As each small ripple of the mighty seaReflects a tiny image of the sunUntil in radiance joining one by one,They do present a path of brilliancy;In this broad stripe of gold that comes to meFrom the horizon, as though God had spunA thread of golden thought for me alone,Out of His universal mystery—So from the mirror of each human soulShall flash the radiance of God’s great loveWhich ever shineth on us from aboveUntil Love’s splendour lighteth up life’s whole,And man shall look on man, and soul through soul beholdOne flaming line of Truth, God’s pure and shining gold.
As each small ripple of the mighty seaReflects a tiny image of the sunUntil in radiance joining one by one,They do present a path of brilliancy;In this broad stripe of gold that comes to meFrom the horizon, as though God had spunA thread of golden thought for me alone,Out of His universal mystery—So from the mirror of each human soulShall flash the radiance of God’s great loveWhich ever shineth on us from aboveUntil Love’s splendour lighteth up life’s whole,And man shall look on man, and soul through soul beholdOne flaming line of Truth, God’s pure and shining gold.
As each small ripple of the mighty seaReflects a tiny image of the sunUntil in radiance joining one by one,They do present a path of brilliancy;In this broad stripe of gold that comes to meFrom the horizon, as though God had spunA thread of golden thought for me alone,Out of His universal mystery—So from the mirror of each human soulShall flash the radiance of God’s great loveWhich ever shineth on us from aboveUntil Love’s splendour lighteth up life’s whole,And man shall look on man, and soul through soul beholdOne flaming line of Truth, God’s pure and shining gold.
Love is to life as perfume to the rose,A sweet unseen enjoyment that doth lendRapture to beauty—so doth Nature sendThe harmony of happiness that flowsHalf-way between hot Passion’s leaps and throesAnd Apathy, where worn-out feelings end,Throughout the universe, there doth attendUpon all active ordering, repose.O Thou! the fair embodiment of good,Who first within me struck the chord of Love,Necessity of Life! in thee doth moveThe pure quintessence of pure womanhood,Without thy love my life would be as bareAs fairest rose without its perfume rare.
Love is to life as perfume to the rose,A sweet unseen enjoyment that doth lendRapture to beauty—so doth Nature sendThe harmony of happiness that flowsHalf-way between hot Passion’s leaps and throesAnd Apathy, where worn-out feelings end,Throughout the universe, there doth attendUpon all active ordering, repose.O Thou! the fair embodiment of good,Who first within me struck the chord of Love,Necessity of Life! in thee doth moveThe pure quintessence of pure womanhood,Without thy love my life would be as bareAs fairest rose without its perfume rare.
Love is to life as perfume to the rose,A sweet unseen enjoyment that doth lendRapture to beauty—so doth Nature sendThe harmony of happiness that flowsHalf-way between hot Passion’s leaps and throesAnd Apathy, where worn-out feelings end,Throughout the universe, there doth attendUpon all active ordering, repose.O Thou! the fair embodiment of good,Who first within me struck the chord of Love,Necessity of Life! in thee doth moveThe pure quintessence of pure womanhood,Without thy love my life would be as bareAs fairest rose without its perfume rare.
The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,O! sing of the battle on Hasting’s shore,When the arrows of Normandy won the day.Flushed by debauch at the break of day,Their keen-edged axes athirst for gore,The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.Proud soldiers fell down on their knees to pray,Lord! yield us the victory, we implore;When the arrows of Normandy won the day.King Harold, whose heart never felt dismay,Spake loud of the deeds they had done before;The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.Taillefer the jongleur, sang well his layAnd laughed as he flung up the lance he bore,When the arrows of Normandy won the day.Duke William in England proclaimed his sway;King Harold lay dead; the battle was o’er;The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,But the arrows of Normandy won the day.
The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,O! sing of the battle on Hasting’s shore,When the arrows of Normandy won the day.Flushed by debauch at the break of day,Their keen-edged axes athirst for gore,The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.Proud soldiers fell down on their knees to pray,Lord! yield us the victory, we implore;When the arrows of Normandy won the day.King Harold, whose heart never felt dismay,Spake loud of the deeds they had done before;The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.Taillefer the jongleur, sang well his layAnd laughed as he flung up the lance he bore,When the arrows of Normandy won the day.Duke William in England proclaimed his sway;King Harold lay dead; the battle was o’er;The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,But the arrows of Normandy won the day.
The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,O! sing of the battle on Hasting’s shore,When the arrows of Normandy won the day.
Flushed by debauch at the break of day,Their keen-edged axes athirst for gore,The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.
Proud soldiers fell down on their knees to pray,Lord! yield us the victory, we implore;When the arrows of Normandy won the day.
King Harold, whose heart never felt dismay,Spake loud of the deeds they had done before;The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray.
Taillefer the jongleur, sang well his layAnd laughed as he flung up the lance he bore,When the arrows of Normandy won the day.
Duke William in England proclaimed his sway;King Harold lay dead; the battle was o’er;The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray,But the arrows of Normandy won the day.
A bird of song, far soaring to its home,Over the sea-waves cleaves with tireless wingThe cloudless blue; but, swiftly gathering,A storm breaks up the crystal into foamThat dashes mountain-high ’gainst Heaven’s domeNow darkened. Down the aerial harpies flingThe sweet-voiced minstrel and sad surges singThe dirge of death with sorrow burdensome.O Heart of Hearts! high-beating o’er the worldFrom whom fell sweetest song that unto manTold love and life, since life and love began;Like some lone bird thou wert by Nature hurledInto the restless jaws of death’s devouring seaWith still a Song of Songs to bear thee company.
A bird of song, far soaring to its home,Over the sea-waves cleaves with tireless wingThe cloudless blue; but, swiftly gathering,A storm breaks up the crystal into foamThat dashes mountain-high ’gainst Heaven’s domeNow darkened. Down the aerial harpies flingThe sweet-voiced minstrel and sad surges singThe dirge of death with sorrow burdensome.O Heart of Hearts! high-beating o’er the worldFrom whom fell sweetest song that unto manTold love and life, since life and love began;Like some lone bird thou wert by Nature hurledInto the restless jaws of death’s devouring seaWith still a Song of Songs to bear thee company.
A bird of song, far soaring to its home,Over the sea-waves cleaves with tireless wingThe cloudless blue; but, swiftly gathering,A storm breaks up the crystal into foamThat dashes mountain-high ’gainst Heaven’s domeNow darkened. Down the aerial harpies flingThe sweet-voiced minstrel and sad surges singThe dirge of death with sorrow burdensome.O Heart of Hearts! high-beating o’er the worldFrom whom fell sweetest song that unto manTold love and life, since life and love began;Like some lone bird thou wert by Nature hurledInto the restless jaws of death’s devouring seaWith still a Song of Songs to bear thee company.
The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds,While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky;Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds,And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly.The feathered minstrels of the opening day,Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose,Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray,And all their ruffled beauties now disclose.The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee,Seeks dark security from pressing morn,And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree,Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn.The busy ants from their great hills descendIn careful haste, and cross the grassy plain,Saluting silently each passing friend,But disregarding strangers with disdain.The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed,With laggard steps begins the dreary day,After the toiling snail hath long beslimedHis burdened march upon the open way.Along its silken threads the spider walks,And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground;No chance entanglement his duty balks,As patiently he treads each subtle round.Forth from the little door of his domainThe gentle bee, armed with industrious powers,Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again,Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers.Within the wood the dove begins to coo,Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mateHow he has sought her presence but to sue,And all day long her love will supplicate.Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech,The natural portal of his spacious cell,The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach,To spy if all is safe within the dell.The marigolds unfold their yellow heads,That vie in colour with the saffron sun;The violets stretch within their scented beds,And raise their beauteous faces, one by one.Along the meadow land the daisies piedProclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass;The morning-glories, in their prudish pride,Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass.And whilst within the parsonage dull sleepStill holds the inmates with mesmeric power,The martins one unending circle keep,In morning service round the old church tower.The robin, rosy from his early bath,With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs,Hops, uninvited, down the garden pathAnd breaks the silence with his tuneless songs.Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth,Chases the bold invader far away,And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth,With joyful bark proclaims the break of day.
The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds,While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky;Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds,And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly.The feathered minstrels of the opening day,Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose,Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray,And all their ruffled beauties now disclose.The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee,Seeks dark security from pressing morn,And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree,Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn.The busy ants from their great hills descendIn careful haste, and cross the grassy plain,Saluting silently each passing friend,But disregarding strangers with disdain.The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed,With laggard steps begins the dreary day,After the toiling snail hath long beslimedHis burdened march upon the open way.Along its silken threads the spider walks,And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground;No chance entanglement his duty balks,As patiently he treads each subtle round.Forth from the little door of his domainThe gentle bee, armed with industrious powers,Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again,Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers.Within the wood the dove begins to coo,Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mateHow he has sought her presence but to sue,And all day long her love will supplicate.Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech,The natural portal of his spacious cell,The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach,To spy if all is safe within the dell.The marigolds unfold their yellow heads,That vie in colour with the saffron sun;The violets stretch within their scented beds,And raise their beauteous faces, one by one.Along the meadow land the daisies piedProclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass;The morning-glories, in their prudish pride,Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass.And whilst within the parsonage dull sleepStill holds the inmates with mesmeric power,The martins one unending circle keep,In morning service round the old church tower.The robin, rosy from his early bath,With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs,Hops, uninvited, down the garden pathAnd breaks the silence with his tuneless songs.Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth,Chases the bold invader far away,And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth,With joyful bark proclaims the break of day.
The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds,While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky;Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds,And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly.
The feathered minstrels of the opening day,Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose,Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray,And all their ruffled beauties now disclose.
The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee,Seeks dark security from pressing morn,And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree,Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn.
The busy ants from their great hills descendIn careful haste, and cross the grassy plain,Saluting silently each passing friend,But disregarding strangers with disdain.
The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed,With laggard steps begins the dreary day,After the toiling snail hath long beslimedHis burdened march upon the open way.
Along its silken threads the spider walks,And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground;No chance entanglement his duty balks,As patiently he treads each subtle round.
Forth from the little door of his domainThe gentle bee, armed with industrious powers,Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again,Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers.
Within the wood the dove begins to coo,Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mateHow he has sought her presence but to sue,And all day long her love will supplicate.
Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech,The natural portal of his spacious cell,The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach,To spy if all is safe within the dell.
The marigolds unfold their yellow heads,That vie in colour with the saffron sun;The violets stretch within their scented beds,And raise their beauteous faces, one by one.
Along the meadow land the daisies piedProclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass;The morning-glories, in their prudish pride,Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass.
And whilst within the parsonage dull sleepStill holds the inmates with mesmeric power,The martins one unending circle keep,In morning service round the old church tower.
The robin, rosy from his early bath,With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs,Hops, uninvited, down the garden pathAnd breaks the silence with his tuneless songs.
Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth,Chases the bold invader far away,And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth,With joyful bark proclaims the break of day.
As little streams that start to find the seaProclaim with babbling tongues their voyagingAnd with proud riot make the meadows ring,Or fill the wild woods with much noisy glee,As of their course they tell each waving treeAnd wandering bird that chances near to wing;So shallow lovers in the world’s ear singTheir plaint of passion with vain minstrelsy.But vast as restless ocean’s deep expanse,Superbly splendid, solemnly sublime,Whose music beats upon the shore of timeIn rhythmic beauty, is my heart’s romance:But as no song can sound the mighty sea,My soul is silent in its love for thee.
As little streams that start to find the seaProclaim with babbling tongues their voyagingAnd with proud riot make the meadows ring,Or fill the wild woods with much noisy glee,As of their course they tell each waving treeAnd wandering bird that chances near to wing;So shallow lovers in the world’s ear singTheir plaint of passion with vain minstrelsy.But vast as restless ocean’s deep expanse,Superbly splendid, solemnly sublime,Whose music beats upon the shore of timeIn rhythmic beauty, is my heart’s romance:But as no song can sound the mighty sea,My soul is silent in its love for thee.
As little streams that start to find the seaProclaim with babbling tongues their voyagingAnd with proud riot make the meadows ring,Or fill the wild woods with much noisy glee,As of their course they tell each waving treeAnd wandering bird that chances near to wing;So shallow lovers in the world’s ear singTheir plaint of passion with vain minstrelsy.But vast as restless ocean’s deep expanse,Superbly splendid, solemnly sublime,Whose music beats upon the shore of timeIn rhythmic beauty, is my heart’s romance:But as no song can sound the mighty sea,My soul is silent in its love for thee.
White lilies languish on their graceful stems,Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn;Lilies at poppies look with lofty scornAnd cherish dear their own chaste diadems;Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gemsBlaze in the splendor of a life, love-bornAnd love-begetting, and do most adornThose whom love’s beauty unto death condemns.Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bierOf her who passed away, so pure and young,—Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers amongHer syren-sisters who live sinning here.O! star-souled lily! white for none to blame.O! blood-stained poppy! red with blush of shame.
White lilies languish on their graceful stems,Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn;Lilies at poppies look with lofty scornAnd cherish dear their own chaste diadems;Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gemsBlaze in the splendor of a life, love-bornAnd love-begetting, and do most adornThose whom love’s beauty unto death condemns.Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bierOf her who passed away, so pure and young,—Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers amongHer syren-sisters who live sinning here.O! star-souled lily! white for none to blame.O! blood-stained poppy! red with blush of shame.
White lilies languish on their graceful stems,Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn;Lilies at poppies look with lofty scornAnd cherish dear their own chaste diadems;Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gemsBlaze in the splendor of a life, love-bornAnd love-begetting, and do most adornThose whom love’s beauty unto death condemns.Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bierOf her who passed away, so pure and young,—Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers amongHer syren-sisters who live sinning here.O! star-souled lily! white for none to blame.O! blood-stained poppy! red with blush of shame.
The poet sings in love-sick versePlaints thy goblets soon disperse;Pluck the willow from his head,’Twine the vine-leaf in its stead,Fill the bowl with drink divine,Give the wounded minstrel wine;And the fool now fraught with pain,Ne’er shall weep for love again.See! it scarcely stains his lips,Yet to draughts have turned his sips.Subtle raptures swiftly fillEvery vein with fiery thrill;Long before its rage is o’erPants the reeling wretch for more;Squeeze the grape, fill high the bowl,Wine shall cheer the wounded soul.Let the ruddy torrent flow,Heal all wounded hearts below,Freely let the red stream pour,With its storm the blood shall roar;Surges of mad ecstacyShall embroil life’s phantasy;Clouds of joy before the brainDull the deeper sense of pain.Love is great; but in life’s dreamWine alone shall reign supreme;To old Bacchus! drink and sing;Cupid’s Victor! Pleasure’s King!
The poet sings in love-sick versePlaints thy goblets soon disperse;Pluck the willow from his head,’Twine the vine-leaf in its stead,Fill the bowl with drink divine,Give the wounded minstrel wine;And the fool now fraught with pain,Ne’er shall weep for love again.See! it scarcely stains his lips,Yet to draughts have turned his sips.Subtle raptures swiftly fillEvery vein with fiery thrill;Long before its rage is o’erPants the reeling wretch for more;Squeeze the grape, fill high the bowl,Wine shall cheer the wounded soul.Let the ruddy torrent flow,Heal all wounded hearts below,Freely let the red stream pour,With its storm the blood shall roar;Surges of mad ecstacyShall embroil life’s phantasy;Clouds of joy before the brainDull the deeper sense of pain.Love is great; but in life’s dreamWine alone shall reign supreme;To old Bacchus! drink and sing;Cupid’s Victor! Pleasure’s King!
The poet sings in love-sick versePlaints thy goblets soon disperse;Pluck the willow from his head,’Twine the vine-leaf in its stead,Fill the bowl with drink divine,Give the wounded minstrel wine;And the fool now fraught with pain,Ne’er shall weep for love again.See! it scarcely stains his lips,Yet to draughts have turned his sips.Subtle raptures swiftly fillEvery vein with fiery thrill;Long before its rage is o’erPants the reeling wretch for more;Squeeze the grape, fill high the bowl,Wine shall cheer the wounded soul.Let the ruddy torrent flow,Heal all wounded hearts below,Freely let the red stream pour,With its storm the blood shall roar;Surges of mad ecstacyShall embroil life’s phantasy;Clouds of joy before the brainDull the deeper sense of pain.Love is great; but in life’s dreamWine alone shall reign supreme;To old Bacchus! drink and sing;Cupid’s Victor! Pleasure’s King!
I hear soft breathings in the gentle breeze,Though whence or how they spring I cannot tell.They whisper on the hill and in the dell,Along the streamlets and among the trees;Like the sweet humming of a thousand beesIn harmony, as if some magic spellFashioned the dew to music as it fell,Like merry mermaids, chanting ’neath the seas,Or fairy chorus in a moon-lit grove,Or band of nightingales, each to its roseTrilling of love when all things else repose.Such sweet sounds haunt me wheresoe’er I roveShaping themselves to words that sing to me,“Happy art thou of men, thy loved one loves but thee!”
I hear soft breathings in the gentle breeze,Though whence or how they spring I cannot tell.They whisper on the hill and in the dell,Along the streamlets and among the trees;Like the sweet humming of a thousand beesIn harmony, as if some magic spellFashioned the dew to music as it fell,Like merry mermaids, chanting ’neath the seas,Or fairy chorus in a moon-lit grove,Or band of nightingales, each to its roseTrilling of love when all things else repose.Such sweet sounds haunt me wheresoe’er I roveShaping themselves to words that sing to me,“Happy art thou of men, thy loved one loves but thee!”
I hear soft breathings in the gentle breeze,Though whence or how they spring I cannot tell.They whisper on the hill and in the dell,Along the streamlets and among the trees;Like the sweet humming of a thousand beesIn harmony, as if some magic spellFashioned the dew to music as it fell,Like merry mermaids, chanting ’neath the seas,Or fairy chorus in a moon-lit grove,Or band of nightingales, each to its roseTrilling of love when all things else repose.Such sweet sounds haunt me wheresoe’er I roveShaping themselves to words that sing to me,“Happy art thou of men, thy loved one loves but thee!”
Work! use all thy will, give all thy might,Ply all thy strength,Until the golden dawn of early lightShall change at lengthInto deep purple shades, soft, pure and bright,That bring glad tidings of the peaceful night.Work! while the subtle seasons onward rollIn certain course,The ways of this frail world to help control;That keen remorseIn life’s last moment—’ere thy deeds unrollMay strike no sudden anguish to thy soul.Work! taking lessons from the mighty Past,What men have done;Yet let not those old masters hold thee fast,They have begun;What later souls must finish. They have castThe first stones at earth’s evil—not the last.Work! but seek not false Ambition’s flameTo light thee on;Not so the men of wisdom ever cameIn days long gone;No sordid dream,—no bare desire for FameHas left on Memory’s lips one worthy name.Work! in the hope of sowing seedlings great;Let others reap,—That, when stern Nature bids thy step abate,Thy body sleep,Thy soul shall tremble not at Death’s dark gate,But calm and sure shall meet its After-Fate.
Work! use all thy will, give all thy might,Ply all thy strength,Until the golden dawn of early lightShall change at lengthInto deep purple shades, soft, pure and bright,That bring glad tidings of the peaceful night.Work! while the subtle seasons onward rollIn certain course,The ways of this frail world to help control;That keen remorseIn life’s last moment—’ere thy deeds unrollMay strike no sudden anguish to thy soul.Work! taking lessons from the mighty Past,What men have done;Yet let not those old masters hold thee fast,They have begun;What later souls must finish. They have castThe first stones at earth’s evil—not the last.Work! but seek not false Ambition’s flameTo light thee on;Not so the men of wisdom ever cameIn days long gone;No sordid dream,—no bare desire for FameHas left on Memory’s lips one worthy name.Work! in the hope of sowing seedlings great;Let others reap,—That, when stern Nature bids thy step abate,Thy body sleep,Thy soul shall tremble not at Death’s dark gate,But calm and sure shall meet its After-Fate.
Work! use all thy will, give all thy might,Ply all thy strength,Until the golden dawn of early lightShall change at lengthInto deep purple shades, soft, pure and bright,That bring glad tidings of the peaceful night.
Work! while the subtle seasons onward rollIn certain course,The ways of this frail world to help control;That keen remorseIn life’s last moment—’ere thy deeds unrollMay strike no sudden anguish to thy soul.
Work! taking lessons from the mighty Past,What men have done;Yet let not those old masters hold thee fast,They have begun;What later souls must finish. They have castThe first stones at earth’s evil—not the last.
Work! but seek not false Ambition’s flameTo light thee on;Not so the men of wisdom ever cameIn days long gone;No sordid dream,—no bare desire for FameHas left on Memory’s lips one worthy name.
Work! in the hope of sowing seedlings great;Let others reap,—That, when stern Nature bids thy step abate,Thy body sleep,Thy soul shall tremble not at Death’s dark gate,But calm and sure shall meet its After-Fate.
Where blue-bells nod beneath the treesAnd violets scent the summer breezeI love to lie the whole day longAnd listen to the wild bird’s song,While bees hum in their harmonies.Proud wealth can buy its days of ease,But not made up of hours like these;To none doth rank or fame belongWhere blue-bells nod.In vain the arts may strive to pleaseThe sense with novel images;For me, this sweet, cool fern among,All Nature’s right, all Art is wrong;Ah! leave me with my birds and bees,Where blue-bells nod.
Where blue-bells nod beneath the treesAnd violets scent the summer breezeI love to lie the whole day longAnd listen to the wild bird’s song,While bees hum in their harmonies.Proud wealth can buy its days of ease,But not made up of hours like these;To none doth rank or fame belongWhere blue-bells nod.In vain the arts may strive to pleaseThe sense with novel images;For me, this sweet, cool fern among,All Nature’s right, all Art is wrong;Ah! leave me with my birds and bees,Where blue-bells nod.
Where blue-bells nod beneath the treesAnd violets scent the summer breezeI love to lie the whole day longAnd listen to the wild bird’s song,While bees hum in their harmonies.
Proud wealth can buy its days of ease,But not made up of hours like these;To none doth rank or fame belongWhere blue-bells nod.
In vain the arts may strive to pleaseThe sense with novel images;For me, this sweet, cool fern among,All Nature’s right, all Art is wrong;Ah! leave me with my birds and bees,Where blue-bells nod.
Since thou hast come the world and I have parted,Like chance-met friends whom love has never chained,Away it spins, mad-brained and merry-hearted,While I count o’er what I have lost and gained.My losses are the breath of idle greeting,The siren-song of pleasure, folly’s laugh,Wealth’s patron smile, the pedant’s wit most fleeting,And all that goes to make youth’s epitaph.My gain is thee, who hath removed my blindness,Torn off the mask of sin, stript shame’s disguise,Shown me man’s frailty, taught me gold’s unkindness,And made a very heaven beneath the skies.So do I feel like one from dreams awakingWho laughs at night and all its foolish making.
Since thou hast come the world and I have parted,Like chance-met friends whom love has never chained,Away it spins, mad-brained and merry-hearted,While I count o’er what I have lost and gained.My losses are the breath of idle greeting,The siren-song of pleasure, folly’s laugh,Wealth’s patron smile, the pedant’s wit most fleeting,And all that goes to make youth’s epitaph.My gain is thee, who hath removed my blindness,Torn off the mask of sin, stript shame’s disguise,Shown me man’s frailty, taught me gold’s unkindness,And made a very heaven beneath the skies.So do I feel like one from dreams awakingWho laughs at night and all its foolish making.
Since thou hast come the world and I have parted,Like chance-met friends whom love has never chained,Away it spins, mad-brained and merry-hearted,While I count o’er what I have lost and gained.My losses are the breath of idle greeting,The siren-song of pleasure, folly’s laugh,Wealth’s patron smile, the pedant’s wit most fleeting,And all that goes to make youth’s epitaph.My gain is thee, who hath removed my blindness,Torn off the mask of sin, stript shame’s disguise,Shown me man’s frailty, taught me gold’s unkindness,And made a very heaven beneath the skies.So do I feel like one from dreams awakingWho laughs at night and all its foolish making.
Do you remember, dear, the day we satAnd read together from an old love-bookAlone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nookWhich Nature made for souls to marvel at?Beneath us stretched a soft and shining matOf velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shookAs songsters all their melodies forsookTo hear a legend from Love’s laureateWe knew no fear, for there was no one by,The stream seemed in its ripple to repeatThat tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet,Whom love enthralled in endless slavery.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
Do you remember, dear, the day we satAnd read together from an old love-bookAlone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nookWhich Nature made for souls to marvel at?Beneath us stretched a soft and shining matOf velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shookAs songsters all their melodies forsookTo hear a legend from Love’s laureateWe knew no fear, for there was no one by,The stream seemed in its ripple to repeatThat tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet,Whom love enthralled in endless slavery.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
Do you remember, dear, the day we satAnd read together from an old love-bookAlone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nookWhich Nature made for souls to marvel at?Beneath us stretched a soft and shining matOf velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shookAs songsters all their melodies forsookTo hear a legend from Love’s laureateWe knew no fear, for there was no one by,The stream seemed in its ripple to repeatThat tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet,Whom love enthralled in endless slavery.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
When from your lips the words fell on mine earFull many a thought our souls together drewIn sympathy, that with the story grewStill more intense, and oh! so wondrous near.Our eyes were dimmed by Love’s all-pitying tearAnd from our cheeks the blushing colour flewAs if ashamed of its divulgent hue;—How well we understood the story, dear!The blue vault overhead bore not a cloudUpon its surface; on our sky of loveNot e’en the shadow of a sigh did move,Where now the soul-storm rages long and loud.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
When from your lips the words fell on mine earFull many a thought our souls together drewIn sympathy, that with the story grewStill more intense, and oh! so wondrous near.Our eyes were dimmed by Love’s all-pitying tearAnd from our cheeks the blushing colour flewAs if ashamed of its divulgent hue;—How well we understood the story, dear!The blue vault overhead bore not a cloudUpon its surface; on our sky of loveNot e’en the shadow of a sigh did move,Where now the soul-storm rages long and loud.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
When from your lips the words fell on mine earFull many a thought our souls together drewIn sympathy, that with the story grewStill more intense, and oh! so wondrous near.Our eyes were dimmed by Love’s all-pitying tearAnd from our cheeks the blushing colour flewAs if ashamed of its divulgent hue;—How well we understood the story, dear!The blue vault overhead bore not a cloudUpon its surface; on our sky of loveNot e’en the shadow of a sigh did move,Where now the soul-storm rages long and loud.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
But one sweet passage from the book you readThe o’ergrown bud of love contrived to burst,And all the beauty it had warmly nursedBroke in our trembling hearts and blossomèd.Youth’s long-fought fire our unloosed fancies fed;Our souls felt Love’s unsatiable thirst;O! happiest moment then, but now the worst,When life’s blue sky grew all aflame with red!But when you told how that long looked for smileWas kissed by noble Lancelot, then—then—You kissed my quivering lips; nor read again;And bliss eternal breathed in us awhile.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
But one sweet passage from the book you readThe o’ergrown bud of love contrived to burst,And all the beauty it had warmly nursedBroke in our trembling hearts and blossomèd.Youth’s long-fought fire our unloosed fancies fed;Our souls felt Love’s unsatiable thirst;O! happiest moment then, but now the worst,When life’s blue sky grew all aflame with red!But when you told how that long looked for smileWas kissed by noble Lancelot, then—then—You kissed my quivering lips; nor read again;And bliss eternal breathed in us awhile.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
But one sweet passage from the book you readThe o’ergrown bud of love contrived to burst,And all the beauty it had warmly nursedBroke in our trembling hearts and blossomèd.Youth’s long-fought fire our unloosed fancies fed;Our souls felt Love’s unsatiable thirst;O! happiest moment then, but now the worst,When life’s blue sky grew all aflame with red!But when you told how that long looked for smileWas kissed by noble Lancelot, then—then—You kissed my quivering lips; nor read again;And bliss eternal breathed in us awhile.Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feelThe thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.
Ninety years forever fledSeem but ninety minutes past,As I, waiting for the last,Live alone among the dead.Musing in the gloom and glow,Lo! I see a ghostly train,Spectres conjured by the brain,Images of long ago.From the soul rise strangled cries,Death-groans from the sins it wrought;From the mind spring buried thought,Poisoned hopes, vain sympathies.In a weird, phantasmal band,Seen as though in life’s eclipse,Perished women kiss my lips,Dead men take me by the hand.Infant figures glad with glee,Cluster in unbidden band,Clasp my old and palsied handPulsing high with memory.Pass light fingers through my hair,Once like their’s all tangled gold,Silvery now and thin and old,Bleached with age and blanched with care.Softly touch my parchment skin,Laugh and touch again and askThat I throw aside time’s mask,Dull with years and dark with sin.Look into my dim, dead eyes,Dimmer now with tears that startFrom the little left of heartThat to those dear souls outflies.Crowds of spirit-children pass,Faces, lost long years ago,Buds, soon buried in the snow,Playmates—comrades in the class.Chide me for my childish tears,Bid me join the childish game,Call me by a childish nameNone have named for scores of years.Youths, high-souled, with aims that ageNeither blighted nor betrayed,Look with truth-lit eyes that madeNoble life’s short pilgrimage.Friends whose friendship now I crave,Hearts whose love I yet would feel,One by one before me steal,In and out my living grave.All things I have seen and known,Read in book and dreamed in dream,Stand as true as they did seemWhen I claimed them for my own.I have tried the truth of life,Kissed love’s lips till they grew cold,Drained the cup and clutched the gold,Mingled in the human strife.Seen men come and go like leavesThrough the falls of many years,Joined their laughter, shared their tears,In the plot the great God weaves.Ninety years forever fled,Seem but ninety minutes past,And I, waiting for the last,Live alone among the dead.
Ninety years forever fledSeem but ninety minutes past,As I, waiting for the last,Live alone among the dead.Musing in the gloom and glow,Lo! I see a ghostly train,Spectres conjured by the brain,Images of long ago.From the soul rise strangled cries,Death-groans from the sins it wrought;From the mind spring buried thought,Poisoned hopes, vain sympathies.In a weird, phantasmal band,Seen as though in life’s eclipse,Perished women kiss my lips,Dead men take me by the hand.Infant figures glad with glee,Cluster in unbidden band,Clasp my old and palsied handPulsing high with memory.Pass light fingers through my hair,Once like their’s all tangled gold,Silvery now and thin and old,Bleached with age and blanched with care.Softly touch my parchment skin,Laugh and touch again and askThat I throw aside time’s mask,Dull with years and dark with sin.Look into my dim, dead eyes,Dimmer now with tears that startFrom the little left of heartThat to those dear souls outflies.Crowds of spirit-children pass,Faces, lost long years ago,Buds, soon buried in the snow,Playmates—comrades in the class.Chide me for my childish tears,Bid me join the childish game,Call me by a childish nameNone have named for scores of years.Youths, high-souled, with aims that ageNeither blighted nor betrayed,Look with truth-lit eyes that madeNoble life’s short pilgrimage.Friends whose friendship now I crave,Hearts whose love I yet would feel,One by one before me steal,In and out my living grave.All things I have seen and known,Read in book and dreamed in dream,Stand as true as they did seemWhen I claimed them for my own.I have tried the truth of life,Kissed love’s lips till they grew cold,Drained the cup and clutched the gold,Mingled in the human strife.Seen men come and go like leavesThrough the falls of many years,Joined their laughter, shared their tears,In the plot the great God weaves.Ninety years forever fled,Seem but ninety minutes past,And I, waiting for the last,Live alone among the dead.
Ninety years forever fledSeem but ninety minutes past,As I, waiting for the last,Live alone among the dead.
Musing in the gloom and glow,Lo! I see a ghostly train,Spectres conjured by the brain,Images of long ago.
From the soul rise strangled cries,Death-groans from the sins it wrought;From the mind spring buried thought,Poisoned hopes, vain sympathies.
In a weird, phantasmal band,Seen as though in life’s eclipse,Perished women kiss my lips,Dead men take me by the hand.
Infant figures glad with glee,Cluster in unbidden band,Clasp my old and palsied handPulsing high with memory.
Pass light fingers through my hair,Once like their’s all tangled gold,Silvery now and thin and old,Bleached with age and blanched with care.
Softly touch my parchment skin,Laugh and touch again and askThat I throw aside time’s mask,Dull with years and dark with sin.
Look into my dim, dead eyes,Dimmer now with tears that startFrom the little left of heartThat to those dear souls outflies.
Crowds of spirit-children pass,Faces, lost long years ago,Buds, soon buried in the snow,Playmates—comrades in the class.
Chide me for my childish tears,Bid me join the childish game,Call me by a childish nameNone have named for scores of years.
Youths, high-souled, with aims that ageNeither blighted nor betrayed,Look with truth-lit eyes that madeNoble life’s short pilgrimage.
Friends whose friendship now I crave,Hearts whose love I yet would feel,One by one before me steal,In and out my living grave.
All things I have seen and known,Read in book and dreamed in dream,Stand as true as they did seemWhen I claimed them for my own.
I have tried the truth of life,Kissed love’s lips till they grew cold,Drained the cup and clutched the gold,Mingled in the human strife.
Seen men come and go like leavesThrough the falls of many years,Joined their laughter, shared their tears,In the plot the great God weaves.
Ninety years forever fled,Seem but ninety minutes past,And I, waiting for the last,Live alone among the dead.
Grim Winter rose and girded on his swordTo battle with the world. At each swift blowThe wind hissed cold, and at the sound abhorredBirds ceased their singing and the river’s flowStayed in its course, the sun’s warm glowReached not the flowers through the air’s dark frown,The last leaves perished, and the crystal snowPaled the soft bosom of the earth so brownAnd all her pulsing life was frozen down.Within Time’s wondrous palace of past yearsNature sat grieving on her ancient throne;Her furrowed cheeks were wet with scalding tears,And from her wrinkled mouth ’scaped many a moan;For she was brooding on delights long flown,When all was bright and happy and the landFlourished in fruitfulness, and there was knownNo sign of sorrow, ere stern Winter’s handGave right of spoil to all his ruthless band.“Ah me!” she cried aloud in accents sad,“That ever son of Time should work such woe,And he of all the offspring I have had,The eldest, unto whom my love did goLike streams that meadow margins overflowWith rainy surfeit for the thirsty earth;Whom I had hoped from childhood would upgrowRich in high thought, bold deed and noble worth,And yet Woe’s curse fell on him from his birth.”In simple beauty Spring knelt gently down,Kissed the sad tears from Nature’s care-worn face,Smoothed from her thoughtful brow each troublous frownWith tender hands, that left of pain no trace,And then upstood in modest maiden grace,Saying: “Behold! mine hour hath come to me;I go to make my love a resting-placeAgainst his coming from beyond the sea—A throne most fitting for his sovereignty.”So Spring walked forth into the icy cold,And as her first soft footfall touched the earth,A joyous thrill on everything took hold,And from the spot a snowdrop white had birth;Then a bold robin piped across the dearthOf frozen land a loud defiant sound;Then Winter knew his power was little worth,And sped him forth to higher vantage ground,With all his yelling rout fast flying round.The birds set up a chorus of glad song,Watching their nests among the shady trees;Insects in quick innumerable throngMade live the earth and air; gold-laden beesScorned the fine butterflies that flew at easeAmong the blossomed beauties of the fields;The strong young leaves defied the assaulting breeze,Spreading the brightness of their verdant shieldsTo guard the nurseling fruit that Autumn yields.Where the thin moonbeams cast their joys alongA verdured vale of rapturous delightSpring caught the echoes of the herald’s song,And saw the flowerets in the dead of nightLift up their watchful faces, glad and bright,And heard the birds soft singing through the shade,Singing for Summer and the morning light;Then sank her soul within her, and afraid,She watched the circuit that the fast moon made.As Death, unseen, poised high his vengeful dart,And Nature knelt beside Spring’s fallen form,Night’s outer curtain ’gan to wave and partBefore the sun’s first breath, so bright and warm;The diamond dew to rainbows did transform,The flowers raised up their heads to their full height,The breeze bore on its wings a music stormAs every bird sang forth in full delightAnd loudest strain the sighings of the night.And Spring, revived a little, moved her head,And to her mother said, in accents mild:“Before he comes, alas! I may be dead.O hasten to him, mother, for thy child,And give him this, I plucked it in the wild,And tell him ere King Death his mantle throwsI would he kissed my lips, and on me smiled.O haste thee, mother mine! take this white rose,And bid him come my dying eyes to close.”With her last word the golden door swung free,A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom,Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea,The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom,And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groomThat ever bride had waited for and won;But Spring lay like an image on a tomb,Her too-short pilgrimage already done,Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun:And as her soul forsook its frail abode,Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain,Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode,With tears that fell in showers like to rain,Calling on Spring to come to life again.But tears could not disturb her last repose,And all the calling of his heart was vain.Summer still thinks of Spring—his grief he shows,When golden raindrops fall upon the rose.
Grim Winter rose and girded on his swordTo battle with the world. At each swift blowThe wind hissed cold, and at the sound abhorredBirds ceased their singing and the river’s flowStayed in its course, the sun’s warm glowReached not the flowers through the air’s dark frown,The last leaves perished, and the crystal snowPaled the soft bosom of the earth so brownAnd all her pulsing life was frozen down.Within Time’s wondrous palace of past yearsNature sat grieving on her ancient throne;Her furrowed cheeks were wet with scalding tears,And from her wrinkled mouth ’scaped many a moan;For she was brooding on delights long flown,When all was bright and happy and the landFlourished in fruitfulness, and there was knownNo sign of sorrow, ere stern Winter’s handGave right of spoil to all his ruthless band.“Ah me!” she cried aloud in accents sad,“That ever son of Time should work such woe,And he of all the offspring I have had,The eldest, unto whom my love did goLike streams that meadow margins overflowWith rainy surfeit for the thirsty earth;Whom I had hoped from childhood would upgrowRich in high thought, bold deed and noble worth,And yet Woe’s curse fell on him from his birth.”In simple beauty Spring knelt gently down,Kissed the sad tears from Nature’s care-worn face,Smoothed from her thoughtful brow each troublous frownWith tender hands, that left of pain no trace,And then upstood in modest maiden grace,Saying: “Behold! mine hour hath come to me;I go to make my love a resting-placeAgainst his coming from beyond the sea—A throne most fitting for his sovereignty.”So Spring walked forth into the icy cold,And as her first soft footfall touched the earth,A joyous thrill on everything took hold,And from the spot a snowdrop white had birth;Then a bold robin piped across the dearthOf frozen land a loud defiant sound;Then Winter knew his power was little worth,And sped him forth to higher vantage ground,With all his yelling rout fast flying round.The birds set up a chorus of glad song,Watching their nests among the shady trees;Insects in quick innumerable throngMade live the earth and air; gold-laden beesScorned the fine butterflies that flew at easeAmong the blossomed beauties of the fields;The strong young leaves defied the assaulting breeze,Spreading the brightness of their verdant shieldsTo guard the nurseling fruit that Autumn yields.Where the thin moonbeams cast their joys alongA verdured vale of rapturous delightSpring caught the echoes of the herald’s song,And saw the flowerets in the dead of nightLift up their watchful faces, glad and bright,And heard the birds soft singing through the shade,Singing for Summer and the morning light;Then sank her soul within her, and afraid,She watched the circuit that the fast moon made.As Death, unseen, poised high his vengeful dart,And Nature knelt beside Spring’s fallen form,Night’s outer curtain ’gan to wave and partBefore the sun’s first breath, so bright and warm;The diamond dew to rainbows did transform,The flowers raised up their heads to their full height,The breeze bore on its wings a music stormAs every bird sang forth in full delightAnd loudest strain the sighings of the night.And Spring, revived a little, moved her head,And to her mother said, in accents mild:“Before he comes, alas! I may be dead.O hasten to him, mother, for thy child,And give him this, I plucked it in the wild,And tell him ere King Death his mantle throwsI would he kissed my lips, and on me smiled.O haste thee, mother mine! take this white rose,And bid him come my dying eyes to close.”With her last word the golden door swung free,A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom,Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea,The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom,And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groomThat ever bride had waited for and won;But Spring lay like an image on a tomb,Her too-short pilgrimage already done,Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun:And as her soul forsook its frail abode,Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain,Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode,With tears that fell in showers like to rain,Calling on Spring to come to life again.But tears could not disturb her last repose,And all the calling of his heart was vain.Summer still thinks of Spring—his grief he shows,When golden raindrops fall upon the rose.
Grim Winter rose and girded on his swordTo battle with the world. At each swift blowThe wind hissed cold, and at the sound abhorredBirds ceased their singing and the river’s flowStayed in its course, the sun’s warm glowReached not the flowers through the air’s dark frown,The last leaves perished, and the crystal snowPaled the soft bosom of the earth so brownAnd all her pulsing life was frozen down.
Within Time’s wondrous palace of past yearsNature sat grieving on her ancient throne;Her furrowed cheeks were wet with scalding tears,And from her wrinkled mouth ’scaped many a moan;For she was brooding on delights long flown,When all was bright and happy and the landFlourished in fruitfulness, and there was knownNo sign of sorrow, ere stern Winter’s handGave right of spoil to all his ruthless band.
“Ah me!” she cried aloud in accents sad,“That ever son of Time should work such woe,And he of all the offspring I have had,The eldest, unto whom my love did goLike streams that meadow margins overflowWith rainy surfeit for the thirsty earth;Whom I had hoped from childhood would upgrowRich in high thought, bold deed and noble worth,And yet Woe’s curse fell on him from his birth.”
In simple beauty Spring knelt gently down,Kissed the sad tears from Nature’s care-worn face,Smoothed from her thoughtful brow each troublous frownWith tender hands, that left of pain no trace,And then upstood in modest maiden grace,Saying: “Behold! mine hour hath come to me;I go to make my love a resting-placeAgainst his coming from beyond the sea—A throne most fitting for his sovereignty.”
So Spring walked forth into the icy cold,And as her first soft footfall touched the earth,A joyous thrill on everything took hold,And from the spot a snowdrop white had birth;Then a bold robin piped across the dearthOf frozen land a loud defiant sound;Then Winter knew his power was little worth,And sped him forth to higher vantage ground,With all his yelling rout fast flying round.
The birds set up a chorus of glad song,Watching their nests among the shady trees;Insects in quick innumerable throngMade live the earth and air; gold-laden beesScorned the fine butterflies that flew at easeAmong the blossomed beauties of the fields;The strong young leaves defied the assaulting breeze,Spreading the brightness of their verdant shieldsTo guard the nurseling fruit that Autumn yields.
Where the thin moonbeams cast their joys alongA verdured vale of rapturous delightSpring caught the echoes of the herald’s song,And saw the flowerets in the dead of nightLift up their watchful faces, glad and bright,And heard the birds soft singing through the shade,Singing for Summer and the morning light;Then sank her soul within her, and afraid,She watched the circuit that the fast moon made.
As Death, unseen, poised high his vengeful dart,And Nature knelt beside Spring’s fallen form,Night’s outer curtain ’gan to wave and partBefore the sun’s first breath, so bright and warm;The diamond dew to rainbows did transform,The flowers raised up their heads to their full height,The breeze bore on its wings a music stormAs every bird sang forth in full delightAnd loudest strain the sighings of the night.
And Spring, revived a little, moved her head,And to her mother said, in accents mild:“Before he comes, alas! I may be dead.O hasten to him, mother, for thy child,And give him this, I plucked it in the wild,And tell him ere King Death his mantle throwsI would he kissed my lips, and on me smiled.O haste thee, mother mine! take this white rose,And bid him come my dying eyes to close.”
With her last word the golden door swung free,A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom,Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea,The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom,And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groomThat ever bride had waited for and won;But Spring lay like an image on a tomb,Her too-short pilgrimage already done,Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun:
And as her soul forsook its frail abode,Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain,Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode,With tears that fell in showers like to rain,Calling on Spring to come to life again.But tears could not disturb her last repose,And all the calling of his heart was vain.Summer still thinks of Spring—his grief he shows,When golden raindrops fall upon the rose.
God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt,The snow dissolving into rillsRefreshing earth from last year’s droughtAdown the peeping slopes of hillsCarve their increasing channels out,God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt.The day that stirs, the night that stills;Spring’s masque of flowers; rich summer’s rout;Each wonder, far past finding out,With joy and love my bosom thrills;God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt.
God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt,The snow dissolving into rillsRefreshing earth from last year’s droughtAdown the peeping slopes of hillsCarve their increasing channels out,God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt.The day that stirs, the night that stills;Spring’s masque of flowers; rich summer’s rout;Each wonder, far past finding out,With joy and love my bosom thrills;God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt.
God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt,The snow dissolving into rillsRefreshing earth from last year’s droughtAdown the peeping slopes of hillsCarve their increasing channels out,God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt.
The day that stirs, the night that stills;Spring’s masque of flowers; rich summer’s rout;Each wonder, far past finding out,With joy and love my bosom thrills;God’s wisdom all my spirit fillsWith faith that puts to flight all doubt.
This was the Abbey long years agoWhen a priest was pious, a lord was braveAnd a lady repeated her Ave slowWith fair eyes fixed on the architraveAs she heard a sanctified voice that claveThe clear bright air with a holy strain:All have been lost in Time’s great wave—Only the old grey walls remain.One arch still stands of all the rowThat circled the Abbey so tall and brave,These flags as legend would have us know,Are the very stones that used to paveThe cloister-walk, when a proud margraveHeard from his hiding a love-talk plainWhich he never forgot and never forgave,Only the old grey walls remain.Here where the nettle and nightshade growBy a nameless stone, is the quiet graveOf a murdered priest;—they laid him lowUnder the walk of the quiet nave.’Tis whispered alas! that a dagger gaveA stab to the heart that brought no pain;Of all the story that Time could saveOnly the old grey stones remain.
This was the Abbey long years agoWhen a priest was pious, a lord was braveAnd a lady repeated her Ave slowWith fair eyes fixed on the architraveAs she heard a sanctified voice that claveThe clear bright air with a holy strain:All have been lost in Time’s great wave—Only the old grey walls remain.One arch still stands of all the rowThat circled the Abbey so tall and brave,These flags as legend would have us know,Are the very stones that used to paveThe cloister-walk, when a proud margraveHeard from his hiding a love-talk plainWhich he never forgot and never forgave,Only the old grey walls remain.Here where the nettle and nightshade growBy a nameless stone, is the quiet graveOf a murdered priest;—they laid him lowUnder the walk of the quiet nave.’Tis whispered alas! that a dagger gaveA stab to the heart that brought no pain;Of all the story that Time could saveOnly the old grey stones remain.
This was the Abbey long years agoWhen a priest was pious, a lord was braveAnd a lady repeated her Ave slowWith fair eyes fixed on the architraveAs she heard a sanctified voice that claveThe clear bright air with a holy strain:All have been lost in Time’s great wave—Only the old grey walls remain.
One arch still stands of all the rowThat circled the Abbey so tall and brave,These flags as legend would have us know,Are the very stones that used to paveThe cloister-walk, when a proud margraveHeard from his hiding a love-talk plainWhich he never forgot and never forgave,Only the old grey walls remain.
Here where the nettle and nightshade growBy a nameless stone, is the quiet graveOf a murdered priest;—they laid him lowUnder the walk of the quiet nave.’Tis whispered alas! that a dagger gaveA stab to the heart that brought no pain;Of all the story that Time could saveOnly the old grey stones remain.
Ballade! To that dead lady goSay Love still sings its sad refrain;Of its lofty hope and sunny glowOnly its old grey walls remain.
Ballade! To that dead lady goSay Love still sings its sad refrain;Of its lofty hope and sunny glowOnly its old grey walls remain.
Ballade! To that dead lady goSay Love still sings its sad refrain;Of its lofty hope and sunny glowOnly its old grey walls remain.
Born in the night and christened with the dew,The violet lifts its face for morning’s kiss;And each fair petal, filled with Nature’s bliss,Weaves from the sunshine a sweet robe of blue.The birds look down and wonder how it grew,For yesterday the leaves where now it isLay green i’ the grass, and nought was like to this,Earth’s earliest counterfeit of Heaven’s hue.The shy hepatica; the showdrop white;The trebly mounted trillium; the blazeOf golden daffodil with sunny rays—Have all arisen in their beauty bright;But none of Flora’s first-born can compare,With this blue-blossomed darling of the air.
Born in the night and christened with the dew,The violet lifts its face for morning’s kiss;And each fair petal, filled with Nature’s bliss,Weaves from the sunshine a sweet robe of blue.The birds look down and wonder how it grew,For yesterday the leaves where now it isLay green i’ the grass, and nought was like to this,Earth’s earliest counterfeit of Heaven’s hue.The shy hepatica; the showdrop white;The trebly mounted trillium; the blazeOf golden daffodil with sunny rays—Have all arisen in their beauty bright;But none of Flora’s first-born can compare,With this blue-blossomed darling of the air.
Born in the night and christened with the dew,The violet lifts its face for morning’s kiss;And each fair petal, filled with Nature’s bliss,Weaves from the sunshine a sweet robe of blue.The birds look down and wonder how it grew,For yesterday the leaves where now it isLay green i’ the grass, and nought was like to this,Earth’s earliest counterfeit of Heaven’s hue.The shy hepatica; the showdrop white;The trebly mounted trillium; the blazeOf golden daffodil with sunny rays—Have all arisen in their beauty bright;But none of Flora’s first-born can compare,With this blue-blossomed darling of the air.
Bright little butterfly, mounting at morningOver Love’s garden of sweet delight,Heedless of harm and the honey-bee’s warning,Bent upon pleasure, in pains despite.Gaily thou flutterest, gaudily flauntingAll thy fair charms to the winds that kissLike a soul in elysian happiness hauntingNew meadows of bliss.When the first grey beam of the dawn upliftingShadows of sleep from a world of dreams,From sea-marge to mountain and meadow-land drifting,Lighted at last on thy wings’ bright gleamsKissed thee and waked thee and whispered thee hastenTo herald the sun where it might not smiteIn the deeps of dark dells where white flowers wastenAnd languish for light.Thou hast bathed in the sun-flashing spray that arisesFrom ripples that laugh on the brook’s fair face,Thou hast gazed in the mirror that Nature devisesFor Beauty’s delight in her own sweet grace,Thou hast basked in the heat of the noon-tide splendourWhen cricket piped high in the grass beneath,And the blossoms that carried thy burden so tenderWere crowned with a wreath.The lily grew pale for thou passed its perfection,The violet bowed in a passion of grief,The daisy had hope of thy gracious election,The blue-bell despaired of its heart’s relief,The hyacinth spread all its beauties before thee,The marjoram blushed as it caught thine eye,The mignonette flung its sweet fragrance o’er thee—But thou passed them by.Light was thy heart and the pleasures thou scatteredWere pure as the flowers on which they fell,Till the red rose sought thee and caught thee and flattered,With promise of love thou hast known too well.All the long hours till the low sun glamouredThe bright blushing petals to kiss and to toy,Thou paused in thy flight, for thy heart enamouredDrank deeply of joy.The blossoms that drooped in the dark and were sighingFor tidings of light thou wert bidden to tellLay down in despair, dreading death, and yet dyingAnd great was the grief in deeps of the dell,For thou hadst forgotten the message of morningAnd the work of the day thou wast given to do,For the love of the rose and the honey-bee’s scorningFor thy love was true.Poor little butterfly! dying so sadlyAt the rise of the moon o’er the ripe-gold grain;Dost thou rue of the pleasure thou tasted so madly,Would’st thou take back thy love to take life again?Ah, no! Love is sweeter and meeter than duty,And shall hold thee in joy till thy last breath beats,Till thou liest at rest—a dead marvel of beautySurrounded by sweets.
Bright little butterfly, mounting at morningOver Love’s garden of sweet delight,Heedless of harm and the honey-bee’s warning,Bent upon pleasure, in pains despite.Gaily thou flutterest, gaudily flauntingAll thy fair charms to the winds that kissLike a soul in elysian happiness hauntingNew meadows of bliss.When the first grey beam of the dawn upliftingShadows of sleep from a world of dreams,From sea-marge to mountain and meadow-land drifting,Lighted at last on thy wings’ bright gleamsKissed thee and waked thee and whispered thee hastenTo herald the sun where it might not smiteIn the deeps of dark dells where white flowers wastenAnd languish for light.Thou hast bathed in the sun-flashing spray that arisesFrom ripples that laugh on the brook’s fair face,Thou hast gazed in the mirror that Nature devisesFor Beauty’s delight in her own sweet grace,Thou hast basked in the heat of the noon-tide splendourWhen cricket piped high in the grass beneath,And the blossoms that carried thy burden so tenderWere crowned with a wreath.The lily grew pale for thou passed its perfection,The violet bowed in a passion of grief,The daisy had hope of thy gracious election,The blue-bell despaired of its heart’s relief,The hyacinth spread all its beauties before thee,The marjoram blushed as it caught thine eye,The mignonette flung its sweet fragrance o’er thee—But thou passed them by.Light was thy heart and the pleasures thou scatteredWere pure as the flowers on which they fell,Till the red rose sought thee and caught thee and flattered,With promise of love thou hast known too well.All the long hours till the low sun glamouredThe bright blushing petals to kiss and to toy,Thou paused in thy flight, for thy heart enamouredDrank deeply of joy.The blossoms that drooped in the dark and were sighingFor tidings of light thou wert bidden to tellLay down in despair, dreading death, and yet dyingAnd great was the grief in deeps of the dell,For thou hadst forgotten the message of morningAnd the work of the day thou wast given to do,For the love of the rose and the honey-bee’s scorningFor thy love was true.Poor little butterfly! dying so sadlyAt the rise of the moon o’er the ripe-gold grain;Dost thou rue of the pleasure thou tasted so madly,Would’st thou take back thy love to take life again?Ah, no! Love is sweeter and meeter than duty,And shall hold thee in joy till thy last breath beats,Till thou liest at rest—a dead marvel of beautySurrounded by sweets.
Bright little butterfly, mounting at morningOver Love’s garden of sweet delight,Heedless of harm and the honey-bee’s warning,Bent upon pleasure, in pains despite.Gaily thou flutterest, gaudily flauntingAll thy fair charms to the winds that kissLike a soul in elysian happiness hauntingNew meadows of bliss.
When the first grey beam of the dawn upliftingShadows of sleep from a world of dreams,From sea-marge to mountain and meadow-land drifting,Lighted at last on thy wings’ bright gleamsKissed thee and waked thee and whispered thee hastenTo herald the sun where it might not smiteIn the deeps of dark dells where white flowers wastenAnd languish for light.
Thou hast bathed in the sun-flashing spray that arisesFrom ripples that laugh on the brook’s fair face,Thou hast gazed in the mirror that Nature devisesFor Beauty’s delight in her own sweet grace,Thou hast basked in the heat of the noon-tide splendourWhen cricket piped high in the grass beneath,And the blossoms that carried thy burden so tenderWere crowned with a wreath.
The lily grew pale for thou passed its perfection,The violet bowed in a passion of grief,The daisy had hope of thy gracious election,The blue-bell despaired of its heart’s relief,The hyacinth spread all its beauties before thee,The marjoram blushed as it caught thine eye,The mignonette flung its sweet fragrance o’er thee—But thou passed them by.
Light was thy heart and the pleasures thou scatteredWere pure as the flowers on which they fell,Till the red rose sought thee and caught thee and flattered,With promise of love thou hast known too well.All the long hours till the low sun glamouredThe bright blushing petals to kiss and to toy,Thou paused in thy flight, for thy heart enamouredDrank deeply of joy.
The blossoms that drooped in the dark and were sighingFor tidings of light thou wert bidden to tellLay down in despair, dreading death, and yet dyingAnd great was the grief in deeps of the dell,For thou hadst forgotten the message of morningAnd the work of the day thou wast given to do,For the love of the rose and the honey-bee’s scorningFor thy love was true.
Poor little butterfly! dying so sadlyAt the rise of the moon o’er the ripe-gold grain;Dost thou rue of the pleasure thou tasted so madly,Would’st thou take back thy love to take life again?Ah, no! Love is sweeter and meeter than duty,And shall hold thee in joy till thy last breath beats,Till thou liest at rest—a dead marvel of beautySurrounded by sweets.
A gentle stream purled on its peaceful wayThrough woodlands fair and meadows wondrous sweet,Chancing at length a cavern dark to meetWithin whose depth ne’er fell the light of day;Lo! as it entered, heavenward flew the sprayAll loth to pass beyond and backward beat,As though the natural course it would defeatThat plunged it where the sun cast not a ray.Through that lone cave of blackness on it sped,Its happy music turned to mournful sigh,Until it reached the end, when earth and skyShone doubly bright that seemed for so long dead;—Thus didst thou pass, sweet singer, through the gloomOf life’s dark hollow. Light came at the tomb.
A gentle stream purled on its peaceful wayThrough woodlands fair and meadows wondrous sweet,Chancing at length a cavern dark to meetWithin whose depth ne’er fell the light of day;Lo! as it entered, heavenward flew the sprayAll loth to pass beyond and backward beat,As though the natural course it would defeatThat plunged it where the sun cast not a ray.Through that lone cave of blackness on it sped,Its happy music turned to mournful sigh,Until it reached the end, when earth and skyShone doubly bright that seemed for so long dead;—Thus didst thou pass, sweet singer, through the gloomOf life’s dark hollow. Light came at the tomb.
A gentle stream purled on its peaceful wayThrough woodlands fair and meadows wondrous sweet,Chancing at length a cavern dark to meetWithin whose depth ne’er fell the light of day;Lo! as it entered, heavenward flew the sprayAll loth to pass beyond and backward beat,As though the natural course it would defeatThat plunged it where the sun cast not a ray.Through that lone cave of blackness on it sped,Its happy music turned to mournful sigh,Until it reached the end, when earth and skyShone doubly bright that seemed for so long dead;—Thus didst thou pass, sweet singer, through the gloomOf life’s dark hollow. Light came at the tomb.