Swifter than light imagination springsUnfettered by its tenement of clay;One moment here, the next on joyous wingsPoised o’er the stars which pave the “Milky Way.”Oh boundless space! Oh mighty concaved dome!Graven with tessallated groups of stars;Imagination hears God’s vibrant loomAs the frail spirit soars beyond its bars.There jewelled in the blue empyreal heightGleam glittering Sirius, Deneb and Altair;Lo, clustering gems of scintillating light,The brilliant retinue of Crucis fair.Lost in infinitude, it views with aweThe majesty of rolling spheres around,Where golden argosies are speeding o’erThe vast celestial seas without a bound.It is enough! We may not lift the veilWhich shrouds the altar of the Eternal Throne;The thought doth the imagination quailAs meek it kneels before the Gate alone.Alone a space, within that vastitude—Beyond all mundane things of time and sense,And change and swift vicissitude,To worship Him for his beneficence—Imagination’s bounds are limitless,No star of eve trembling above the seaHath wider path, or sheddeth sweeter bliss,For it, of all God’s gifts, to man is free.
Swifter than light imagination springsUnfettered by its tenement of clay;One moment here, the next on joyous wingsPoised o’er the stars which pave the “Milky Way.”Oh boundless space! Oh mighty concaved dome!Graven with tessallated groups of stars;Imagination hears God’s vibrant loomAs the frail spirit soars beyond its bars.There jewelled in the blue empyreal heightGleam glittering Sirius, Deneb and Altair;Lo, clustering gems of scintillating light,The brilliant retinue of Crucis fair.Lost in infinitude, it views with aweThe majesty of rolling spheres around,Where golden argosies are speeding o’erThe vast celestial seas without a bound.It is enough! We may not lift the veilWhich shrouds the altar of the Eternal Throne;The thought doth the imagination quailAs meek it kneels before the Gate alone.Alone a space, within that vastitude—Beyond all mundane things of time and sense,And change and swift vicissitude,To worship Him for his beneficence—Imagination’s bounds are limitless,No star of eve trembling above the seaHath wider path, or sheddeth sweeter bliss,For it, of all God’s gifts, to man is free.
Swifter than light imagination springsUnfettered by its tenement of clay;One moment here, the next on joyous wingsPoised o’er the stars which pave the “Milky Way.”
Oh boundless space! Oh mighty concaved dome!Graven with tessallated groups of stars;Imagination hears God’s vibrant loomAs the frail spirit soars beyond its bars.
There jewelled in the blue empyreal heightGleam glittering Sirius, Deneb and Altair;Lo, clustering gems of scintillating light,The brilliant retinue of Crucis fair.
Lost in infinitude, it views with aweThe majesty of rolling spheres around,Where golden argosies are speeding o’erThe vast celestial seas without a bound.
It is enough! We may not lift the veilWhich shrouds the altar of the Eternal Throne;The thought doth the imagination quailAs meek it kneels before the Gate alone.
Alone a space, within that vastitude—Beyond all mundane things of time and sense,And change and swift vicissitude,To worship Him for his beneficence—
Imagination’s bounds are limitless,No star of eve trembling above the seaHath wider path, or sheddeth sweeter bliss,For it, of all God’s gifts, to man is free.
I stood in the Temple of SilenceWhere in crimson splendour shone,The rich light through stained windowsO’er a matchless crystal throne.And a vista of stately pillarsStretched far ’neath a dome of gold,And sculptured recumbent figuresOf mortals of kingly mould.Yet with all its surpassing beautyI could feel the icy breathOf the wings of some brooding phantomIn this gilded house of death.Here no sound ever broke the stillness,Here solitude ever abode,I stayed till the moonbeams quivered,Then left Silence alone with God.I stood in the Palace of Pleasure,The revels were wild and gay,And mocking laughter rose and fellAs the swift hours sped away.The lights waxed dim, and the flowersDrooped dead in the gorgeous bowls,And the painted faces anon grew sad,And mirthless their empty souls.The long night waned, and the dancers,Their beauty all faded and worn,Looked pallid, and listless, and weary,In the rays of the glorious morn.Ever seeking ephemeral pleasure,Which leads to the path of pain,And down to the Valley of Never,Whence none may return again.I stood in life’s Garden of Beauty,And, lo! in a floral shrineOf roses and lilies entwiningLay a chalice of dew divine.And a throng of mortals stood waitingFor the Angel of Love to pourThis holy dew of libation,Which falleth for evermore.And children were weaving garlandsAs they walked o’er the verdant swardWith the flowers of Truth and PerfectionIn sunlight which ever poured.And here, in this new earthly Eden,With its gleaming wings of white,Was Peace, for all men were Brothers—I awoke from my dream: “’Twas night!”
I stood in the Temple of SilenceWhere in crimson splendour shone,The rich light through stained windowsO’er a matchless crystal throne.And a vista of stately pillarsStretched far ’neath a dome of gold,And sculptured recumbent figuresOf mortals of kingly mould.Yet with all its surpassing beautyI could feel the icy breathOf the wings of some brooding phantomIn this gilded house of death.Here no sound ever broke the stillness,Here solitude ever abode,I stayed till the moonbeams quivered,Then left Silence alone with God.I stood in the Palace of Pleasure,The revels were wild and gay,And mocking laughter rose and fellAs the swift hours sped away.The lights waxed dim, and the flowersDrooped dead in the gorgeous bowls,And the painted faces anon grew sad,And mirthless their empty souls.The long night waned, and the dancers,Their beauty all faded and worn,Looked pallid, and listless, and weary,In the rays of the glorious morn.Ever seeking ephemeral pleasure,Which leads to the path of pain,And down to the Valley of Never,Whence none may return again.I stood in life’s Garden of Beauty,And, lo! in a floral shrineOf roses and lilies entwiningLay a chalice of dew divine.And a throng of mortals stood waitingFor the Angel of Love to pourThis holy dew of libation,Which falleth for evermore.And children were weaving garlandsAs they walked o’er the verdant swardWith the flowers of Truth and PerfectionIn sunlight which ever poured.And here, in this new earthly Eden,With its gleaming wings of white,Was Peace, for all men were Brothers—I awoke from my dream: “’Twas night!”
I stood in the Temple of SilenceWhere in crimson splendour shone,The rich light through stained windowsO’er a matchless crystal throne.And a vista of stately pillarsStretched far ’neath a dome of gold,And sculptured recumbent figuresOf mortals of kingly mould.Yet with all its surpassing beautyI could feel the icy breathOf the wings of some brooding phantomIn this gilded house of death.Here no sound ever broke the stillness,Here solitude ever abode,I stayed till the moonbeams quivered,Then left Silence alone with God.
I stood in the Palace of Pleasure,The revels were wild and gay,And mocking laughter rose and fellAs the swift hours sped away.The lights waxed dim, and the flowersDrooped dead in the gorgeous bowls,And the painted faces anon grew sad,And mirthless their empty souls.The long night waned, and the dancers,Their beauty all faded and worn,Looked pallid, and listless, and weary,In the rays of the glorious morn.Ever seeking ephemeral pleasure,Which leads to the path of pain,And down to the Valley of Never,Whence none may return again.
I stood in life’s Garden of Beauty,And, lo! in a floral shrineOf roses and lilies entwiningLay a chalice of dew divine.And a throng of mortals stood waitingFor the Angel of Love to pourThis holy dew of libation,Which falleth for evermore.And children were weaving garlandsAs they walked o’er the verdant swardWith the flowers of Truth and PerfectionIn sunlight which ever poured.And here, in this new earthly Eden,With its gleaming wings of white,Was Peace, for all men were Brothers—I awoke from my dream: “’Twas night!”
Come, oh song, and charm my sadness,For I fain would weep,With melodious notes of gladnessWooing balmy sleep.While the troops of stars are smilingCalm my fevered brow,All my soul with sound beguiling,Charm, oh! charm me now.Golden daylight hath its laughter,Moonlight hath its tears;Songs are dreams which follow afterThought along the years.Waves of joy, and waves of sorrow,Placid, turbulent,Darkest days have bright to-morrows,Each a message sent.Love and life on wings are flying,Dreams of yesterday,Like the precious hours, are lyingFar from us to-day.Sing, then, sing your sweetest numberSofter than a sigh,That it bring me dreamless slumberFor my weary eye.And thy song shall be for dreamersTender, soft, and low,And the tune that Boreas murmurs,Which none others know.Waft, oh voice of song, thy measureO’er the air of even,Till the soul, consumed with pleasure,Wakes to thoughts of Heaven.
Come, oh song, and charm my sadness,For I fain would weep,With melodious notes of gladnessWooing balmy sleep.While the troops of stars are smilingCalm my fevered brow,All my soul with sound beguiling,Charm, oh! charm me now.Golden daylight hath its laughter,Moonlight hath its tears;Songs are dreams which follow afterThought along the years.Waves of joy, and waves of sorrow,Placid, turbulent,Darkest days have bright to-morrows,Each a message sent.Love and life on wings are flying,Dreams of yesterday,Like the precious hours, are lyingFar from us to-day.Sing, then, sing your sweetest numberSofter than a sigh,That it bring me dreamless slumberFor my weary eye.And thy song shall be for dreamersTender, soft, and low,And the tune that Boreas murmurs,Which none others know.Waft, oh voice of song, thy measureO’er the air of even,Till the soul, consumed with pleasure,Wakes to thoughts of Heaven.
Come, oh song, and charm my sadness,For I fain would weep,With melodious notes of gladnessWooing balmy sleep.While the troops of stars are smilingCalm my fevered brow,All my soul with sound beguiling,Charm, oh! charm me now.Golden daylight hath its laughter,Moonlight hath its tears;Songs are dreams which follow afterThought along the years.Waves of joy, and waves of sorrow,Placid, turbulent,Darkest days have bright to-morrows,Each a message sent.Love and life on wings are flying,Dreams of yesterday,Like the precious hours, are lyingFar from us to-day.Sing, then, sing your sweetest numberSofter than a sigh,That it bring me dreamless slumberFor my weary eye.And thy song shall be for dreamersTender, soft, and low,And the tune that Boreas murmurs,Which none others know.Waft, oh voice of song, thy measureO’er the air of even,Till the soul, consumed with pleasure,Wakes to thoughts of Heaven.
What gulf so deep, what arid desert plain,Or dreary vastitude of ocean main,So deep as the divide of hearts once stirredTo sweet response, which only winds had heard?The dead who live but love us now no more,Gone are the echoes of the tones of yore;The faces of our sighs and tears and dreamsAre cold as gleaming ice on frozen streams.The days that were may ne’er return again,Though each perchance has felt the aching pain;Yet pride forbade thy wounded heart to letMe plead; but, oh! thou never can’st forget.’Tis destiny’s decree, and ’twere not meetThat when I see thy cold eyes I should greetThee more—thy burning heart ’neath snowCan never flame again with tender glow.And yet how strange that it should thus befall,Since love is dead, that fain we would recallEach note that trembled on the golden lyre,Ere it lay silent on the funeral pyre.So be it: Destiny for all sad mortals leavesSome little grains of comfort from life’s sheaves;So, though my love be lost to me for aye,The flowers of memory ne’er will fade away.
What gulf so deep, what arid desert plain,Or dreary vastitude of ocean main,So deep as the divide of hearts once stirredTo sweet response, which only winds had heard?The dead who live but love us now no more,Gone are the echoes of the tones of yore;The faces of our sighs and tears and dreamsAre cold as gleaming ice on frozen streams.The days that were may ne’er return again,Though each perchance has felt the aching pain;Yet pride forbade thy wounded heart to letMe plead; but, oh! thou never can’st forget.’Tis destiny’s decree, and ’twere not meetThat when I see thy cold eyes I should greetThee more—thy burning heart ’neath snowCan never flame again with tender glow.And yet how strange that it should thus befall,Since love is dead, that fain we would recallEach note that trembled on the golden lyre,Ere it lay silent on the funeral pyre.So be it: Destiny for all sad mortals leavesSome little grains of comfort from life’s sheaves;So, though my love be lost to me for aye,The flowers of memory ne’er will fade away.
What gulf so deep, what arid desert plain,Or dreary vastitude of ocean main,So deep as the divide of hearts once stirredTo sweet response, which only winds had heard?The dead who live but love us now no more,Gone are the echoes of the tones of yore;The faces of our sighs and tears and dreamsAre cold as gleaming ice on frozen streams.The days that were may ne’er return again,Though each perchance has felt the aching pain;Yet pride forbade thy wounded heart to letMe plead; but, oh! thou never can’st forget.’Tis destiny’s decree, and ’twere not meetThat when I see thy cold eyes I should greetThee more—thy burning heart ’neath snowCan never flame again with tender glow.
And yet how strange that it should thus befall,Since love is dead, that fain we would recallEach note that trembled on the golden lyre,Ere it lay silent on the funeral pyre.So be it: Destiny for all sad mortals leavesSome little grains of comfort from life’s sheaves;So, though my love be lost to me for aye,The flowers of memory ne’er will fade away.
When sinks the sun a globe of goldAcross the ocean’s breast,And night doth all the world enfold,My spirit will not rest.And forth it speeds without a sound,For nought can bind my will.The moonbeams cast a halo round,And everything is still.Once more I tread the flowery fieldAs in the days of yore,My beating heart doth almost yieldWhen near the garden door.There stand the stately old elm treesWhich once my childhood knew,The tulips bend unto the breeze,The fountain plashes, too.I hear the silvery laughter floatFrom out the cool, dim hall,I hear my brothers’ merry shoutAs they each other call.I stand within the ancient roomI see the books so rare,And smell the olden rich perfumeOf roses clustering there.And I become a child again,And listen to the prayerMy father breathes, like a refrain,Which all our beings stir.And from the stairs, so black with ageThe mullioned windows view,Through which once gazed some vanished sageThe while he pensive grew.Its leaden panes with vitreous eyesLook over o’er the sea,Which there in rolling grandeur lies,God’s moving mystery.And as I through each chamber treadWith footsteps light as air,I feel that sorrow’s years have fledAnd left me young and fair.And then the old clock in the tower,With solemn voice and deep,Booms out the ne’er returning hour,And wakes me from my sleep.Lo! from all sadness springs a joyThe world may never give,And in these realms of memoryMy soul at night doth live.
When sinks the sun a globe of goldAcross the ocean’s breast,And night doth all the world enfold,My spirit will not rest.And forth it speeds without a sound,For nought can bind my will.The moonbeams cast a halo round,And everything is still.Once more I tread the flowery fieldAs in the days of yore,My beating heart doth almost yieldWhen near the garden door.There stand the stately old elm treesWhich once my childhood knew,The tulips bend unto the breeze,The fountain plashes, too.I hear the silvery laughter floatFrom out the cool, dim hall,I hear my brothers’ merry shoutAs they each other call.I stand within the ancient roomI see the books so rare,And smell the olden rich perfumeOf roses clustering there.And I become a child again,And listen to the prayerMy father breathes, like a refrain,Which all our beings stir.And from the stairs, so black with ageThe mullioned windows view,Through which once gazed some vanished sageThe while he pensive grew.Its leaden panes with vitreous eyesLook over o’er the sea,Which there in rolling grandeur lies,God’s moving mystery.And as I through each chamber treadWith footsteps light as air,I feel that sorrow’s years have fledAnd left me young and fair.And then the old clock in the tower,With solemn voice and deep,Booms out the ne’er returning hour,And wakes me from my sleep.Lo! from all sadness springs a joyThe world may never give,And in these realms of memoryMy soul at night doth live.
When sinks the sun a globe of goldAcross the ocean’s breast,And night doth all the world enfold,My spirit will not rest.
And forth it speeds without a sound,For nought can bind my will.The moonbeams cast a halo round,And everything is still.
Once more I tread the flowery fieldAs in the days of yore,My beating heart doth almost yieldWhen near the garden door.
There stand the stately old elm treesWhich once my childhood knew,The tulips bend unto the breeze,The fountain plashes, too.
I hear the silvery laughter floatFrom out the cool, dim hall,I hear my brothers’ merry shoutAs they each other call.
I stand within the ancient roomI see the books so rare,And smell the olden rich perfumeOf roses clustering there.
And I become a child again,And listen to the prayerMy father breathes, like a refrain,Which all our beings stir.
And from the stairs, so black with ageThe mullioned windows view,Through which once gazed some vanished sageThe while he pensive grew.
Its leaden panes with vitreous eyesLook over o’er the sea,Which there in rolling grandeur lies,God’s moving mystery.
And as I through each chamber treadWith footsteps light as air,I feel that sorrow’s years have fledAnd left me young and fair.
And then the old clock in the tower,With solemn voice and deep,Booms out the ne’er returning hour,And wakes me from my sleep.
Lo! from all sadness springs a joyThe world may never give,And in these realms of memoryMy soul at night doth live.
A maze of gorgeous golden bloomThe yellow wattle gleams,A glorious wealth of sweet perfume,It dwells beside the streams.And deep in bush and forest gladeOn verdurous velvet lawn,Or avenues of waving shade,This empress—Austral born.With leaves of frosted silver chased,Their myriad tiny headsBy trembling drops of dew enlacedA glittering radiance sheds.And Auster’s beauteous witching flowerHath e’er a jealous hue,For Helios breathed his passion there,And flamed it through and through.The dawn with heavy scent is sweet,The petals shower their goldIn soft abandon at its feetNew glory to unfold.’Tis seen in Afric’s torrid clime,Yet, though it bloometh there,Its spirit dreameth of the timeIt drank of Austral’s air.Dear national flower, an emblem thouOf what our children need;To train with love their hands to doEach day some golden deed.
A maze of gorgeous golden bloomThe yellow wattle gleams,A glorious wealth of sweet perfume,It dwells beside the streams.And deep in bush and forest gladeOn verdurous velvet lawn,Or avenues of waving shade,This empress—Austral born.With leaves of frosted silver chased,Their myriad tiny headsBy trembling drops of dew enlacedA glittering radiance sheds.And Auster’s beauteous witching flowerHath e’er a jealous hue,For Helios breathed his passion there,And flamed it through and through.The dawn with heavy scent is sweet,The petals shower their goldIn soft abandon at its feetNew glory to unfold.’Tis seen in Afric’s torrid clime,Yet, though it bloometh there,Its spirit dreameth of the timeIt drank of Austral’s air.Dear national flower, an emblem thouOf what our children need;To train with love their hands to doEach day some golden deed.
A maze of gorgeous golden bloomThe yellow wattle gleams,A glorious wealth of sweet perfume,It dwells beside the streams.
And deep in bush and forest gladeOn verdurous velvet lawn,Or avenues of waving shade,This empress—Austral born.
With leaves of frosted silver chased,Their myriad tiny headsBy trembling drops of dew enlacedA glittering radiance sheds.
And Auster’s beauteous witching flowerHath e’er a jealous hue,For Helios breathed his passion there,And flamed it through and through.
The dawn with heavy scent is sweet,The petals shower their goldIn soft abandon at its feetNew glory to unfold.
’Tis seen in Afric’s torrid clime,Yet, though it bloometh there,Its spirit dreameth of the timeIt drank of Austral’s air.
Dear national flower, an emblem thouOf what our children need;To train with love their hands to doEach day some golden deed.
Lo! from her long sleep of agesAustral now awakes;Hear the glorious strains ye sages,Her glad morning breaks.Borne afar across the waterTrembling to the sky,List! For Britain’s royal daughterChants her song of joy.’Mid terrestrial constellationsMay her statesmen shine;Weld, O Lord, her vast foundationsWith the link divine.Righteousness be her attendant,Majesty her throne,Liberty her shield resplendent,Equity her crown.Guard her army and her navy,Citadel and fleet,Vanquish all her foes, we pray thee,Lord, if it be meet.May she ever be sustainedIn her darkest hour;Grant that peace be e’er maintainedBy Thy grace and power.Hark! the grand refrain is swelling,Thrilling every ear;Lord of hosts, within Thy dwellingHoly Spirit, hear.Though earth’s empires all must crumble,Suns and systems wane,In magnificence, yet humble,Long may Austral reign.
Lo! from her long sleep of agesAustral now awakes;Hear the glorious strains ye sages,Her glad morning breaks.Borne afar across the waterTrembling to the sky,List! For Britain’s royal daughterChants her song of joy.’Mid terrestrial constellationsMay her statesmen shine;Weld, O Lord, her vast foundationsWith the link divine.Righteousness be her attendant,Majesty her throne,Liberty her shield resplendent,Equity her crown.Guard her army and her navy,Citadel and fleet,Vanquish all her foes, we pray thee,Lord, if it be meet.May she ever be sustainedIn her darkest hour;Grant that peace be e’er maintainedBy Thy grace and power.Hark! the grand refrain is swelling,Thrilling every ear;Lord of hosts, within Thy dwellingHoly Spirit, hear.Though earth’s empires all must crumble,Suns and systems wane,In magnificence, yet humble,Long may Austral reign.
Lo! from her long sleep of agesAustral now awakes;Hear the glorious strains ye sages,Her glad morning breaks.Borne afar across the waterTrembling to the sky,List! For Britain’s royal daughterChants her song of joy.
’Mid terrestrial constellationsMay her statesmen shine;Weld, O Lord, her vast foundationsWith the link divine.Righteousness be her attendant,Majesty her throne,Liberty her shield resplendent,Equity her crown.
Guard her army and her navy,Citadel and fleet,Vanquish all her foes, we pray thee,Lord, if it be meet.May she ever be sustainedIn her darkest hour;Grant that peace be e’er maintainedBy Thy grace and power.
Hark! the grand refrain is swelling,Thrilling every ear;Lord of hosts, within Thy dwellingHoly Spirit, hear.Though earth’s empires all must crumble,Suns and systems wane,In magnificence, yet humble,Long may Austral reign.
I know not if my future years will beWith sorrow crowned,Or if in solitude unknown to theeI may be bound.I know not, if, as down life’s stream I floatWith look divine,Some other hand will guide my fragile boatBetter than mine.I know not, when right out of sight of port,High on the crest,Of raging billows which I vainly foughtI shall find rest.I know not if dear spirit friends of yoreWill hear my voice,And when they meet me safe upon yon shoreThey will rejoice.But this I know that He, my Lord, will standWith glance of loveAnd hand stretched out to lead me o’er the strandTo Heaven above.
I know not if my future years will beWith sorrow crowned,Or if in solitude unknown to theeI may be bound.I know not, if, as down life’s stream I floatWith look divine,Some other hand will guide my fragile boatBetter than mine.I know not, when right out of sight of port,High on the crest,Of raging billows which I vainly foughtI shall find rest.I know not if dear spirit friends of yoreWill hear my voice,And when they meet me safe upon yon shoreThey will rejoice.But this I know that He, my Lord, will standWith glance of loveAnd hand stretched out to lead me o’er the strandTo Heaven above.
I know not if my future years will beWith sorrow crowned,Or if in solitude unknown to theeI may be bound.
I know not, if, as down life’s stream I floatWith look divine,Some other hand will guide my fragile boatBetter than mine.
I know not, when right out of sight of port,High on the crest,Of raging billows which I vainly foughtI shall find rest.
I know not if dear spirit friends of yoreWill hear my voice,And when they meet me safe upon yon shoreThey will rejoice.
But this I know that He, my Lord, will standWith glance of loveAnd hand stretched out to lead me o’er the strandTo Heaven above.
I sought the fragrance of the roses’ breath,Bending beneath their burden of sweet dew;How could I reconcile the thought of deathWith blooms, which in such matchless beauty grew?I sought the lily, pure as a pale bride,So stately with its waxen petals wet,Green-stemmed and slender, and it gently sighed“Yet a few days and all my sun is set.”I sought the woods wherein the whispering windChanted a lullaby into my listening ear,And faintly came an echoing voice behind,“E’en as the leaves I change and disappear.”I sought old ocean with its ceaseless moan,Flinging white clinging arms of spumy sprayTo grasp the shore, then in a solemn toneIt made reply, “I too must pass away.”I sought the stars which in their orbits sway,And just as day obscures their brilliant light,The star of faith, though doubt may cloud the way,Illumes with fervent glow the mists of night.Oh! earth. Oh! heaven. Oh! death, which is but life.That still small voice within doth ever say,Here for a season set amid the strife,Live thou thy best—for all must pass away.Passing away where crowns and sceptred right,Kings, lowly, meekly lay before the Throne,And saints with creeds, and sinners, in the lightOf God’s great dawn, will worship Him alone.
I sought the fragrance of the roses’ breath,Bending beneath their burden of sweet dew;How could I reconcile the thought of deathWith blooms, which in such matchless beauty grew?I sought the lily, pure as a pale bride,So stately with its waxen petals wet,Green-stemmed and slender, and it gently sighed“Yet a few days and all my sun is set.”I sought the woods wherein the whispering windChanted a lullaby into my listening ear,And faintly came an echoing voice behind,“E’en as the leaves I change and disappear.”I sought old ocean with its ceaseless moan,Flinging white clinging arms of spumy sprayTo grasp the shore, then in a solemn toneIt made reply, “I too must pass away.”I sought the stars which in their orbits sway,And just as day obscures their brilliant light,The star of faith, though doubt may cloud the way,Illumes with fervent glow the mists of night.Oh! earth. Oh! heaven. Oh! death, which is but life.That still small voice within doth ever say,Here for a season set amid the strife,Live thou thy best—for all must pass away.Passing away where crowns and sceptred right,Kings, lowly, meekly lay before the Throne,And saints with creeds, and sinners, in the lightOf God’s great dawn, will worship Him alone.
I sought the fragrance of the roses’ breath,Bending beneath their burden of sweet dew;How could I reconcile the thought of deathWith blooms, which in such matchless beauty grew?
I sought the lily, pure as a pale bride,So stately with its waxen petals wet,Green-stemmed and slender, and it gently sighed“Yet a few days and all my sun is set.”
I sought the woods wherein the whispering windChanted a lullaby into my listening ear,And faintly came an echoing voice behind,“E’en as the leaves I change and disappear.”
I sought old ocean with its ceaseless moan,Flinging white clinging arms of spumy sprayTo grasp the shore, then in a solemn toneIt made reply, “I too must pass away.”
I sought the stars which in their orbits sway,And just as day obscures their brilliant light,The star of faith, though doubt may cloud the way,Illumes with fervent glow the mists of night.
Oh! earth. Oh! heaven. Oh! death, which is but life.That still small voice within doth ever say,Here for a season set amid the strife,Live thou thy best—for all must pass away.
Passing away where crowns and sceptred right,Kings, lowly, meekly lay before the Throne,And saints with creeds, and sinners, in the lightOf God’s great dawn, will worship Him alone.
Let the sound of sweet music my spirit fill,Come like the fall of a sparkling rillWhich murmureth ever a golden hymnOf enchanting melody, or the dimLow symphony, soft as the zephyrs make,When they ruffle the face of the silver lake.Then pouring beauty, and grace, and lightIn voluptuous sounds of majestic might;Nearer the beat of the mystic wings,Sweet strains which only an angel sings,While stars as the dew seems to fall around,Then melt again at the heavenly sound.Breathing, ravishing, tender notes,A billow of chords which for ever floatsO’er shimmering seas of exalted bliss,Touching the waves with a soft caress,Sighing through forests where pale moon flowersGlimmer and thirst for thy limpid showers,Or pulsing and thrilling the heart and brain,Oh! loosen the clouds of thy golden rain,And steep my soul in its precious dowerTill it panteth overwhelmed ’neath thy magic power.
Let the sound of sweet music my spirit fill,Come like the fall of a sparkling rillWhich murmureth ever a golden hymnOf enchanting melody, or the dimLow symphony, soft as the zephyrs make,When they ruffle the face of the silver lake.Then pouring beauty, and grace, and lightIn voluptuous sounds of majestic might;Nearer the beat of the mystic wings,Sweet strains which only an angel sings,While stars as the dew seems to fall around,Then melt again at the heavenly sound.Breathing, ravishing, tender notes,A billow of chords which for ever floatsO’er shimmering seas of exalted bliss,Touching the waves with a soft caress,Sighing through forests where pale moon flowersGlimmer and thirst for thy limpid showers,Or pulsing and thrilling the heart and brain,Oh! loosen the clouds of thy golden rain,And steep my soul in its precious dowerTill it panteth overwhelmed ’neath thy magic power.
Let the sound of sweet music my spirit fill,Come like the fall of a sparkling rillWhich murmureth ever a golden hymnOf enchanting melody, or the dimLow symphony, soft as the zephyrs make,When they ruffle the face of the silver lake.Then pouring beauty, and grace, and lightIn voluptuous sounds of majestic might;Nearer the beat of the mystic wings,Sweet strains which only an angel sings,While stars as the dew seems to fall around,Then melt again at the heavenly sound.
Breathing, ravishing, tender notes,A billow of chords which for ever floatsO’er shimmering seas of exalted bliss,Touching the waves with a soft caress,Sighing through forests where pale moon flowersGlimmer and thirst for thy limpid showers,Or pulsing and thrilling the heart and brain,Oh! loosen the clouds of thy golden rain,And steep my soul in its precious dowerTill it panteth overwhelmed ’neath thy magic power.
Stately upon Egea standsThe city of the “Violet Crown,”Where gods and men in fancy metAnd oratory attained renown;Where sculptured beauty art disclosedIn all its matchless symmetry,Brilliant as first when Phœbus glowedUpon its dazzling purity.There for all time the Prophylæ,The glorious Acropolis,And Nike Apteron doth speakOf Marathon and Salamis.Still looks the Areopagos o’erWhere Socrates was once arraigned,His sentence heard—the hemlock drank,And died, but his great words remained.Here was the lap of literatureWith elegance and wisdom blent,With the majestic ParthenonIts overwhelming monument.In spirit once again we hearThe voices borne upon the wind,High in the Temple of great Zeus,On Mount Olympus far behind.Oh! gods and heroes, ye no moreIn solemn conclave since have met,Thy gods were myths, but thy great deedsBurneth within our memory yet.And Corinth, Athens’ sister, liesStraight, straight along the sacred roadWhere gray Hymettus proudly swells’Mid purple plain by heroes trode.Lo! Arcady and ArgoliUnfold before our ravished sight,And still the magic influence growsAnd time moves backward in its flight.There lies the ancient Argive plainWhere chiefs in angry council met,When Paris took the Spartan frail,The insult they did n’er forget.Then fled in haste with her to Troy,And Nemesis the pair pursued,For calling all their braves to armsGreece vengeance vowed to Priam’s brood.And n’er will a magician weaveTheir tales of prowess and of skillAs Homer—none so deft as heCould thus the imagination thrill.Lo! Delphi, where in darkness satThe sacred priestess, while in wrath’Mid clouds of incense serpent woundThe Oracle would issue forth.Oh! Athena, the “violet crowned,”Thy crystal founts and cypress groves,Where Daphne and Minerva walked,Leave but memory of their loves.
Stately upon Egea standsThe city of the “Violet Crown,”Where gods and men in fancy metAnd oratory attained renown;Where sculptured beauty art disclosedIn all its matchless symmetry,Brilliant as first when Phœbus glowedUpon its dazzling purity.There for all time the Prophylæ,The glorious Acropolis,And Nike Apteron doth speakOf Marathon and Salamis.Still looks the Areopagos o’erWhere Socrates was once arraigned,His sentence heard—the hemlock drank,And died, but his great words remained.Here was the lap of literatureWith elegance and wisdom blent,With the majestic ParthenonIts overwhelming monument.In spirit once again we hearThe voices borne upon the wind,High in the Temple of great Zeus,On Mount Olympus far behind.Oh! gods and heroes, ye no moreIn solemn conclave since have met,Thy gods were myths, but thy great deedsBurneth within our memory yet.And Corinth, Athens’ sister, liesStraight, straight along the sacred roadWhere gray Hymettus proudly swells’Mid purple plain by heroes trode.Lo! Arcady and ArgoliUnfold before our ravished sight,And still the magic influence growsAnd time moves backward in its flight.There lies the ancient Argive plainWhere chiefs in angry council met,When Paris took the Spartan frail,The insult they did n’er forget.Then fled in haste with her to Troy,And Nemesis the pair pursued,For calling all their braves to armsGreece vengeance vowed to Priam’s brood.And n’er will a magician weaveTheir tales of prowess and of skillAs Homer—none so deft as heCould thus the imagination thrill.Lo! Delphi, where in darkness satThe sacred priestess, while in wrath’Mid clouds of incense serpent woundThe Oracle would issue forth.Oh! Athena, the “violet crowned,”Thy crystal founts and cypress groves,Where Daphne and Minerva walked,Leave but memory of their loves.
Stately upon Egea standsThe city of the “Violet Crown,”Where gods and men in fancy metAnd oratory attained renown;Where sculptured beauty art disclosedIn all its matchless symmetry,Brilliant as first when Phœbus glowedUpon its dazzling purity.
There for all time the Prophylæ,The glorious Acropolis,And Nike Apteron doth speakOf Marathon and Salamis.Still looks the Areopagos o’erWhere Socrates was once arraigned,His sentence heard—the hemlock drank,And died, but his great words remained.
Here was the lap of literatureWith elegance and wisdom blent,With the majestic ParthenonIts overwhelming monument.In spirit once again we hearThe voices borne upon the wind,High in the Temple of great Zeus,On Mount Olympus far behind.
Oh! gods and heroes, ye no moreIn solemn conclave since have met,Thy gods were myths, but thy great deedsBurneth within our memory yet.And Corinth, Athens’ sister, liesStraight, straight along the sacred roadWhere gray Hymettus proudly swells’Mid purple plain by heroes trode.
Lo! Arcady and ArgoliUnfold before our ravished sight,And still the magic influence growsAnd time moves backward in its flight.There lies the ancient Argive plainWhere chiefs in angry council met,When Paris took the Spartan frail,The insult they did n’er forget.
Then fled in haste with her to Troy,And Nemesis the pair pursued,For calling all their braves to armsGreece vengeance vowed to Priam’s brood.And n’er will a magician weaveTheir tales of prowess and of skillAs Homer—none so deft as heCould thus the imagination thrill.
Lo! Delphi, where in darkness satThe sacred priestess, while in wrath’Mid clouds of incense serpent woundThe Oracle would issue forth.Oh! Athena, the “violet crowned,”Thy crystal founts and cypress groves,Where Daphne and Minerva walked,Leave but memory of their loves.
I would frame a lyric sweetTo ma belle Aurelle;Tresses rippling to her feet,Laughing lips as well.She hath hands as lilies pure,Head of beauty’s mould,Eyes like great brown pools so clear,Sparkling depths enfold.On a grassy knoll she stands,Clasping wattle bloom—Golden flower of Austral’s lands,With its rich perfume.Roses grace her cheeks so fair,And she knoweth wellThat she doth my heart ensnare—Ma belle Aurelle.And she singeth like a birdAt heaven’s gate,When its swelling notes are stirredBy its mate.And I know that Cupid’s dart—Sharp, yet slender—Some fine day will pierce her heart,Oh, so tender.But this stately maid of mineLoveth none as me:For her summers are but nine—Aurelle mine, you see!
I would frame a lyric sweetTo ma belle Aurelle;Tresses rippling to her feet,Laughing lips as well.She hath hands as lilies pure,Head of beauty’s mould,Eyes like great brown pools so clear,Sparkling depths enfold.On a grassy knoll she stands,Clasping wattle bloom—Golden flower of Austral’s lands,With its rich perfume.Roses grace her cheeks so fair,And she knoweth wellThat she doth my heart ensnare—Ma belle Aurelle.And she singeth like a birdAt heaven’s gate,When its swelling notes are stirredBy its mate.And I know that Cupid’s dart—Sharp, yet slender—Some fine day will pierce her heart,Oh, so tender.But this stately maid of mineLoveth none as me:For her summers are but nine—Aurelle mine, you see!
I would frame a lyric sweetTo ma belle Aurelle;Tresses rippling to her feet,Laughing lips as well.She hath hands as lilies pure,Head of beauty’s mould,Eyes like great brown pools so clear,Sparkling depths enfold.On a grassy knoll she stands,Clasping wattle bloom—Golden flower of Austral’s lands,With its rich perfume.Roses grace her cheeks so fair,And she knoweth wellThat she doth my heart ensnare—Ma belle Aurelle.And she singeth like a birdAt heaven’s gate,When its swelling notes are stirredBy its mate.And I know that Cupid’s dart—Sharp, yet slender—Some fine day will pierce her heart,Oh, so tender.But this stately maid of mineLoveth none as me:For her summers are but nine—Aurelle mine, you see!
Day by day and night by night,Till the great white plains in sight—Speeds the “Terra Nova” on;Britain’s laurels must be won,So they press to reach their goal:Point they to the Southern Pole.What a tale thou dost unfold,Far surpassing deeds of old.Shades of Spartan heroes theseMightier see in southern seas,Mountain pillars gleaming whiteIn the lone Antarctic night.Dazzling peaks, all tempest riven;Shrouded ghosts, which gaze at heaven:There, majestic, grand and free,Towering o’er that frigid sea,Terror, Erebus, look downFrom their smouldering fiery throne.Sunken eyes and cheeks so pale,Still the stout hearts do not quail,Though they pay a heavy tollYet, at length, they reach the Pole.Lo! The Union Jack unfurled,Britain’s finger leads the world.Glory gained, they may not stay,There is danger in delay.Back o’er that wide trackless plain,Mighty Scott with all his trainPassed, while death the white steed rodeSide by side the way they trode,Through the blizzard’s freezing blast.Will he claim his prey at last?Buoyed with thoughts of northern skiesOft’ their drooping spirits rise.Where fond loved ones’ hopes and fearsMingle with their prayers and tears—So they struggle weakly on,Strength and courage almost gone.On, until with grief they findEvans they must leave behind.Ah! The other hut in view,Will they see the blizzard through?Yes! The camp at last they reachCold exhaustion numbing speech,And brave Oates! Oh! Gallant heart,Nobly doth he take his partIn this awful tragedyOf the icy polar sea.Facing death ’mid ice and snowSee the loyal comrade go;Knowing nought his life could saveSought he thus a lonely grave.Silently we draw the veilAnd his mournful end bewail.Months elapse—what is their fate?Wilson, Bowers, alas! Too late:With their chief at length they findIn their sleeping bags enshrined,Fresh as when their parting breathFroze within the embrace of death.Saintly looking in their sleep,Only angels o’er them weep;There in royal robes of snowLie our glorious heroes now.And the message Scott would send:“Guard our loved ones to the end.”Britain’s, Austral’s hearts will beWith their dead in that white sea,And their children, not in vain,Oft will read the tale again,And immortal memory shelveNineteen hundred years and twelve.Not unmarked the way they trod,For it led them up to God.Lo! A cairn above them standsRaised by gentle, loving handsAnd a cross upon the spotIn that grand Antarctic grott,While for aye they will remainMartyrs of the Great White Plain.
Day by day and night by night,Till the great white plains in sight—Speeds the “Terra Nova” on;Britain’s laurels must be won,So they press to reach their goal:Point they to the Southern Pole.What a tale thou dost unfold,Far surpassing deeds of old.Shades of Spartan heroes theseMightier see in southern seas,Mountain pillars gleaming whiteIn the lone Antarctic night.Dazzling peaks, all tempest riven;Shrouded ghosts, which gaze at heaven:There, majestic, grand and free,Towering o’er that frigid sea,Terror, Erebus, look downFrom their smouldering fiery throne.Sunken eyes and cheeks so pale,Still the stout hearts do not quail,Though they pay a heavy tollYet, at length, they reach the Pole.Lo! The Union Jack unfurled,Britain’s finger leads the world.Glory gained, they may not stay,There is danger in delay.Back o’er that wide trackless plain,Mighty Scott with all his trainPassed, while death the white steed rodeSide by side the way they trode,Through the blizzard’s freezing blast.Will he claim his prey at last?Buoyed with thoughts of northern skiesOft’ their drooping spirits rise.Where fond loved ones’ hopes and fearsMingle with their prayers and tears—So they struggle weakly on,Strength and courage almost gone.On, until with grief they findEvans they must leave behind.Ah! The other hut in view,Will they see the blizzard through?Yes! The camp at last they reachCold exhaustion numbing speech,And brave Oates! Oh! Gallant heart,Nobly doth he take his partIn this awful tragedyOf the icy polar sea.Facing death ’mid ice and snowSee the loyal comrade go;Knowing nought his life could saveSought he thus a lonely grave.Silently we draw the veilAnd his mournful end bewail.Months elapse—what is their fate?Wilson, Bowers, alas! Too late:With their chief at length they findIn their sleeping bags enshrined,Fresh as when their parting breathFroze within the embrace of death.Saintly looking in their sleep,Only angels o’er them weep;There in royal robes of snowLie our glorious heroes now.And the message Scott would send:“Guard our loved ones to the end.”Britain’s, Austral’s hearts will beWith their dead in that white sea,And their children, not in vain,Oft will read the tale again,And immortal memory shelveNineteen hundred years and twelve.Not unmarked the way they trod,For it led them up to God.Lo! A cairn above them standsRaised by gentle, loving handsAnd a cross upon the spotIn that grand Antarctic grott,While for aye they will remainMartyrs of the Great White Plain.
Day by day and night by night,Till the great white plains in sight—Speeds the “Terra Nova” on;Britain’s laurels must be won,So they press to reach their goal:Point they to the Southern Pole.What a tale thou dost unfold,Far surpassing deeds of old.Shades of Spartan heroes theseMightier see in southern seas,Mountain pillars gleaming whiteIn the lone Antarctic night.Dazzling peaks, all tempest riven;Shrouded ghosts, which gaze at heaven:There, majestic, grand and free,Towering o’er that frigid sea,Terror, Erebus, look downFrom their smouldering fiery throne.Sunken eyes and cheeks so pale,Still the stout hearts do not quail,Though they pay a heavy tollYet, at length, they reach the Pole.Lo! The Union Jack unfurled,Britain’s finger leads the world.Glory gained, they may not stay,There is danger in delay.Back o’er that wide trackless plain,Mighty Scott with all his trainPassed, while death the white steed rodeSide by side the way they trode,Through the blizzard’s freezing blast.Will he claim his prey at last?Buoyed with thoughts of northern skiesOft’ their drooping spirits rise.Where fond loved ones’ hopes and fearsMingle with their prayers and tears—So they struggle weakly on,Strength and courage almost gone.On, until with grief they findEvans they must leave behind.Ah! The other hut in view,Will they see the blizzard through?Yes! The camp at last they reachCold exhaustion numbing speech,And brave Oates! Oh! Gallant heart,Nobly doth he take his partIn this awful tragedyOf the icy polar sea.Facing death ’mid ice and snowSee the loyal comrade go;Knowing nought his life could saveSought he thus a lonely grave.Silently we draw the veilAnd his mournful end bewail.
Months elapse—what is their fate?Wilson, Bowers, alas! Too late:With their chief at length they findIn their sleeping bags enshrined,Fresh as when their parting breathFroze within the embrace of death.Saintly looking in their sleep,Only angels o’er them weep;There in royal robes of snowLie our glorious heroes now.
And the message Scott would send:“Guard our loved ones to the end.”Britain’s, Austral’s hearts will beWith their dead in that white sea,And their children, not in vain,Oft will read the tale again,And immortal memory shelveNineteen hundred years and twelve.Not unmarked the way they trod,For it led them up to God.Lo! A cairn above them standsRaised by gentle, loving handsAnd a cross upon the spotIn that grand Antarctic grott,While for aye they will remainMartyrs of the Great White Plain.
God of earth’s nations, Thee we sing—Loud may Australia’s Anthem ring;Look down in mercy from Thy throneAnd with great empires make her one.Lord, not supreme alone in health,Or might, is she a Commonwealth,But by the grace which Thou hast givenTo spread her seed beneath the Heaven.Grant that her sons, her citadel,May ever hold impregnable;Swift to defend and slow to hate—The enemy within her gate.Fair waves her pennon on the breeze,Long may she reign in southern seas;Oh, may Thy power and glory waitUpon her mighty ship of state.Oh, may her empire builders beFaithful to base her dynastyOn Truth, with Liberty for shield,And Battle-axe of Justice wield.Yea, Thine the glory, Lord, may sheFulfil her glorious destiny;And Austral’s Anthem ever pourThy praise till time shall be no more.
God of earth’s nations, Thee we sing—Loud may Australia’s Anthem ring;Look down in mercy from Thy throneAnd with great empires make her one.Lord, not supreme alone in health,Or might, is she a Commonwealth,But by the grace which Thou hast givenTo spread her seed beneath the Heaven.Grant that her sons, her citadel,May ever hold impregnable;Swift to defend and slow to hate—The enemy within her gate.Fair waves her pennon on the breeze,Long may she reign in southern seas;Oh, may Thy power and glory waitUpon her mighty ship of state.Oh, may her empire builders beFaithful to base her dynastyOn Truth, with Liberty for shield,And Battle-axe of Justice wield.Yea, Thine the glory, Lord, may sheFulfil her glorious destiny;And Austral’s Anthem ever pourThy praise till time shall be no more.
God of earth’s nations, Thee we sing—Loud may Australia’s Anthem ring;Look down in mercy from Thy throneAnd with great empires make her one.
Lord, not supreme alone in health,Or might, is she a Commonwealth,But by the grace which Thou hast givenTo spread her seed beneath the Heaven.
Grant that her sons, her citadel,May ever hold impregnable;Swift to defend and slow to hate—The enemy within her gate.
Fair waves her pennon on the breeze,Long may she reign in southern seas;Oh, may Thy power and glory waitUpon her mighty ship of state.
Oh, may her empire builders beFaithful to base her dynastyOn Truth, with Liberty for shield,And Battle-axe of Justice wield.
Yea, Thine the glory, Lord, may sheFulfil her glorious destiny;And Austral’s Anthem ever pourThy praise till time shall be no more.
The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers,Breathe immortality.They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hoursAll through eternity.They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’dSo soft and deepTheir tiny seeds within her tender breastAs children sleep.They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sentTo beautifyOur minds, of human souls, an emblem meant,Which never die.And when our bodies, like dear flowers, mustAt length decay,The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dustHave passed away.Then let our lives be pure as these pale bloomsWith fragrance blent,That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombsA monument.
The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers,Breathe immortality.They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hoursAll through eternity.They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’dSo soft and deepTheir tiny seeds within her tender breastAs children sleep.They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sentTo beautifyOur minds, of human souls, an emblem meant,Which never die.And when our bodies, like dear flowers, mustAt length decay,The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dustHave passed away.Then let our lives be pure as these pale bloomsWith fragrance blent,That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombsA monument.
The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers,Breathe immortality.They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hoursAll through eternity.They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’dSo soft and deepTheir tiny seeds within her tender breastAs children sleep.They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sentTo beautifyOur minds, of human souls, an emblem meant,Which never die.And when our bodies, like dear flowers, mustAt length decay,The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dustHave passed away.Then let our lives be pure as these pale bloomsWith fragrance blent,That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombsA monument.
Because of thee, the earth is fair to see,The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee,It gloweth deeper in the eastern skiesAs dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes.Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing,Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ringSo dulcet sweet, and though thou art not nearI feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear.Because of thee, weak words may not conveyThe holy calm which comes at close of day;When sunsets flame like seas of beaten goldEre night her spangled draperies hath unrolled.Because of thee, upon the balmy air,Pæans from every plumaged worshipperThrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to meEach liquid note a message sent from thee.Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still,With subtle fragrance, waken at my willSweet memories of the perfume-laden dewOf the old garden, redolent of you.Because of thee, this longing heart of mineHath none but thee to dwell within its shrine,Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light,My lode-star like a splendid vision bright.Because of thee, the stars seem all enwroughtWith beauty which enriches every thought;The moon, a golden chariot in which weMay circle space for all eternity.Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep,We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep;His hand will guide our barque to yonder shoreTo live, Oh, love—true life for evermore.
Because of thee, the earth is fair to see,The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee,It gloweth deeper in the eastern skiesAs dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes.Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing,Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ringSo dulcet sweet, and though thou art not nearI feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear.Because of thee, weak words may not conveyThe holy calm which comes at close of day;When sunsets flame like seas of beaten goldEre night her spangled draperies hath unrolled.Because of thee, upon the balmy air,Pæans from every plumaged worshipperThrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to meEach liquid note a message sent from thee.Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still,With subtle fragrance, waken at my willSweet memories of the perfume-laden dewOf the old garden, redolent of you.Because of thee, this longing heart of mineHath none but thee to dwell within its shrine,Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light,My lode-star like a splendid vision bright.Because of thee, the stars seem all enwroughtWith beauty which enriches every thought;The moon, a golden chariot in which weMay circle space for all eternity.Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep,We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep;His hand will guide our barque to yonder shoreTo live, Oh, love—true life for evermore.
Because of thee, the earth is fair to see,The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee,It gloweth deeper in the eastern skiesAs dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes.
Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing,Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ringSo dulcet sweet, and though thou art not nearI feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear.
Because of thee, weak words may not conveyThe holy calm which comes at close of day;When sunsets flame like seas of beaten goldEre night her spangled draperies hath unrolled.
Because of thee, upon the balmy air,Pæans from every plumaged worshipperThrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to meEach liquid note a message sent from thee.
Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still,With subtle fragrance, waken at my willSweet memories of the perfume-laden dewOf the old garden, redolent of you.
Because of thee, this longing heart of mineHath none but thee to dwell within its shrine,Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light,My lode-star like a splendid vision bright.
Because of thee, the stars seem all enwroughtWith beauty which enriches every thought;The moon, a golden chariot in which weMay circle space for all eternity.
Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep,We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep;His hand will guide our barque to yonder shoreTo live, Oh, love—true life for evermore.
How well I remember the tranquil hoursWe spent in the haunted wood;How fair was the glade and the primrose flowersWhere the ruined abbey stood,For there, near the lake where water springs—It gushed in a crystal stream—From the mouth of a dragon with carven wingsAnd eyes of a fearful gleam.And there was the grotto, with walls inletWith shells from the shining sands,And the floor with mosaic scenes was set,All relics from Eastern lands.We played, and we idly wondered whoIn the centuries past and goneHad chiselled the antique shape so trueOf this monster in sculptured stone.And the legend weird of this ancient pileWe many a time had heard,And oft in the dusk we would list, the whileThe leaves by the wind were stirred.For ages and ages ago ’twas saidA prince of the Saxon bloodWith the Lady Osyth one day was wedBy a priest of the holy rood.He bade adieu at the altar there,But alas, for the vows they made,A rival prince took his bride so fairBy force to the forest shade.She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil,And a nun she had scarce been made,When up to the abbey, in coat of mail,Rode the prince with a gleaming blade.And with sword held high he espied the faceOf his wife in a window near,A moment more, in his fast embraceSwooned the lady in deadly fear.And fast on his palfrey they rode awayThese twain through the woodland deep,And saw not the rival till brought to bayNear the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.”And the enemy’s knights came and bore them onAnd round to the moonlit lakeAnd jeered: “So perish each wicked oneWho is false to the vows they make.”The prince they bound to his steed and ledThe lady whose every limbTrembled, while faltering prayers she saidAnd her glorious eyes grew dim.Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s sideWhen with swift and sudden blowThe rapier fell, and her life’s red tideWelled o’er to the stream below.And the legend runs that the headless formOf the maiden quickly bentAnd lifted her head beneath her armWhile a shriek the wild echoes rent.And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate,Unbuckled his heavy mail,And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate,He died with a mournful wail.And the story goes that the lady’s shadeStill walks, and her voice is heard,When the moon is old in the haunted glade—Like the cry of a wounded bird—And the headless image in marble chasedOf this saint in the chancel oldStill stands, though time hath its lines effacedAnd despoiled it of beauty’s mould.And oft as I think of the woodland fairAnd the legend, I fain would beOnce more near the dragon which standeth whereSt. Osyth lived, just by the sea.
How well I remember the tranquil hoursWe spent in the haunted wood;How fair was the glade and the primrose flowersWhere the ruined abbey stood,For there, near the lake where water springs—It gushed in a crystal stream—From the mouth of a dragon with carven wingsAnd eyes of a fearful gleam.And there was the grotto, with walls inletWith shells from the shining sands,And the floor with mosaic scenes was set,All relics from Eastern lands.We played, and we idly wondered whoIn the centuries past and goneHad chiselled the antique shape so trueOf this monster in sculptured stone.And the legend weird of this ancient pileWe many a time had heard,And oft in the dusk we would list, the whileThe leaves by the wind were stirred.For ages and ages ago ’twas saidA prince of the Saxon bloodWith the Lady Osyth one day was wedBy a priest of the holy rood.He bade adieu at the altar there,But alas, for the vows they made,A rival prince took his bride so fairBy force to the forest shade.She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil,And a nun she had scarce been made,When up to the abbey, in coat of mail,Rode the prince with a gleaming blade.And with sword held high he espied the faceOf his wife in a window near,A moment more, in his fast embraceSwooned the lady in deadly fear.And fast on his palfrey they rode awayThese twain through the woodland deep,And saw not the rival till brought to bayNear the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.”And the enemy’s knights came and bore them onAnd round to the moonlit lakeAnd jeered: “So perish each wicked oneWho is false to the vows they make.”The prince they bound to his steed and ledThe lady whose every limbTrembled, while faltering prayers she saidAnd her glorious eyes grew dim.Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s sideWhen with swift and sudden blowThe rapier fell, and her life’s red tideWelled o’er to the stream below.And the legend runs that the headless formOf the maiden quickly bentAnd lifted her head beneath her armWhile a shriek the wild echoes rent.And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate,Unbuckled his heavy mail,And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate,He died with a mournful wail.And the story goes that the lady’s shadeStill walks, and her voice is heard,When the moon is old in the haunted glade—Like the cry of a wounded bird—And the headless image in marble chasedOf this saint in the chancel oldStill stands, though time hath its lines effacedAnd despoiled it of beauty’s mould.And oft as I think of the woodland fairAnd the legend, I fain would beOnce more near the dragon which standeth whereSt. Osyth lived, just by the sea.
How well I remember the tranquil hoursWe spent in the haunted wood;How fair was the glade and the primrose flowersWhere the ruined abbey stood,For there, near the lake where water springs—It gushed in a crystal stream—From the mouth of a dragon with carven wingsAnd eyes of a fearful gleam.And there was the grotto, with walls inletWith shells from the shining sands,And the floor with mosaic scenes was set,All relics from Eastern lands.We played, and we idly wondered whoIn the centuries past and goneHad chiselled the antique shape so trueOf this monster in sculptured stone.And the legend weird of this ancient pileWe many a time had heard,And oft in the dusk we would list, the whileThe leaves by the wind were stirred.For ages and ages ago ’twas saidA prince of the Saxon bloodWith the Lady Osyth one day was wedBy a priest of the holy rood.He bade adieu at the altar there,But alas, for the vows they made,A rival prince took his bride so fairBy force to the forest shade.She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil,And a nun she had scarce been made,When up to the abbey, in coat of mail,Rode the prince with a gleaming blade.And with sword held high he espied the faceOf his wife in a window near,A moment more, in his fast embraceSwooned the lady in deadly fear.And fast on his palfrey they rode awayThese twain through the woodland deep,And saw not the rival till brought to bayNear the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.”And the enemy’s knights came and bore them onAnd round to the moonlit lakeAnd jeered: “So perish each wicked oneWho is false to the vows they make.”The prince they bound to his steed and ledThe lady whose every limbTrembled, while faltering prayers she saidAnd her glorious eyes grew dim.Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s sideWhen with swift and sudden blowThe rapier fell, and her life’s red tideWelled o’er to the stream below.And the legend runs that the headless formOf the maiden quickly bentAnd lifted her head beneath her armWhile a shriek the wild echoes rent.And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate,Unbuckled his heavy mail,And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate,He died with a mournful wail.And the story goes that the lady’s shadeStill walks, and her voice is heard,When the moon is old in the haunted glade—Like the cry of a wounded bird—And the headless image in marble chasedOf this saint in the chancel oldStill stands, though time hath its lines effacedAnd despoiled it of beauty’s mould.And oft as I think of the woodland fairAnd the legend, I fain would beOnce more near the dragon which standeth whereSt. Osyth lived, just by the sea.
In lone magnificence and stately pride,Majestic in thy ruin and decay,Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wideWhen Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway;And forked lightning on black clouds astride,And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurledWhile streams of lava in a ceaseless tideFlowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world.What hast thou felt in cycles long untold?What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there,That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolledScarring thine image and thy bosom bare?What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon,Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light?What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, loneViewed from her vantage in the solemn night?Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placedOn proud Italia’s olive-mantled shoreWas by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased,And eighteen centuries was covered o’er.If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou wouldTell us when fair Lemuria disappeared,Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood,In bora rings their writhing victims speared.Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, thoughThy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt,And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow,The rocky amphitheatre thy belt.Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form—Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there sereneAround thy neck, and in the gathering gloomAt eve we picture what thou once hath been.And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vainThou teacheth like a sad and silent sageThe wisdom and the pleasure we may gainWhile pondering on thy splendour and thine age.
In lone magnificence and stately pride,Majestic in thy ruin and decay,Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wideWhen Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway;And forked lightning on black clouds astride,And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurledWhile streams of lava in a ceaseless tideFlowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world.What hast thou felt in cycles long untold?What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there,That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolledScarring thine image and thy bosom bare?What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon,Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light?What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, loneViewed from her vantage in the solemn night?Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placedOn proud Italia’s olive-mantled shoreWas by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased,And eighteen centuries was covered o’er.If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou wouldTell us when fair Lemuria disappeared,Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood,In bora rings their writhing victims speared.Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, thoughThy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt,And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow,The rocky amphitheatre thy belt.Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form—Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there sereneAround thy neck, and in the gathering gloomAt eve we picture what thou once hath been.And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vainThou teacheth like a sad and silent sageThe wisdom and the pleasure we may gainWhile pondering on thy splendour and thine age.
In lone magnificence and stately pride,Majestic in thy ruin and decay,Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wideWhen Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway;And forked lightning on black clouds astride,And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurledWhile streams of lava in a ceaseless tideFlowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world.What hast thou felt in cycles long untold?What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there,That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolledScarring thine image and thy bosom bare?What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon,Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light?What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, loneViewed from her vantage in the solemn night?Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placedOn proud Italia’s olive-mantled shoreWas by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased,And eighteen centuries was covered o’er.If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou wouldTell us when fair Lemuria disappeared,Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood,In bora rings their writhing victims speared.Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, thoughThy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt,And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow,The rocky amphitheatre thy belt.Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form—Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there sereneAround thy neck, and in the gathering gloomAt eve we picture what thou once hath been.And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vainThou teacheth like a sad and silent sageThe wisdom and the pleasure we may gainWhile pondering on thy splendour and thine age.
It sometimes happens that some uncommon perfume will carry us back to the days of our girlhood, when our mothers would devoutly disclose to the light of day all sorts of odd things, such as old letters smelling of musk, or ribbons and pieces of old lace yellow with age, cast off baby clothes, which once on a time, covered our tiny persons, little pinafores or caps and booties, perhaps toys which once belonged to a sister or brother, long since gone on the other side.
Again, such a perfume may remind us of a time when the whole family were gathered around the festive board, laughing, bright with repartee, the room redolent of fragrance from the tastefully arranged flowers, long since forgotten. Somehow a scent brings back a flood of memories; the scene; the very arch glance of a pair of eyes, or the grave sweet look of a face, as though it were yesterday.
Some perfumes become a precious memory lying dormant, which one can conjure up at will. Others are suddenly resurrected.
Lavender! What luxury to lie between sheets odorous of lavender. And the old-fashioned potpourri of late years, having a revival of favour, chiefly consisting of orris roots, violets and rose leaves—with sweet thoughts centred and clinging around them. The roses!