly they sail beneath unclouded skies,Effortless gliding on their easy way,Till the winds gather and the wild floods rise,And tempests frown upon the forehead of day,And they that fared together lonelier drift,Sundered by driving storms and tides that shift.

Quenched are the beacon lights that brightly burned,Distant the guiding voices that were near;The frolic temper of the prime is turnedTo weariness, and faith is dimmed with fear:What if one battle against the beating waves,Who knows if he shall win the haven he craves?

Where lies the haven, or if there be in soothSome haven of peace for them that wrestle and fight—Who shall be bold to take his trust for truth,The gleams he follows for the world's one light,When to his fellows' eyes as naught they seem,Or but false phantoms of a fading dream?

This way or that on waves that rise and fall—Falling and rising aimlessly they drive—Haply some flash of light, some far-off callWakes them a little while to struggle and striveOnward with hope, until it fades again,And leaves them drifting on the dreary main.

Blindly the many drift, and drifting dream,—Dream idle dreams, or waking scarce descryAught but the froth and foam and fitful gleamOf clashing cataracts as they thunder by:They feel some short-lived passion in them glow,Or wondering watch the bubbles come and go.

And here is one undauntedly that steers—Or there another—steadfast through the surge,Through storm and darkness. What is that which cheersHis spirit in danger? what beyond the vergeOf vision leads him on his perilous path?Sure naught but God's own truth such following hath.

Faint the gleams flicker through the earthborn cloud;Trust thou and follow where they seem to lead;Soon will thy sight be clearer, and the shroudOf night be shrivelled, and the day succeed:Light may be stained or hidden, yet 'tis light;Trust thou and follow—'tis not of the night.

As one that in the sapless winter of lifeFeels the benumbing touch of icy deathChill his warm pulses, and no more for strifeAgainst the foe that ever followethFinds the old fire within, or power, or breath,But knows that soon the eternal frost shall bindThese failing organs of his earthly mind:And looking backward through the misty yearsBeyond the harvest and the summer glow,Into awakening life's fresh springtide, hearsVoices that rang around him long ago,—Strange sweet dream-music that he seems to know,And dimly sees old faces that made brightThe days of childhood with love's softest light:Like one beneath the glimmering starlight treadingWays unfamiliar save in the full sun,He moves bewildered where remembrance, sheddingFaint fitful gleams, illumines one by oneFar-distant scenes where life was first begun,Quick with light-hearted fancies and fresh hope,Fearless and steadfast with all foes to cope:And as he looks he wonders if indeedThat life beyond the years be truly his—His those high-soaring hopes, that simple creed,That buoyant spirit: till some light that isThe lode-star of his life shines out in thisFar-off child-world, some goal whereto his aimHas aye been set unchangingly the same.And so to eyes that through long-buried agesLook on that alien-seeming world, that glowsPictured in fire upon the sacred pagesWhere God his dealings with his children shows,—A larger life than our dwarfed spirit knows,—Man in the giant vigour of his primeLooming heroic even through guilt and crime;Creature in converse with Creator,—signsOf power writ large in heaven and on the earth,—Pillar of cloud by day and fire that shinesIn darkness,—plague and pestilence and dearthAnd deluge,—almost from our very birthFamiliar,—yet how strange and far awayFrom all the fever of our little day.Yet as we look on that mysterious story,Scarce feeling kinship with that primal race,We that with sin have marred and dimmed the gloryOf God's own presence manifest by grace,Until he seems to hide afar his face,Find something in our deadened hearts that ringsResponsive to those far-off echoings.Ours the old war with sin, the struggle of soulIn passions' eddying waters, ours the choiceTo falter and fail, or battle towards the goalUnyielding; and at times our hearts rejoice,When borne from out the distance comes a voiceOf brother-men that in the self-same strifeHave fought through weakness and have won their life.And more than all, when haply shines aboveThe clouds and heavy mists of low desireThe perfect beauty of true human love,Beaconing through the darkness like a fire,And witnessing that hearts can yet aspireTo kinship with the soul that shone in Ruth,Of woman's faithfulness and woman's truth.

And looking backward through the misty yearsBeyond the harvest and the summer glow,Into awakening life's fresh springtide, hearsVoices that rang around him long ago,—Strange sweet dream-music that he seems to know,And dimly sees old faces that made brightThe days of childhood with love's softest light:

Like one beneath the glimmering starlight treadingWays unfamiliar save in the full sun,He moves bewildered where remembrance, sheddingFaint fitful gleams, illumines one by oneFar-distant scenes where life was first begun,Quick with light-hearted fancies and fresh hope,Fearless and steadfast with all foes to cope:

And as he looks he wonders if indeedThat life beyond the years be truly his—His those high-soaring hopes, that simple creed,That buoyant spirit: till some light that isThe lode-star of his life shines out in thisFar-off child-world, some goal whereto his aimHas aye been set unchangingly the same.

And so to eyes that through long-buried agesLook on that alien-seeming world, that glowsPictured in fire upon the sacred pagesWhere God his dealings with his children shows,—A larger life than our dwarfed spirit knows,—Man in the giant vigour of his primeLooming heroic even through guilt and crime;

Creature in converse with Creator,—signsOf power writ large in heaven and on the earth,—Pillar of cloud by day and fire that shinesIn darkness,—plague and pestilence and dearthAnd deluge,—almost from our very birthFamiliar,—yet how strange and far awayFrom all the fever of our little day.

Yet as we look on that mysterious story,Scarce feeling kinship with that primal race,We that with sin have marred and dimmed the gloryOf God's own presence manifest by grace,Until he seems to hide afar his face,Find something in our deadened hearts that ringsResponsive to those far-off echoings.

Ours the old war with sin, the struggle of soulIn passions' eddying waters, ours the choiceTo falter and fail, or battle towards the goalUnyielding; and at times our hearts rejoice,When borne from out the distance comes a voiceOf brother-men that in the self-same strifeHave fought through weakness and have won their life.

And more than all, when haply shines aboveThe clouds and heavy mists of low desireThe perfect beauty of true human love,Beaconing through the darkness like a fire,And witnessing that hearts can yet aspireTo kinship with the soul that shone in Ruth,Of woman's faithfulness and woman's truth.

Her eyes shone bright as the luminous starThat breaks through the shadows of dusk from far,And the wavy tresses that floated and gleamed,Guarding her radiant temples, seemedAs the faery fires that a vision enfold,Or light as the tremulous flames of goldThat quiver and glance on the forehead of dawn,When the curtains of night are backward drawn;And her smile was like to the rippling seaGreeting the beams of the sun with glee;And her voice was the singing of springtide, heardIn the orison chanted by soaring bird,And in the breath of the soft west breezeWooing the buds of the wakened trees,And in the music of fountains freeAt last from their icy slavery;And she moved with a step as light and gladAs ever a nymph or a goddess had.Could mortal eyes on a form divineGaze for a moment, and then not pineWith passionate hunger for that sweet foodOf the beauteous blossom of maidenhood?To feed for ever on that soft lightThat conquered the gloom of the world's dark night,And shed in its lustre a mystic senseOf soothing solace and joy intense?Could ears drink once of the silver flowOf melody poured from her lips, nor knowThe thirst of a madman, rendering upLife for the pleasure of one sweet cup?Seeing and hearing, he scarce wist firstWhat light on his sunless path had burst,But he felt about him a wondrous glowFlooding the field of his vision, soThat the shadows shrank as in shame away,And hope rekindled her flickering ray;And over his spirit seemed to flowA quickening influence, even as though,Out of the heavy and poisoned airOf some dark city, a God might bearOne that struggled with labouring breath,All but held in the grasp of death,And might set him high on the aery brinkOf a loftily-bastioned Alp, to drinkThe strength of the mountains—a stronger draughtThan ever of vintage fire was quaffed,Coursing exultantly through and throughHis veins, and giving him life anew.So awhile he rejoiced, scarce heedful why,And the days went sweetly and swiftly by;Alas! too swiftly over and lost,Like blossoms of summer seared by the frost,That feel more bitter the wintry spiteBecause of the fulness of past delight.'Twas but a parting, and oft beforeParting of friends, though his heart was sore,Parting and loss he had known to bear—'Tis a lesson we learn from our cradle to share:But a sudden anguish upon him fell,As upon one cast from heaven to hell,For a moment showed what had lifted his lifeOut of the weary and sordid strifeOf men that struggle and die for gold,And sell themselves as a chattel is sold.—And lo! it was over, and life once moreMust sink to the depth where it groped before:To part;—and it might be, never againTo know the joy of her presence; fainWas his heart to utter its secret woe,And all the strength of its love to show.Sure 'twas a strength that must prevailTo win the world, or the heavens to scale;High above earth she seemed, yet heavenIs mingled with earth by love's sweet leaven,And even the goddess of dawn, 'tis said,Deignèd a mortal man to wed.Yet when he looked on the light divineThat seemed in those lustrous orbs to shine,His lips would falter, and pale shame frozeThe fountain of love from his heart that rose:How could a spirit as free as airBrook to be fettered, or stoop to shareAn earthlier life from her range sublime?Even the fancy he deemed a crime,—As if one dreamt to win for his ownThe queen of night from her star-girt throneAnd enjoy the light of the world alone,—What if he spake could she feel or say?Words of scorn? or of anger? Nay,Pity belike for a mind distraught,That rashly to soar from its sphere had sought.Harder were pity to bear than scorn;Better to hide how his heart was torn:So might the thought of that sweet time beEver a cloudless memory,As of a day that from break to closeNever a film on its bright face shows.—And so she was gone from his life, and leftHis heart of joy and of light bereft,And tenanted only by blank despair,That finds no longer the sunshine fair,And knows no healing for its distressExcept to pass into nothingness.'Tis but a word and the tale is o'er,—And haply the like has chanced before,And it wants not this poor art of mine,—For he sought as his sorrow's anodyneThe blood-red riot of war, to sateAll thought with the numbing opiateOf the frenzy of battle; and gave his lifeAs a prodigal gives, in an alien strife:And under the shroud of the desert sandHe lies at rest in a far-off land.And one there is that for many a yearHath mourned with many a secret tear;And the light of her eyes is dimmed with care,And age has silvered her sunny hair,And hollower rings the full rich flowOf her voice; and her step is weary and slow;And little, I ween, is understoodThe tale of her maiden-widowhood:And naught of her trouble of soul she saith,But ever beyond the river of death,Soothed as she draws to its margin nigher,She looks to the haven of her desire:And dimly her gaze through the mist descriesOne that waiteth with earthward eyes,Fired by a deathless love whose glowSpoke to her heart long years ago,When his lips were sealed and he thought her higher(Coward lips!) than he durst aspire;And when she hid in her woman's prideThe love for which she had gladly died.

The leaping waters thunder at my feet,Thunder, and rush upon white wings of foamDown from the fastness of their glacier home,Laving the limbs that lift this rocky seat:They part a moment, and again they meetFar down the gorge, from where my slow steps clombThe towering mountain: jubilant they roam,With eager voices, hurrying to greetHearts grown aweary of the wasting strifeOf low ambition,—brother trampling downThe soul of brother for some tinsel crown;—They bear cool healing for our fevered life,And a sweet message of serene reposeFresh from the pure and everlasting snows.

Here let me dream a little, while the dayWears not one cloud upon his lustrous brow,And care and coward fears their faces bow,And shrink before his searching light away,And only what is pure and true dares stay:For the strong spirit of the mountains nowSteals on me, as I lie and listen howFar, far below the torrent-waters play,And near beside me slides a sheet of foamPrecipitous; and high above those coldGaunt sentinels their silent watches hold,And warn the dull world from their rocky home:And I will ponder upon thoughts untoldEven to the poets of the age of gold.

Fresh from the mountain snow,And the cold blue glacier-field,Leaping and dancing the waters flow;Long have they been frost-fettered and sealed,And freed at last they are fain to go,And find what riches the world may yieldFar in the plains below.First by its gray ice-wallsMoaning the torrent swirled,And now 'tis a cataract sheer that fallsOver the rocks by its rush down-hurled,And foaming in tumult of thunder, callsTo the dumb stark pines; and shattered and whirledThey bow their heads as its thralls.Ah! but ye little wot,Waters so strong and free,That the fuller life that ye seek is notLike to the dreams that your young hopes see:Liberty soon, too soon, may be got,But stained and troubled your course shall be,—'Tis life's common lot.

First by its gray ice-wallsMoaning the torrent swirled,And now 'tis a cataract sheer that fallsOver the rocks by its rush down-hurled,And foaming in tumult of thunder, callsTo the dumb stark pines; and shattered and whirledThey bow their heads as its thralls.

Ah! but ye little wot,Waters so strong and free,That the fuller life that ye seek is notLike to the dreams that your young hopes see:Liberty soon, too soon, may be got,But stained and troubled your course shall be,—'Tis life's common lot.

Spirit, whose silent breathTeaches the withering leavesTo rejoice at the coming of Death,Though man at his menace grieves,Would that mine ear might knowThe message thou bearest of good,That makes them to flush and glowMore than the summer could.

Of old upon the earth sat Justice crowned,And truth clear-flashing from her lucent eyesWithered the pale and festering jealousiesThat in diseased hearts a harbour found;But when the voice of hate and the shrill soundOf rancorous spite and greed gat strength to rise,Borne on the vaporous breath of poisoning lies,Through realms that had shone pure with peace profound,Then wintry grief upon her bright face froze,And her white wings she spread, and soaring high,Where the unsealed mountain meets the sky,Mantled her in a robe of ageless snows:Thence in the sobbing breeze is borne her sigh,Thence her far voice that once was heard anigh.

Narrower day by dayShrinks the valley we thread;Once how many a wayInto the unknown led!All in the morning lightBeaded with pearls of dew,And each, to our wondering sight,Full of enchantment new.One on the easy plainLoitering, one on fireThe topmost summit to gain,And to mount from high to higher;On by the sparkling brook,Or climbing the steep hill-side,Lightly our way we took,For the world before us was wide.Lightly the branching waysWe passed, for the gains of eachSeemed to our dreamy gazeTo linger within our reach;And all that was bright whereonThe desires of our youth were set,Gathered and fused in one,In the glory of manhood met.Little of all that we sawThe goal of our vision hath,And closer the dark cliffs drawFrowning about our path;And seldom they part to discloseIssue or choice anew,But the track that the child once chose,The man must still pursue.

Narrower day by dayShrinks the valley we thread;Once how many a wayInto the unknown led!All in the morning lightBeaded with pearls of dew,And each, to our wondering sight,Full of enchantment new.

One on the easy plainLoitering, one on fireThe topmost summit to gain,And to mount from high to higher;On by the sparkling brook,Or climbing the steep hill-side,Lightly our way we took,For the world before us was wide.

Lightly the branching waysWe passed, for the gains of eachSeemed to our dreamy gazeTo linger within our reach;And all that was bright whereonThe desires of our youth were set,Gathered and fused in one,In the glory of manhood met.

Little of all that we sawThe goal of our vision hath,And closer the dark cliffs drawFrowning about our path;And seldom they part to discloseIssue or choice anew,But the track that the child once chose,The man must still pursue.

Summer is fled, and the skies are weepingFor withered blossom and faded scent,And over the face of the forest is creepingA flush of fever with pale fear blent,And even the brows of the mountains borrowFrom the gray cloud-fleeces a scarf of sorrow.Summer is fled, and the fleeting swallowsGather in grief on his path to pursue,But not as the loss of one that follows,Follows to find, is the loss that I rue;For cold is the north, and from true friends parted,Few can I find not colder-hearted.

Summer is fled, and the fleeting swallowsGather in grief on his path to pursue,But not as the loss of one that follows,Follows to find, is the loss that I rue;For cold is the north, and from true friends parted,Few can I find not colder-hearted.

Transcriber's NotesTable of Content has been added to the beginning of this e-text. It was not available in the original book.Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, inconsistent or archaic spellings have been kept.

Table of Content has been added to the beginning of this e-text. It was not available in the original book.

Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, inconsistent or archaic spellings have been kept.

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