(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.)("Un jour, sentant un royal appétit."){Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.}
One fasting day, itched by his appetite,A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide,And, where the wearer had been savage, triedTo overpass his model. Scratch and biteGave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams,But, as he prowled, he made his hearers flyWith crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams!"Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh.Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den,With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves,And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men,Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves—He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelfSordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things,As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self!Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and singsTill tramps a butcher by—he risks his head—In darts the hand and crushes out the yell,And plucks the hide—as from a nut the shell—He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread!"H.L.W.
A LAMENT.("Sentiers où l'herbe se balance."){Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.}
O paths whereon wild grasses wave!O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar!Why are ye silent as the grave?For One, who came, and comes no more!Why is thy window closed of late?And why thy garden in its sear?O house! where doth thy master wait?I only know he is not here.Good dog! thou watchest; yet no handWill feed thee. In the house is none.Whom weepest thou? child! My father. AndO wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.Where is he gone? Into the dark.—O sad, and ever-plaining surge!Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.
("Laissons le glaive à Rome."){Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.}
Pray Rome put up her poniard!And Sparta sheathe the sword;Be none too prompt to punish,And cast indignant word!Bear back your spectral BrutusFrom robber Bonaparte;Time rarely will refute usWho doom the hateful heart.Ye shall be o'ercontented,My banished mates from home,But be no rashness ventedEre time for joy shall come.No crime can outspeed Justice,Who, resting, seems delayed—Full faith accord the angelWho points the patient blade.The traitor still may nestleIn balmy bed of state,But mark the Warder, watchingHis guardsman at his gate.He wears the crown, a monarch—Of knaves and stony hearts;But though they're blessed by Senates,None can escape the darts!Though shored by spear and crozier,All know the arrant cheat,And shun the square of pavementUncertain at his feet!Yea, spare the wretch, each broodingAnd secret-leaguers' chief,And make no pistol-targetOf stars upon the thief.The knell of God strikes seldomBut in the aptest hour;And when the life is sweetest,The worm will feel His power!
("Pendant que dans l'auberge."){Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.}
While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink,Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink?Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed,A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed,And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear,I known it isthe Future—God's Justicer is here!
("Adieu, patrie."){Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.}
Farewell the strand,The sails expandAbove!Farewell the landWe love!Farewell, old home where apples swing!Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!Farewell, riff-raffOf Customs' clerks who laughAnd shout:"Farewell!" We'll quaffOne boutTo thee, young lass, with kisses sweet!Farewell, my dear—the ship flies fleet!The fog shuts out the last fond peep,As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep.Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird!The whistling wind alone is heard:Farewell! Farewell!
("Il neigeait."){Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.}
It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!For once the eagle was hanging its head.Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his backOn smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reignOver the endless blanched sheet of the plain.Nor chief nor banner in order could keep,The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep.The wings from centre could hardly be knownThrough snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown,Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlornStrange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn:Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrodeSteeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad.The shells and bullets came down with the snowAs though the heavens hated these poor troops below.Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold,Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans boldMarched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breezeWhistled upon the glassy endless seas,Where naked feet on, on for ever went,With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.They were not living troops as seen in war,But merely phantoms of a dream, afarIn darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,—A mystery; of shadows a procession grim,Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.Frightful, since boundless, solitude beholdWhere only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,A shroud of magnitude for host immense;Till every one felt as if left aloneIn a wide wilderness where no light shone,To die, with pity none, and none to seeThat from this mournful realm none should get free.Their foes the frozen North and Czar—That, worst.Cannon were broken up in haste accurstTo burn the frames and make the pale fire high,Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die.Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fledWere swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raisedO'er regiments. And History, amazed,Could not record the ruin of this retreat,Unlike a downfall known before or the defeatOf Hannibal—reversed and wrapped in gloom!Of Attila, when nations met their doom!Perished an army—fled French glory then,Though there the Emperor! he stood and gazedAt the wild havoc, like a monarch dazedIn woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw—He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm loveKept those that rose all dastard fear above,As on his tent they saw his shadow pass—Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas!His fortune's star! it could not, could not beThat he had not his work to do—a destiny?To hurl him headlong from his high estate,Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate.But all the while he felt himself alone,Stunned with disasters few have ever known.Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul,What more was written on the Future's scroll?Was this an expiation? It must be, yea!He turned to God for one enlightening ray."Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed,But the first murmur on his parched lips died."Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?"A pause: his name was called; of flame a jetSprang in the darkness;—a Voice answered; "No!Not yet."Outside still fell the smothering snow.Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream?It was the vulture's, but how like thesea-bird's scream.TORU DUTT.
("Nous nous promenions à Rozel-Tower."){Bk. VI. iv., October, 1852.}
We walked amongst the ruins famed in storyOf Rozel-Tower,And saw the boundless waters stretch in gloryAnd heave in power.O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder,Whilst waves marked time."Appeal, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder,"And shine sublime!"The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,—To despots sold,Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles,The Right uphold."Be born; arise; o'er earth and wild waves boundingPeoples and suns!Let darkness vanish;—tocsins be resounding,And flash, ye guns!"And you,—who love no pomps of fog, or glamour,Who fear no shocks,Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor,Exiles—the rocks!"TORU DUTT
("Sonnez, clairons de la pensée!"){Bk. VII. i., March 19, 1853.}
Sound, sound for ever, Clarions of Thought!When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought,He marched around it with his banner high,His troops in serried order following nigh,But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang,Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang.At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king,And at the second sneered, half wondering:"Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?"At the third round, the ark of old renownSwept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud,And then the troops with ensigns waving proud.Stepped out upon the old walls children darkWith horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark.At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites,Women appeared upon the crenelated heights—Those battlements embrowned with age and rust—And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust,And spun and sang when weary of the game.At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame,And with wild uproar clamorous and highRailed at the clarion ringing to the sky.At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest,So high that there the eagle built his nest,So hard that on it lightning lit in vain,Appeared in merriment the king again:"These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems!"He scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams."The princes laughed submissive to the king,Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring,And thence the laughter spread through all the town.At the seventh blast—the city walls fell down.TORU DUTT.
("Devant les trahisons."){Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.}
Before foul treachery and heads hung down,I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene.Oh! faith in fallen things—be thou my crown,My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:Yes, whilsthe'sthere, or struggle some or fall,O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain.Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves—my all,I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore,France, save my duty, I shall all forget;Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar,And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.O bitter exile, hard, without a term,Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to knowWho have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm,And who have fled that should have fought the foe.If true a thousand stand, with them I stand;A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave;Ten? put my name down foremost in the band;One?—well, alone—until I find my grave.TORU DUTT.
("Là-haut, qui sourit."){Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.}
Who smiles there? Is itA stray spirit,Or woman fair?Sombre yet soft the brow!Bow, nations, bow;O soul in air,Speak—what art thou?In grief the fair face seems—What means those sudden gleams?Our antique pride from dreamsStarts up, and beamsIts conquering glance,—To make our sad hearts dance,And wake in woods hushed longThe wild bird's song.Angel of Day!Our Hope, Love, Stay,Thy countenanceLights land and seaEternally,Thy name is FranceOr Verity.Fair angel in thy glassWhen vile things move or pass,Clouds in the skies amass;Terrible, alas!Thy stern commands are then:"Form your battalions, men,The flag display!"And all obey.Angel of mightSent kings to smite,The words in dark skies glance,"Mené, Mené," hissBolts that never miss!Thy name is France,Or Nemesis.As halcyons in May,O nations, in his rayFloat and bask for aye,Nor know decay!One arm upraised to heavenSeals the past forgiven;One holds a swordTo quell hell's horde,Angel of God!Thy wings stretch broadAs heaven's expanse!To shield and freeHumanity!Thy name is France,Or Liberty!{Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.}
("Temps futurs."){Part "Lux," Jersey, Dec. 16-20, 1853.}
O vision of the coming time!When man has 'scaped the trackless slimeAnd reached the desert spring;When sands are crossed, the sward invitesThe worn to rest 'mid rare delightsAnd gratefully to sing.E'en now the eye that's levelled high,Though dimly, can the hope espySo solid soon, one day;For every chain must then be broke,And hatred none will dare evoke,And June shall scatter May.E'en now amid our miseryThe germ of Union many see,And through the hedge of thorn,Like to a bee that dawn awakes,On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes,With solemn, scathing scorn.Behold the blackness shrink, and flee!Behold the world rise up so freeOf coroneted things!Whilst o'er the distant youthful States,Like Amazonian bosom-plates,Spread Freedom's shielding wings.Ye, liberated lands, we hail!Your sails are whole despite the gale!Your masts are firm, and will not fail—The triumph follows pain!Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks—It beats the time to nations' thanks—At last, apeacefulstrain!'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns,And shattered shells are but the runsWhere warring insects cope;And all the headsman's racks and bladesAnd pincers, tools of tyrants' aids,Are buried with the rope.Upon the sky-line glows i' the darkThe Sun that now is but a spark;But soon will be unfurled—The glorious banner of us all,The flag that rises ne'er to fall,Republic of the World!
A FABLE.{Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.}
A lion camped beside a spring, where came the BirdOf Jove to drink:When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd,The moistened brink,Beneath the palm—theyalways tempt pugnacious hands—Both travel-sore;But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brandsStraight to each core;As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the callOf Eagle shrill:"Yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small,Now one grave fill!Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless boneBecomes a pipeThrough which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stoneBy quail and snipe.Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid,And mortal feud?I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo—none afraid—In solitude:At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood.Kings, he and I;For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood,And he to me the sky."H.L.W.
("L'enfant chantait."){Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.}
The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed,With anguish moaned,—fair Form pain should possess not long;For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head:I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, ayeMade a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright;And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong dayCarolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway;And the blithe little lad began anew to sing...Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weighEarthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.NELSON R. TYERMAN.
("Une terre au flanc maigre."){Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.}
A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face,Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race;And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil,Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil;Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands,And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands,Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends,And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends!Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor;Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two!Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new,That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell,In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell!No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high,Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry.At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot;Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot;Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land,Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand.And this to those who, luckily, abide afar—This is, ha! ha!a star!
("Comme le matin rit sur les roses."){Bk. I. xii.}
The dawn is smiling on the dew that coversThe tearful roses—lo, the little lovers—That kiss the buds and all the flutteringsIn jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wingsThat go and come, and fly, and peep, and hideWith muffled music, murmured far and wide!Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the laysThat dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays,Of the proud hearts within a billet bound,Of all the soft silk paper that men wound,The messages of love that mortals write,Filled with intoxication of delight,Written in April, and before the MaytimeShredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime.We dream that all white butterflies above,Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,And leave their lady mistress to despair,To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair,Are but torn love-letters, that through the skiesFlutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.A. LANG.
("Si vous n'avez rien à me dire."){Bk. II. iv., May, 18—.}
Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden!Or haunt no more my lone retreat.If not for me thy heart be laden,Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?Ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden,Whene'er as thus so oft we meet?If not for me thy heart be, Aideen,Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?Why, when my hand unconscious pressing,Still keep untold the maiden dream?In fancy thou art thus caressingThe while we wander by the stream.If thou art pained when I am near thee,Why in my path so often stray?For in my heart I love yet fear thee,And fain would fly, yet fondly stay.C.H. KENNY.
("Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu."){Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.}
Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold!Ye wounded, come hither—the Healer enfold!Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care—Or pass—forthisComfort is found ev'rywhere.{Footnote 1: Music by Gounod.}
("Ceux-ci partent."){Bk. III. v., February, 1843.}
We pass—these sleepBeneath the shade where deep-leaved boughsBend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs,And gentle summer winds in many sweepWhirl in eddying wavesThe dead leaves o'er the graves.And the living sigh:Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die.Ye never more may list the wild bird's song,Or mingle in the crowded city-throng.Ye must ever dwell in gloom,'Mid the silence of the tomb.And the dead reply:God giveth us His life. Ye die,Your barren lives are tilled with tears,For glory, ye are clad with fears.Oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades!We live; your beauty clouds and fades.
("Oh! vous aurez trop dit."){Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.}
Ah, you said too often to your angelThere are other angels in the sky—There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers,Sweet it were to enter in on high.To that dome on marvellous pilasters,To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars,That blue garden full of stars like lilies,And of lilies beautiful as stars.And you said it was a place most joyous,All our poor imaginings above,With the wingèd cherubim for playmates,And the good God evermore to love.Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons,Like a taper burning day and night,Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin,In that home so beautiful and bright.But you should have told him, hapless mother,Told your child so frail and gentle too,That you were all his in life's beginning,But that also he belonged to you.For the mother watches o'er the infant,He must rise up in her latter days,She will need the man that was her babyTo stand by her when her strength decays.Ah, you did not tell enough your darlingThat God made us in this lower life,Woman for the man, and man for woman,In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow!The sweet creature left you all alone;'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open,Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.BP. ALEXANDER.
("Il vivait, il jouait."){Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.}
He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing.What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming?Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright,The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky?What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by—Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?Because of this one child thou hast no more of might,O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight!But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild,This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth—This world as vast as thou, eventhou, O sorrowless Earth,Is desolate and void because of this one child!NELSON K. TYERMAN.
("Un jour, le morne esprit."){Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.}
One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublimeAt Patmos who aye dreamed,And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time,Words that with hell-fire gleamed,Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight—Needs must I see His Face!"The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night,Lo! the all-sacred Place!And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knowsThe name, nor there hath trod;And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glowsBecause of very God.NELSON R. TYERMAN.
You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell,And still go on. If but the way be straight,It cannot go amiss! before me liesDawn and the Day; the Night behind me; thatSuffices me; I break the bounds; Isee,And nothing more;believe, and nothing less.My future is not one of my concerns.PROF. E. DOWDEN.
I AM CONTENT.("J'habite l'ombre."){1855.}
True; I dwell lone,Upon sea-beaten cape,Mere raft of stone;Whence all escapeSave one who shrinks not from the gloom,And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb.My bedroom rocksWith breezes; quakes in storms,When dangling locksOf seaweed mock the formsOf straggling clouds that trail o'erheadLike tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.Upon the skyCrape palls are often nailedWith stars. Mine eyeHas scared the gull that sailedTo blacker depths with shrillest scream,Still fainter, till like voices in a dream.My days becomeMore plaintive, wan, and pale,While o'er the foamI see, borne by the gale,Infinity! in kindness sent—To find me ever saying: "I'm content!"
("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui."){Bk. II}
Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes,Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm,Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fellThe dark man reached a mount in a great plain,And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath,Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep."Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot.Raising his head, in that funereal heavenHe saw an eye, a great eye, in the nightOpen, and staring at him in the gloom."I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke upHis sleeping sons again, and his tired wife,And fled through space and darkness. Thirty daysHe went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind;Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound;No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strandWhere the sea washes that which since was Asshur."Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure;Here may we rest, for this is the world's end."And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky,The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge,And the wretch shook as in an ague fit."Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons,Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire.Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwellIn tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent,"And they spread wide the floating canvas roof,And made it fast and fixed it down with lead."You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair childThe daughter of his eldest, sweet as day.But Cain replied, "That Eye—I see it still."And Jubal cried (the father of all thoseThat handle harp and organ): "I will buildA sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze,And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned,"That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried:"Then must we make a circle vast of towers,So terrible that nothing dare draw near;Build we a city with a citadel;Build we a city high and close it fast."Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all themThat work in brass and iron) built a tower—Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought,His fiery brothers from the plain aroundHunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth;They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed,And hurled at even arrows to the stars.They set strong granite for the canvas wall,And every block was clamped with iron chains.It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers,With their huge masses made night in the land.The walls were thick as mountains. On the doorThey graved: "Let not God enter here." This done,And having finished to cement and buildIn a stone tower, they set him in the midst.To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire,Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly.But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there."Then added: "I will live beneath the earth,As a lone man within his sepulchre.I will see nothing; will be seen of none."They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow,"As he went down alone into the vault;But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair,And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head,The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.Dublin University Magazine
("Booz s'était couché."){Bk. II. vi.}
At work within his barn since very early,Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,Upon the small bed where he always layBoaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the floodThat turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mudAnd in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.His beard was silver, as in April allA stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look,Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."He walked his way of life straight on and plain,With justice clothed, like linen white and clean,And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween,Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.Good master, faithful friend, in his estateFrugal yet generous, beyond the youthHe won regard of woman, for in soothThe young man may be fair—the old man's great.Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright,The old man entereth, the day eterne;And in the young man's eye a flame may burn,But in the old man's eye one seeth light.As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deepSlept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided,Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glidedA fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad,Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain.His race ran up it far, like a long chain;Below it sung a king, above it died a God.Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart,"The number of my years is past fourscore:How may this be? I have not any more,Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part."In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine;And she, half living, I half dead within,Our beings still commingle and are twin,It cannot be that I should found a line!"Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days boundFrom night, as from a victory. But suchA trembling as the birch-tree's to the touchOf winter is an eld, and evening closes round."I bow myself to death, as lone to meetThe water bow their fronts athirst." He said.The cedar feeleth not the rose's head,Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!For while he slept, the Moabitess RuthLay at his feet, expectant of his waking.He knowing not what sweet guile she was making;She knowing not what God would have in sooth.Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring—Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fastThe angels sped, for momently there passedA something blue which seemed to be a wing.Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur—The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows.Far west among those flowers of the shadows.The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,Made Ruth raise question, looking through the barsOf heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comerUnto the harvest of the eternal summer,Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.BP. ALEXANDER.