The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Walter Richard CasselsRelease date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10328]Most recently updated: December 19, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Ross and PG Distributed Proofreaders*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: Walter Richard CasselsRelease date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10328]Most recently updated: December 19, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Ross and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Title: Poems
Author: Walter Richard Cassels
Author: Walter Richard Cassels
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10328]Most recently updated: December 19, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Ross and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Produced by David Ross and PG Distributed Proofreaders
1856
M A B E L,A Sketch.
ORAN,a Speculative Philosopher.MABEL,his Wife.HER FATHER.MAURICE, }ROGER, }her brothers.
ORAN, MAURICE,andROGER.
Well, well! and so ye deem I love her not,Ye and the world that love so passing well?—That still I trifle with her bright young life,As the wind plays with some frail water-bell,Wafting it wantonly about the sky,Till at some harsher breath it breaks and dies?
Nay, not thus far would our reflections go.Friendship paints not with the foul brush of Conscience!But thou, a man of dark and mystic aims,Tracking out Science through forbidden ways,Leaving the light and trodden paths to grope'Mid fearful speculations and wild dreams,May'st hunt thy Will-o'-the-wisp until thou lead'stOur sister, all unwitting, to her death.
That shalt thou answer unto us. Thy lifeShall be to her life like the sun and shade,Lost in one setting.
Ay! thou sayest well—Thou sayest well. How oft a random shaftStriketh King Truth betwixt the armour-joints!—One life, one sun, one setting for us both.
Which way, then, tend your fears? What certain aimHave all these strokes you level at my ways?
We say that you, against all light received,Against all laws of prudence and of love,Practise dark magic on our sister's soul—That by strange motions, incantations, spells,So work you on her spirit that strange sleep,Sombre as Death's dark shadow, presentlySteals o'er her fragile body, dulls her sense,And wraps her wholly in its chill embrace;That thus, spell-bound, lost to the living world,She lies till thou again unwind her chain,And wak'st her feebly to this life of earth.Thus dost thou peril her, thou blinded man!Sett'st her dear life against thy moonstruck thought,And slay'st thy dove on Folly's altar-steps.
Ay! if you loved her, would your eyes have miss'dThe moonish faintness that o'erlaps her now,Melting the fresh, full, ruddy glow of healthTo loveliness most heavenly, yet most sad?Her cheeks, where youth once summer'd into roses,Glow now with faint exotic loveliness,Not native to this harsh and gusty earth;And from her large dark eyes there seems to gazeSome angel with mute, melancholy looks,As from a casement at this jarring world.
Ha! then you too have seen it; it is not,O Heaven!—is not delusion, this fond dream,But even now it works, works bliss for her.Proceed, Sir … you were saying … Sir, I list …That in her eyes you saw angelic fire,Pure from the dross, the dimming clouds of earth,Deem'd now her frame ethereal, unakinTo earth's clay-moulded fabrics—such, perchance,As entering heaven, might have left its dustAt the bright folding portals, sandal-like,And thence, repassing in seraphic trance,Still left unclaim'd the vesture at the gate!
You glory in her weakness! 'Tis too much—Rash man, beware, a bitter end will come.
I fain would think that study hath o'erwroughtYour heated brain to this short fever fit,That soon may pass and leave your vision clear.In truth, I note strange changes in your mien—A wandering glance, quick, restless eagerness,Rapt snatches of deep thought, wherein the mindSeems cleaving heaven with wild extatic wings:Your cheeks are pale, and all your nervous frameThrills 'neath some strange enthusiastic touch.Lay by your books awhile, and breathe again,As in those days gone by, the country air,The sweet, calm country air, where perfume floatsLike love that finds no heart so godlike largeCan clasp it wholly in its one embrace,But overflows creation with its bliss.Thus shall you quickly exorcise this madness,And cleanse your brain of these pernicious dreams.
This madness! I bethink me of the past,Of all the great and noble who have toil'dAmid the deep dark mines of burning thought,Wearing out life to quarry forth the Truth;Of all the seers and watchers, early and lateWaiting with eager blood-hot eyes the lightRising afar in some untrodden East,Full of divine and precious influence,Calling, like Mezzuin from his minaret,The thankless world to worship and be glad;Of all the patient thinkers of the earthWho talk'd with Wisdom like familiar friends,Until their voices unaccustom'd grew,And men stared blankly at them as they pass'd:I do bethink me of them all, and knowHow each walk'd through his labyrinth of scorn,And was accounted mad before all men.But patience!—Winter bears within its breastThe nascent seeds of golden harvest-time.
This only shall I tell you of my ways—Straying, now here, now there, 'mid science' wealth,I have discover'd a vast hidden power—A power that perfected shall surely workGreat revolution in all human laws,—Where stop its courses I as yet know not;'Tis to me like the sun, that all the dayShines godlike in my vision, and, at night,Though darkness hide its brightness, still, I feel,Shines on in glory over other spheres;It is a power beneficent and good,That grants to spirit infinite controlOver all matter, and that frees the soulFrom its flesh shackles, and its sensuous means.What else its influences, or for health,For happiness, or blessing, I say not—Save that such glimpses of vast powers unknownDawn on my wondering mind, that like a manStanding upon some giddy pinnacle,With a whole world seen faint and small below,I close mine eyes for very fear and joy.To her, my Mabel, do I bear in loveSome first-fruits of my finding—make her rich,That, gazing through her eyes, I may beholdHow sweet is heaven, how dear is happiness.This is the sum of that I work on her;Then, though I thank you for your good intent,Leave me untroubled to my life of thought,Leave her all trustful in the arms of love.
You love her not, false man! your heart and soulAre steep'd in science till not e'en the heel,Achilles-like, is vulnerable left.Ay! wear thus feeling's semblance as you will,Pale visionary! no more shall I pause,But with strong hand arrest your mad career!Soon we return arm'd with a father's power,To snatch our sister from your fearful arts.
Oh! if you love her, Sir, as once you did—If yet upon the dial of your lifeHer sun mark out the short sweet hours of joy,And all too swiftly on the shadows glide—If yet you prize the loving heart you hold,From this most mad delusion waken up,That blindly blights her whom it seeks to bless;Cease your Utopian and unsafe essays,And rather turn your studious care to callThe fading roses back into her cheeks,And shed health's gladness on her feeble frame;Reflect whilst yet you may, lest late RemorseStalk, ghost-like, through the chambers of your soul,Haunting their gloomy void for evermore.
[Exeunt Maurice and Roger.
Not love her! O my God! thou knowest me—Thou, looking through me as the sun at noonThat searches through the being of the world—Thou setting life against thy glory light,As men hold up a crystal 'gainst the sun,Making its frame as nothing in the blaze!
Lo! my heart was like a chaotic world,Still, silent, 'mid the dreary waste of time.Man there was not in all its desert bounds,But hoary ruins of past wondrous things,Old unbeliefs, fierce doubts, unsightly dreams,That wearing out their wild hot-breathing life,Wearily stretch'd their writhing shapes to die;Then came she moving o'er my awe-hush'd soul,Like God's own Spirit over earth's void waters,And there arose order and life through all.She was my sun, set high to rule the day,And make my world all bright and beautiful;She was my moon, amid the stilly nightSubduing darkness with her quiet smiles,And stealing softly through my anxious dreams,A sweet-soul'd hostage for departed day;She was my summer, clothing all my lifeWith fragrant blossoms of delight and joy.
[A pause.
Not love her! 'Tis as yesterday the timeWhen first my love stole fainting to her ear,In deep scarce-worded murmurs of desire.'Twas evening, and above the weary landSilence lay dreaming in a golden hush;The summer's sunset yellow'd in the wheat,And the ripe year, with harvest promise full,Slept on the wavy slopes and verdant leas,Like one who through long hours of toil at lastSees the glad work accomplish'd, and in peaceFlings him along the meadows to repose;Below, the bells of even faintly chimed,And sent their hymnal music up the breezeTo where I stood, half-praying, by her side.Then all my words and thoughts that came and went,Waving about the secret of my love,Like billows plashing on a silent shore,All at one gush flow'd from me o'er her heart,And broke the banks of silence; then my loveSank through her liquid eyes to read her soul,Like diver that through waving water-floodsSeeketh the priceless pearl that lies below,And there found life—found joy for evermore:It is as yesterday that time to me,—Sweet time, when love entwines the locks of lifeWith fragrant blossoms, like a one-hour's bride,And claspeth summer with soft pleading arms,That she, though ne'er so eager to be gone,Still tarries smiling for a last embrace,And drops her hoarded flowers upon the way:It is as yesterday—my love the same—The love that led me through all heavy tasks,All lonely watchings by the midnight lamp,To win the fame that still might shine on her;And e'en—how dear the thought!—this wondrous power,This godlike influence which has dawn'd on me,Thus from my love takes colouring and aim!Not love her! Well, well, I'll forget the word—The sun shines on, though blind eyes see it not.
[A pause.
It cannot be—this aim so deeply—weigh'd,So long and calmly sifted, cannot fail.O wondrous power! great mystery of life!Reserved for me of all the sons of men;Fruit ripening high upon the wall of heavenFor me to pluck with eager, trembling hands,And press its vintage out for thirsting worldsMore blessed still that into her sweet cupFirst may I pour the clearest of the wine—For her—for her—ah, yes! for her supreme,I struggle onward through this blinding light,E'en at whose dazzling threshold I might stand,Pale, trembling, like a terror-smitten soul,Waiting bewilder'd at the gate of heaven.Yet once again let me the plan review,Searching within my soul of souls each part,That doubt or danger, lurking there, may thusBy love's keen-scented instincts hunted be.—
[A long pause.
Yes! it is so—this deep magnetic sleep,That from my being passes upon her,Bindeth the body close in deepest thrall,But setteth free the soul. What real needHath spirit of these sensuous avenues,Through which the soul looks feebly on the world?This power then opes the prison door awhile,And sends the spirit chainless o'er the earth.This know I—without eyes the spirit sees,Gains instant cognizance of hidden things,And counts all space for nothing; knowledge comesUpon it with the falling of the flesh,So that there is no thing in earth or heavenBut to the unhoused spirit native is—The mantle falls and leaves the Prophet angel!Body, then, is the prison-house of soul,And freedom is its highest happiness,Its heaven, its primal being full of joy.This power that holdeth thus the keys of life,Can then at will give moments of release,Which to the soul are as the water-brooksThat scantly rise amid a sun-scorch'd waste:These, oft repeated, must at length destroyThe thraldom of the flesh, and give at willA freer issue to the practised soul—At lowest gladden it with gleams of bliss,Glimpses of heaven amid this exile time.Yes! thus, my Mabel, shall thy prison'd soulRise to its sister angels heavenward still;And soon the mortal fetters shall hang loose,Scarce clogging aught its motions glad and free.Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer beA prison, but a meetest dwelling-place,Full of all infinite delights, and dearAs is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark,That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky.These men, did they not see it in thine eyes,Amazed and fearful at the dazzling sight,As some rude passer gazing up aloftSees from some casement, unawares, a faceThat makes his great rough heart on sudden rockWith wonder and with worship—in her frameDid they not see the mortal waxing faint,The immortal fusing it with heavenly fire?Ay! the charm works, and thou, my life, my love,Reapest the first-fruits of my long, long toil.
MABEL (singing).
At night when stars shine bright and clear,The soft winds on the casements blow,And round the chamber rustle low,Like one unseen, whose voice we hear,On tiptoe stealing to and fro—
At night when clouds are dark and drear,They moan about the lattice sore,And murmur sighs for evermore,That fill us with a chilly fear,Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door—
At night, in moonlight or in gloom,They wander round the drooping thatch,Like some poor exile thence to catchFond glimpses of each well-loved room,And sigh beside the unraised latch—
O unseen Wind! art thou alone,Thus breathing round the sleeping land?Or roams with thee a spirit band,Blending sad voices with thine own,—Voices that once with cheerful toneMade music round the sleeping land?
ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).
Ah! her dear voice. How all my nature thrills,My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound,Like some great dome with holy music fill'd!She is the lark, above my listening soulHovering still with carols from Heaven's gate.She is the perfumed breeze, that evermoreSweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life.She is the sea, that fills with sweetest soundThe yearning earth that folds it in its arms.Not love her—Ah! dear heart, how utterly!
[A pause.
What if amid these spirit wanderings,This so mysterious power can grant at will,—What if the angels, smitten with her grace,Woo'd her away for ever from my heart?The dove came twice again unto the ark,With messages of peace, and hope, and joy,But the third time return'd not. She's my dove—Oh! wing'd she ever from my longing heart,The waters of my life would quick subside,And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time.What if God saw her hovering aloft,And smiled her in amongst his cherubim?What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like,Blot me for ever from her memory,So that she sought me never, never more?Oblivion! take again this fearful power—No more shall Fate be tempted with my wealth,Lest covetous it rob me of my all.
[A pause.
And yet, these are but dreams, poor selfish fears,That scum-like float and dim Love's limpid tide.Shall I thus cage my bird from liberty,And let it beat its life out on the bars,Lest some dear bliss detain it in the heavens?Shall I spill rashly forth this wine of joy,Because for me within the crystal cupSome dregs may haply rest when she has drunk?Ah, no! for her alone shall I take thought.The first pure sacrifice of Love is self!There is no peril. God that sends the powerWill send the guardian angel to direct.I work for her—Heaven speed the work of love.
[Enters the room.
I waited for thee, love—'tis past the hour,And on my dial slumbers Time in shadeWhen thou comest not to sun me.
I but stoodThere on the threshold, following thy voiceAway, away through mazy lengths of dreams.Music—low music from the lips we love,Is the true siren that still lures the soulFrom cares of earth to the Enchanted Isles.
Methinks that thou art sad to-day, my husband.Let me share with thee pain as well as joy;It is the sweetest right that love can claim.We give our joys to strangers, but our griefSighs itself only forth for those we love.We hang our sorrows on the loved one's ear,Like jewell'd pendents for a bridal feast.
Tell me, my Mabel, if within this sleep,To which mine art oft leads thee, there should comeSome angel bright with Heaven's reflected light,Wooing thee upward with the songs of bliss,—Tell me, my Mabel, wouldst thou freely go,Leaving this fair earth-vesture only here,Leaving me lornly gazing on the sky,Blotting its sun out with my blinding tears?
There is no angel but the angel DeathCould sever me from thee who art all my life!What Heaven is there but that which Love creates?What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned?Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day,That dies out with its setting utterly—Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring,That keeps the fountain of my being full—Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulseThe joyous moments of my flowing life—Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?
Dear Mabel!—Yet to-day thy brothers came,Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms,With practising against thy precious life.
Oh, Heaven!
They dread these trances, whose dim fameHath floated on the ignorant air to them.They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me,And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved,A most pernicious art, that may, perchance,Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear?My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me?Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand,Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?
I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith—Am I not as the floating gossamer,Steering through ether on thy guiding breath?Am I not as the clay within thy hand,Taking the shape and image of thy thought?Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubtsIn erring love against thy watchful care.That which thou doest I accept with joy;I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd barkThe coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.
Fear not! I do well think no peril liesWithin this power, but virtue of rare worth,Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.—Tell me, dost bring no memory back to EarthOf all these glorious wanderings above?No certain visions of the hidden thingsThou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?
Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft,The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth's gate,And all the blinding glories it hath knownShed but their mystic influence over life.Therefore, it may be, 'tis I nought retainOf that which passeth in these hours of trance.
Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams,Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.—Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhileIn Heaven's own sunshine;—yet forget not me!
[Makes passes over her, which shortly sinkher into a state of trance.
'Tis done! she's free! and now this lovely frameLies tenantless, a casket whose pure gemsNow sparkle 'mid the opal lights of Heaven.This earth seems very lone and cold to meNow she is absent, though a little space!My heart goes restless wandering around,Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks,Like one who, waking from some troubled dream,Findeth his love soft stolen from his side,And straightway seeketh in a dim amazeAll through the moonlight for her straying feet.
[A pause.
Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky?Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze?Flashing white pinions 'gainst the golden sun,That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast?Art thou soft floating through the joys of Heaven,With Earth far, far beneath thee, like a starStruggling up through the tremulous sea of light,That sucks its life down from the eye of day?About the gate of Heaven there floats my dove,Fann'd by the breath of melodies divine;Opes there no casement soft to take her in,And lay her in the bosom of delight?O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven!Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide,On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?
[A pause.
O wonderful! Thou mansion tenantless,Unswept by memory, untrod by thought,Where all lies tranced in motionless repose;No whisper stirring round the silent place,No foot of guest across the startled halls,No rustling robes about the corridors,No voices floating on the waveless air,No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreamsOn silver wings among the archèd domes,—No swans upon the mere—no golden prow,Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure's breeze,—No flapping sail before the idle wind,—No music pulsing out its great wild heartIn sweetest passion-beats the noontide through,—No lovers gliding down sun-chequer'd glades,In dreams that open wide the Eden gate,And waft them past the guardian Seraphim.Sleep over all the Present and the Past—The Future standing idle at the gate,Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot hasteBearing great tidings to some palace porch,Findeth the place deserted.
[A noise without; enter in haste Father,Maurice and Roger.
How now?—Friends, you are welcome!
Where's my child,That you maltreat, most rash and guilty man?
Sir, you are over hasty in your words—Your child is here.—
[Points to Mabel, who still lies entranced.
Mabel! wake, Mabel—O my God! she's dead!
How!—Dead!
Ay, murder'd!
O! my child! my child!
Peace! she is well—Sleep folds her in his arms,And each upheaving of his drowsy breastIs like a billow upon pleasure's sea,Wafting her on to far Hesperides.
This is no healthy sleep that wraps her now,Else would she waken at my anxious cry;'Tis death-sleep, wretched man.
Let's bear her hence.
Nay! let him now unwind his magic spells,Or fall our vengeance on his guilty head.
Dismiss your fears, and cease your threats. Old man,Soon shall I prove how much you wrong my love;Thus do I call the spirit home again,And wave the slumber backward from her eyes.
[Makes passes to awaken her, but without effect after long persistence.
Impostor! would you mock e'en Death itself,Calling it sleep!—You see, Death mocks you back.
In vain! no further seek to blind our fears.
'Tis strange!… stand back, Sirs … 'tis your influenceHath neutralized my power—stand off, I say!
[Continuing the passes in great agitation.
By Heaven!—It is too much—Let fall the mask!O villain! you have done your worst at last,And ta'en the sweetest life in all the land;But vengeance swift shall follow on your track.
Hold! hold! young man, talk not of vengeance here;This sleep shall pass and shame your blood-hot words—If it pass'd not the vengeance were forestall'd.
[A silence—continuing the passes.
O Mabel! Mabel! hear me where thou art!Come to the lonely heart that yearns for thee,—Come to the eyes that seek thee through salt tears!Patience, Sirs, now methinks the sense returns;A smile steals o'er her lips, and roseate huesMake morning on her downy cheek again:Back … back—my anguish shall unwind the charm!
[A silence.
Sir, I acquit you—pity you—perceiveYou loved her, and have err'd against yourself;But cease these struggles that but mock us now,They nought avail—my child is dead!…
Mabel! Mabel!
Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!What?—Pour in Strength!Strength for the struggle through good and ill;Through good—that the soul may be upright still,Unspoil'd by riches, unswerving in will,To walk by the light of unvarnish'd truth,Up the flower-border'd path of youth;—Through ill—that the soul may stoutly holdIts faith, its freedom through hunger and cold,Steadfast and pure as the true men of old.Strength for the sunshine, strength for the gloom,Strength for the conflict, strength for the tomb;Let not the heart feel a craven fear—Draw from the fountain deep and clear;Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!Pour in Strength!
Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!What—Pour in Truth!Drink! till the mists that enshroud the soul,Like sleep's drowsy shadows backward roll,And show the spirit its radiant goal,That nought may blind it all its days,Or tempt it down earth's crooked ways;Drink! till the soul in the eastern skiesBehold the glorious star arise,That guides its steps to the promised prize;Drink! till the strong elixir fireEach aim of the being with pure desire,Nerve the courage to dare the world,Though a thousand scoffers their arrows hurl'd;Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!Pour in Truth!
Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!What?—Pour in Love!To quench the thirst of the longing heart,Heal all its sorrows with wondrous art,And freshness and joy to its hopes impart;To make the blossoms of life expand,And shed their sweetness on every hand;To melt the frost of each sullen mood,Cement the bond of true brotherhood,Subdue the evil of Time with good,And join the links which death hath rivenBetwixt this fallen sphere and Heaven,Raising the soul above the skyOn wings of Immortality.Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!Pour in Love!
Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!What?—Pour in Hope!The soul looks out through the coming years,Blinded by doubts, and blinded by tears,Sear'd with the iron of tyrant fears:—Is there a break in Life's gloomy sky?Can the heart reach it before it die?The path is weary, the desert wide,And Sorrow stalks by the pilgrim's side—Oh for a draught of Hope's crystal tideTo cheer the parch'd and fainting one,Until his toilsome race be run,And the bright mirage fall from the sky,Displaced by a sweet reality.Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!Pour in Hope!
Life's chalice is empty—pour in! pour in!What?—Pour in Faith!What is Life's fabric, so nobly plann'd,Its stately dome, and its ramparts grand,If their foundation rest on the sand,Ready to shift with Time's ebbing stream,And melt away like a gorgeous dream?God! let us trust Thee in very sooth,Feel that the visions, the dreams of youth,Its glorious hopes are all based on Truth;—Thus shall the purpose of Life grow clear;Love shall be freed from the bondage of fear;And the soul calmly await the morrowUntroubled by visions of coming sorrow.Brim up Life's chalice—pour in! pour in!Pour in Faith!
On, like a giant, stalketh the strong Wind,Wrapping the clouds about him, close and dark,Rifting Creation's soul, for rage is blind,—No pity hath he for the Earth all stark,Shivering beneath the loose and drifting snow,A scanty shroud to hide the dead below.
Dead? There is life within the mother's breast—So claspeth she her young ones to her heart;—"The time will come—the time will come—rest! rest!Let the mad greybeard to his North depart;Earth shall arise and mock him in his grave—Patience a little, let the dotard rave!"
The palsied boughs grew still—there came a pause,And Nature's heart scarce beat for listening,Gazing abroad from all the tempest-flaws,With prayerful longing for the saviour Spring;And when she heard Spring coming up the sky,Earth rose and threw her shroud off joyfully.
Then she who once had wept like Niobe,Beheld her children springing round her feet,Raising young voices in the early day,That never to her ear had seem'd so sweet;And the soft murmur of a thousand rillsProclaim'd how Spring had loosed them on the hills.
The bright Evangel came, girt round with mirth,And garlanded with youth, and crown'd with flowers"Awake! arise! ye sons of the new birth,And move to the quick measure of the hours!Summer is coming—go ye forth to meet her,With sweetest hymeneal songs to greet her."
So there arose straightway a joyous train,Gather'd by every nook and hedgerow shade,That in its passage o'er the verdant plain,'Still in the heart a thrilling music made—Sweet pilgrims they of Love in youth's gay time,Leading the year on to its golden prime.
The birds sang homage to her evermore;And myriad wingèd things, whose radiant dyesMade sunshine beautiful, still hover'd o'er,And bore her witness in the sunlit skies;And rising from the tomb in glad amaze,Came many a sainted flower to hymn her praise.
Thus from the streams, and rivers, from the sea,From the stirr'd bosom of the mighty hills,From every glade there rose continuallyA blessing for her, till with joyous thrillsEarth's bosom heaved, and in man's heart a voiceEchoed the anthem—"Spring is come! Rejoice!"
The reeds are idly waving o'er the marshy ground,The rank and ragged herbage rots on many a mound,And desolate pools and marshes deadly lie around.
There is no life nor motion, save the winds that flyWith the close-muffled clouds in silence through the sky,There is no sound to stir it, save the Bittern's cry;
The Bittern, sitting sadly on the fluted edgesOf pillars once the prop and pride of palace ledges,Now smear'd with damp decay and sunk in slimy sedges;
Shatter'd and sunken, with the sculptured architravePeering above the surface of the sluggish wave,Like a gaunt limb thrust fleshless from a shallow grave.
The Bittern sitteth sadly on the time-worn stone,Upon life's mouldering relics, fearfully alone,Searing the silence ofttimes with his solemn tone.
The Bittern—monarch of the sad and dreary place,Mocking the pride and pageant of a ruin'd race,Whose very name's forgotten, and whose deeds have left no trace.
The pleasant songs of peace, the lute, the lover's sigh,The statesman's eloquence, the warrior's battle-cryHave pass'd,—and like their echo from the heedless sky,The lonely Bittern's note comes sadly floating by.
Oh, melancholy sound! Shall thus for ever endThe glory and the greatness whither all hopes tend,And as the Past comes booming shall the Present wend?
No ear to listen to the old and hard-earn'd glory,That wore the heart out, made the locks grow scant and hoary,No ear to listen, and no tongue to tell the story!
The Bittern sitteth 'midst the marshes of the Past,Sitteth amidst the ruins, whilst the hours fleet fast,And at his own hoarse cry he looketh round aghast.
The hours fleet fast unnoted, and the time is nigh,When even he on noiseless wings shall soar on high,Till his deep note is lost amid the azure sky.
The night is dark, and evermoreThe thick drops patter on the paneThe wind is weary of the rain,And round the thatches moaneth sore;Dark is the night, and cold the air;And all the trees stand stark and bare,With leaves spread dank and sere below,Slow rotting on the plashy clay,In the God's-acre far away,Where she, O God! lies cold below—Cold, cold below!
And many a bitter day and nightHave pour'd their storms upon her breast,And chill'd her in her long, long rest,With foul corruption's icy blight;Earth's dews are freezing round the heart,Where love alone so late had part;And evermore the frost and snowAre burrowing downward through the clay,In the God's-acre far away,Where she, O God! lies cold below,—Cold, cold below!
Those eyes so full of light are dim;And the clear chalice of her youth,All sparkling up with love and truth,Hath Death drain'd keenly from the brim;—No more can mortal ear rejoiceIn the soft music of her voice;No wistful eye, through tears of woe,Can pierce down through the heavy clay,In the God's-acre far away,Where she, O God! lies cold below,—Cold, cold below.
A star shines, sudden, from the sky—God's angel cometh, pure and bright,Making a radiance through the night,Unto the place where, mute, I lie,Gazing up in rapt devotion,Shaken by a deep emotion;And my thoughts no longer goWandering o'er the plashy clay,In the God's-acre far away,Where she, O God!laycold below—Cold, cold below!
God's angel! ah I divinely bright!But still the olden grace is there—The soft brown eyes—the raven hair—The gentle smile of calm delight,That could such peace and joy impart—The veil is rent from off my heart,And gazing upward, well I knowThe rain may beat upon the clayIn the God's-acre far away;But she no longer lies below,Enshrouded by the frost and snow—Cold, cold below!