I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years,And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears,Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way,Thevia dolorosaof all we of earthly clay.I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wroughtWere long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought;I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow,When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago.And then I saw my mother as in the years of old,And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold,And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice,And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice.Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sureHer spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore,And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love,From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above.
I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years,And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears,Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way,Thevia dolorosaof all we of earthly clay.I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wroughtWere long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought;I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow,When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago.And then I saw my mother as in the years of old,And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold,And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice,And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice.Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sureHer spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore,And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love,From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above.
I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years,And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears,Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way,Thevia dolorosaof all we of earthly clay.I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wroughtWere long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought;I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow,When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago.And then I saw my mother as in the years of old,And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold,And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice,And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice.Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sureHer spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore,And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love,From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above.
Each day we weave, unseen, the web of FateWith threads of tenderest love or threads of hate;The strands are slender when they are unfurled,Yet strong to reach some soul across the world.With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweetThe morning air before the noonday heat,Or web of roses’ attar redolent,Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent.Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power,Weaving in daylight, or in evening hourSome poet’s lay to touch the human heartWith golden music of the minstrel’s art.The Past and Gone are woven, and the Present nowIs in the web, with cruel, thorny bough,For some frail mortals; but the Angel SleepWeaves ever future joys for those who weep.The wind within the trees doth weave a melody,The bright-winged birds weave dulcet harmonyWith their alluring notes, and wood nymphs hearAnd weave a sonnet for their lover’s ear.Whether we in seclusion weave where none intrudeOn mountain steep or in deep solitudeOf the dense bush, or mossy fen, or glade,We weave our bed with web which we have made.Then let us dream, and weave that no remorseWith silent shadow clouds our future course,With love to guide, whose eyes wax never dim,While weaving make some lives one long sweet hymn.
Each day we weave, unseen, the web of FateWith threads of tenderest love or threads of hate;The strands are slender when they are unfurled,Yet strong to reach some soul across the world.With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweetThe morning air before the noonday heat,Or web of roses’ attar redolent,Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent.Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power,Weaving in daylight, or in evening hourSome poet’s lay to touch the human heartWith golden music of the minstrel’s art.The Past and Gone are woven, and the Present nowIs in the web, with cruel, thorny bough,For some frail mortals; but the Angel SleepWeaves ever future joys for those who weep.The wind within the trees doth weave a melody,The bright-winged birds weave dulcet harmonyWith their alluring notes, and wood nymphs hearAnd weave a sonnet for their lover’s ear.Whether we in seclusion weave where none intrudeOn mountain steep or in deep solitudeOf the dense bush, or mossy fen, or glade,We weave our bed with web which we have made.Then let us dream, and weave that no remorseWith silent shadow clouds our future course,With love to guide, whose eyes wax never dim,While weaving make some lives one long sweet hymn.
Each day we weave, unseen, the web of FateWith threads of tenderest love or threads of hate;The strands are slender when they are unfurled,Yet strong to reach some soul across the world.
With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweetThe morning air before the noonday heat,Or web of roses’ attar redolent,Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent.
Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power,Weaving in daylight, or in evening hourSome poet’s lay to touch the human heartWith golden music of the minstrel’s art.
The Past and Gone are woven, and the Present nowIs in the web, with cruel, thorny bough,For some frail mortals; but the Angel SleepWeaves ever future joys for those who weep.
The wind within the trees doth weave a melody,The bright-winged birds weave dulcet harmonyWith their alluring notes, and wood nymphs hearAnd weave a sonnet for their lover’s ear.
Whether we in seclusion weave where none intrudeOn mountain steep or in deep solitudeOf the dense bush, or mossy fen, or glade,We weave our bed with web which we have made.
Then let us dream, and weave that no remorseWith silent shadow clouds our future course,With love to guide, whose eyes wax never dim,While weaving make some lives one long sweet hymn.
Once in a garden, Oh! So fair!Was a leafy path, and I tell not where,But it led to an arbor beneath the shadeOf a jacaranda, where sunlight playedAnd flickered and flashed through the tasselled leavesIn the crimson flush of long summer eves,And in web and woof of the trellised roofFrom sweet birds’ throats fell golden notes.Once lovers murmured within that bowerWhere grew the gracefullest purple flower,And a trembling maiden’s soft answer stoleThrough somebody’s ear and thrilled his soul,And then with her dark eyes growing dimShe solemnly plighted her troth with him,In the hush of night while the pale moonlightShed a silver shower o’er this lovers’ bower.Once it fell on a summer dayThis handsome lover sailed away,And he had vowed he would faithful beTo the maiden he loved when o’er the sea,So each day in the leafy arbor dimThe maiden waited and dreamed of him,But no missive came, and she breathed his nameIn stress and tears for three long years.Once, in the witching gloaming hour,Soft murmurs were heard within that bower,For the lover, a knight, had come to takeThe lady who waited for his dear sake,And he told his tale, while her starry eyesTenderly glowed with sweet surprise,And these lovers twain, reunited again,Loved each other more than in days of yore.And now, in that beautiful garden old,Where the jacaranda its buds unfold,They wander adown the paths so green,Where once as lovers they talked unseen,And the gracefullest flower that bloometh thereIs somebody’s darling with golden hair,And still in the woof of the trellised roof,From sweet birds’ throats fall liquid notes.
Once in a garden, Oh! So fair!Was a leafy path, and I tell not where,But it led to an arbor beneath the shadeOf a jacaranda, where sunlight playedAnd flickered and flashed through the tasselled leavesIn the crimson flush of long summer eves,And in web and woof of the trellised roofFrom sweet birds’ throats fell golden notes.Once lovers murmured within that bowerWhere grew the gracefullest purple flower,And a trembling maiden’s soft answer stoleThrough somebody’s ear and thrilled his soul,And then with her dark eyes growing dimShe solemnly plighted her troth with him,In the hush of night while the pale moonlightShed a silver shower o’er this lovers’ bower.Once it fell on a summer dayThis handsome lover sailed away,And he had vowed he would faithful beTo the maiden he loved when o’er the sea,So each day in the leafy arbor dimThe maiden waited and dreamed of him,But no missive came, and she breathed his nameIn stress and tears for three long years.Once, in the witching gloaming hour,Soft murmurs were heard within that bower,For the lover, a knight, had come to takeThe lady who waited for his dear sake,And he told his tale, while her starry eyesTenderly glowed with sweet surprise,And these lovers twain, reunited again,Loved each other more than in days of yore.And now, in that beautiful garden old,Where the jacaranda its buds unfold,They wander adown the paths so green,Where once as lovers they talked unseen,And the gracefullest flower that bloometh thereIs somebody’s darling with golden hair,And still in the woof of the trellised roof,From sweet birds’ throats fall liquid notes.
Once in a garden, Oh! So fair!Was a leafy path, and I tell not where,But it led to an arbor beneath the shadeOf a jacaranda, where sunlight playedAnd flickered and flashed through the tasselled leavesIn the crimson flush of long summer eves,And in web and woof of the trellised roofFrom sweet birds’ throats fell golden notes.
Once lovers murmured within that bowerWhere grew the gracefullest purple flower,And a trembling maiden’s soft answer stoleThrough somebody’s ear and thrilled his soul,And then with her dark eyes growing dimShe solemnly plighted her troth with him,In the hush of night while the pale moonlightShed a silver shower o’er this lovers’ bower.
Once it fell on a summer dayThis handsome lover sailed away,And he had vowed he would faithful beTo the maiden he loved when o’er the sea,So each day in the leafy arbor dimThe maiden waited and dreamed of him,But no missive came, and she breathed his nameIn stress and tears for three long years.
Once, in the witching gloaming hour,Soft murmurs were heard within that bower,For the lover, a knight, had come to takeThe lady who waited for his dear sake,And he told his tale, while her starry eyesTenderly glowed with sweet surprise,And these lovers twain, reunited again,Loved each other more than in days of yore.
And now, in that beautiful garden old,Where the jacaranda its buds unfold,They wander adown the paths so green,Where once as lovers they talked unseen,And the gracefullest flower that bloometh thereIs somebody’s darling with golden hair,And still in the woof of the trellised roof,From sweet birds’ throats fall liquid notes.
Divinity of heavenly breath which we call life;Which makes us sentient beings ’mid the strifeOf earthly years: Oh! make us wise and good,E’en tho’ misunderstood; misunderstood.Divinity of fate; at thy cold, stern decree,Potent in power, cradled in mystery,Dauntless in courage, and with spirit set,We will not fret; we will not fret.Divinity of faith; there is one creed,To suffer and be strong; ’tis all we need,Then strengthen us to cling to thee, though shouldWe be misunderstood; misunderstood.Divinity of love; oh! may we ever beAll that thou art in angel purity,And make our lives—forgive the unbidden tear—The endless song which only thou canst hear.Divinity of death; though cold, thou pressThe heavy eyelids with thy damp caress,Thy pinions bear us to the golden floodOf perfect life, where all is understood.
Divinity of heavenly breath which we call life;Which makes us sentient beings ’mid the strifeOf earthly years: Oh! make us wise and good,E’en tho’ misunderstood; misunderstood.Divinity of fate; at thy cold, stern decree,Potent in power, cradled in mystery,Dauntless in courage, and with spirit set,We will not fret; we will not fret.Divinity of faith; there is one creed,To suffer and be strong; ’tis all we need,Then strengthen us to cling to thee, though shouldWe be misunderstood; misunderstood.Divinity of love; oh! may we ever beAll that thou art in angel purity,And make our lives—forgive the unbidden tear—The endless song which only thou canst hear.Divinity of death; though cold, thou pressThe heavy eyelids with thy damp caress,Thy pinions bear us to the golden floodOf perfect life, where all is understood.
Divinity of heavenly breath which we call life;Which makes us sentient beings ’mid the strifeOf earthly years: Oh! make us wise and good,E’en tho’ misunderstood; misunderstood.
Divinity of fate; at thy cold, stern decree,Potent in power, cradled in mystery,Dauntless in courage, and with spirit set,We will not fret; we will not fret.
Divinity of faith; there is one creed,To suffer and be strong; ’tis all we need,Then strengthen us to cling to thee, though shouldWe be misunderstood; misunderstood.
Divinity of love; oh! may we ever beAll that thou art in angel purity,And make our lives—forgive the unbidden tear—The endless song which only thou canst hear.
Divinity of death; though cold, thou pressThe heavy eyelids with thy damp caress,Thy pinions bear us to the golden floodOf perfect life, where all is understood.
Remember when the velvet robe of nightFalls softly, or when Luna’s mystic lightEarth veils in dim, delusive beauty cold,And all her myriad secrets doth unfold.Remember when in rosy dawn or dewy eveSome vagrant thought a tender trace may leaveUpon thy chastened spirit of a golden hourWhich cast its spell with all its magic power.Remember when the vows so fondly made’Neath oleanders in the web of sun and shade,That to our throbbing souls with love’s eyes clearIt seemed that Paradise to us was near.Remember when in noontide’s languid heat,’Mid haunts of men, or mart, or busy street,Or in sweet sleep’s embrace when dreams are bright,My spirit watches in the solemn hush of night.Remember when ’neath cypress tree I restWith calmly folded hands across my breast,And nought but sacred dust at last remain,It may be that I had not lived in vain.
Remember when the velvet robe of nightFalls softly, or when Luna’s mystic lightEarth veils in dim, delusive beauty cold,And all her myriad secrets doth unfold.Remember when in rosy dawn or dewy eveSome vagrant thought a tender trace may leaveUpon thy chastened spirit of a golden hourWhich cast its spell with all its magic power.Remember when the vows so fondly made’Neath oleanders in the web of sun and shade,That to our throbbing souls with love’s eyes clearIt seemed that Paradise to us was near.Remember when in noontide’s languid heat,’Mid haunts of men, or mart, or busy street,Or in sweet sleep’s embrace when dreams are bright,My spirit watches in the solemn hush of night.Remember when ’neath cypress tree I restWith calmly folded hands across my breast,And nought but sacred dust at last remain,It may be that I had not lived in vain.
Remember when the velvet robe of nightFalls softly, or when Luna’s mystic lightEarth veils in dim, delusive beauty cold,And all her myriad secrets doth unfold.
Remember when in rosy dawn or dewy eveSome vagrant thought a tender trace may leaveUpon thy chastened spirit of a golden hourWhich cast its spell with all its magic power.
Remember when the vows so fondly made’Neath oleanders in the web of sun and shade,That to our throbbing souls with love’s eyes clearIt seemed that Paradise to us was near.
Remember when in noontide’s languid heat,’Mid haunts of men, or mart, or busy street,Or in sweet sleep’s embrace when dreams are bright,My spirit watches in the solemn hush of night.
Remember when ’neath cypress tree I restWith calmly folded hands across my breast,And nought but sacred dust at last remain,It may be that I had not lived in vain.
Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness,Beneath the sun,Whose golden core doth Earth caressTill day is done.Where scintillating stars appear,Breathing of thee,As quivering in the vault of airThey seem to see.And where pearl-girdled proud Selene,With queenly grace,Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, sereneWith smiling face.And where in grove and woodland dell,So sweetly meek,Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwellDid I seek.There at length I thee have foundIn solitude,Where but echoes soft resound,Zephyr wooed.And with books of hero loreThere thou art,And the chaplets which they bore,And my heart.Happiness, I would not loseThee so dear;All may find thee if they choose,Ever near.
Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness,Beneath the sun,Whose golden core doth Earth caressTill day is done.Where scintillating stars appear,Breathing of thee,As quivering in the vault of airThey seem to see.And where pearl-girdled proud Selene,With queenly grace,Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, sereneWith smiling face.And where in grove and woodland dell,So sweetly meek,Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwellDid I seek.There at length I thee have foundIn solitude,Where but echoes soft resound,Zephyr wooed.And with books of hero loreThere thou art,And the chaplets which they bore,And my heart.Happiness, I would not loseThee so dear;All may find thee if they choose,Ever near.
Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness,Beneath the sun,Whose golden core doth Earth caressTill day is done.Where scintillating stars appear,Breathing of thee,As quivering in the vault of airThey seem to see.And where pearl-girdled proud Selene,With queenly grace,Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, sereneWith smiling face.And where in grove and woodland dell,So sweetly meek,Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwellDid I seek.There at length I thee have foundIn solitude,Where but echoes soft resound,Zephyr wooed.And with books of hero loreThere thou art,And the chaplets which they bore,And my heart.Happiness, I would not loseThee so dear;All may find thee if they choose,Ever near.
When great Apollon woke his lyreWith breath of the celestial fire,To mortals he bequeathed the skillTo invoke the goddess at their will,That when with melancholy boundSweet solace with the Muse was found.Oh! soft the melting strains sublimeWhich echoed once in Grecia’s climeWhen pæans of the Homeric bardIn marble palaces were heard.And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sungThe while her heart with grief was wrung,Who vainly sought with burning wordsAnd sweet seductive trembling chordsHer Phidias’ love to win, nor moreShe tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore,Or bent with futile tears to weep,But threw herself from Leucan steep,And still ’tis said from ocean caveAt eve is heard beneath the waveHer lute by unseen spirits playedWhere died the glorious lyric maid,And since, in every sacred shrine,Music’s sweet symphonies divine,On golden wings in darkest hourFloat with a deep and vibrant power.The Muse but lifts her magic wand—We view empyreal heights beyond—Seraphic sounds caress the earThe Poet Wind breathes on the air.Imagination! List! ’tis thine—A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kineKnee-deep in herbage gently low,As loitering to their haunts they go;The velvet turf, the silver stream,The tranquil beauty of the theme;The dark-haired Rosalind in white,Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite.Then sudden stillness; over allThe rustling leaves the raindrops fall;Darkness, with thunder pealing loud;The golden light behind the cloud;The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays,Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise—Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vainCast her sweet spell in hours of pain,Exalting souls to high desire,Apollon of the Golden Lyre.
When great Apollon woke his lyreWith breath of the celestial fire,To mortals he bequeathed the skillTo invoke the goddess at their will,That when with melancholy boundSweet solace with the Muse was found.Oh! soft the melting strains sublimeWhich echoed once in Grecia’s climeWhen pæans of the Homeric bardIn marble palaces were heard.And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sungThe while her heart with grief was wrung,Who vainly sought with burning wordsAnd sweet seductive trembling chordsHer Phidias’ love to win, nor moreShe tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore,Or bent with futile tears to weep,But threw herself from Leucan steep,And still ’tis said from ocean caveAt eve is heard beneath the waveHer lute by unseen spirits playedWhere died the glorious lyric maid,And since, in every sacred shrine,Music’s sweet symphonies divine,On golden wings in darkest hourFloat with a deep and vibrant power.The Muse but lifts her magic wand—We view empyreal heights beyond—Seraphic sounds caress the earThe Poet Wind breathes on the air.Imagination! List! ’tis thine—A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kineKnee-deep in herbage gently low,As loitering to their haunts they go;The velvet turf, the silver stream,The tranquil beauty of the theme;The dark-haired Rosalind in white,Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite.Then sudden stillness; over allThe rustling leaves the raindrops fall;Darkness, with thunder pealing loud;The golden light behind the cloud;The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays,Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise—Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vainCast her sweet spell in hours of pain,Exalting souls to high desire,Apollon of the Golden Lyre.
When great Apollon woke his lyreWith breath of the celestial fire,To mortals he bequeathed the skillTo invoke the goddess at their will,That when with melancholy boundSweet solace with the Muse was found.Oh! soft the melting strains sublimeWhich echoed once in Grecia’s climeWhen pæans of the Homeric bardIn marble palaces were heard.And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sungThe while her heart with grief was wrung,Who vainly sought with burning wordsAnd sweet seductive trembling chordsHer Phidias’ love to win, nor moreShe tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore,Or bent with futile tears to weep,But threw herself from Leucan steep,And still ’tis said from ocean caveAt eve is heard beneath the waveHer lute by unseen spirits playedWhere died the glorious lyric maid,And since, in every sacred shrine,Music’s sweet symphonies divine,On golden wings in darkest hourFloat with a deep and vibrant power.The Muse but lifts her magic wand—We view empyreal heights beyond—Seraphic sounds caress the earThe Poet Wind breathes on the air.Imagination! List! ’tis thine—A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kineKnee-deep in herbage gently low,As loitering to their haunts they go;The velvet turf, the silver stream,The tranquil beauty of the theme;The dark-haired Rosalind in white,Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite.Then sudden stillness; over allThe rustling leaves the raindrops fall;Darkness, with thunder pealing loud;The golden light behind the cloud;The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays,Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise—Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vainCast her sweet spell in hours of pain,Exalting souls to high desire,Apollon of the Golden Lyre.
In dreams he saw that stately pile appearIn matchless beauty of proportion clearOn rocky eminence, the city ’neath its feetAnd winding river, and the vision sweetWhich his soul cherished was not all in vain.Behold the vast Cathedral with its lofty fane!For which he toiled and prayed, but Heaven decreedHe should not see fruition of the seed.And now within those hallowed walls at restHe lies with meek hands folded o’er his breastBeneath the altar fair he is assignedA fitting resting place for his great mind.Though he be dead, his works will follow himAnd stones shall speak in that great minster dim,Of strength and majesty so truly wrought—A temple beautiful for heavenly thought;Each arch in its magnificence aloneReveals a poem writ with pen of stone.Perchance when the sweet sound of vesper bellAnd trembling notes of the grand organ swell,Reverberating, or with cadence soft and clear,His listening spirit may be hovering near.When holy chant floats down that stately aisleAnd angel voice of choristers beguileThe soul in rapturous awe from mundane thingsWill soar aloft on Adoration’s wings!And may each human pillar moulded beBy master minds of eloquence and oratory;And down the centuries the founder’s name shall shineWith his successors in God’s House Divine,While “Glorio in Excelsis Deo” riseIn grandest anthem to the lofty skies.
In dreams he saw that stately pile appearIn matchless beauty of proportion clearOn rocky eminence, the city ’neath its feetAnd winding river, and the vision sweetWhich his soul cherished was not all in vain.Behold the vast Cathedral with its lofty fane!For which he toiled and prayed, but Heaven decreedHe should not see fruition of the seed.And now within those hallowed walls at restHe lies with meek hands folded o’er his breastBeneath the altar fair he is assignedA fitting resting place for his great mind.Though he be dead, his works will follow himAnd stones shall speak in that great minster dim,Of strength and majesty so truly wrought—A temple beautiful for heavenly thought;Each arch in its magnificence aloneReveals a poem writ with pen of stone.Perchance when the sweet sound of vesper bellAnd trembling notes of the grand organ swell,Reverberating, or with cadence soft and clear,His listening spirit may be hovering near.When holy chant floats down that stately aisleAnd angel voice of choristers beguileThe soul in rapturous awe from mundane thingsWill soar aloft on Adoration’s wings!And may each human pillar moulded beBy master minds of eloquence and oratory;And down the centuries the founder’s name shall shineWith his successors in God’s House Divine,While “Glorio in Excelsis Deo” riseIn grandest anthem to the lofty skies.
In dreams he saw that stately pile appearIn matchless beauty of proportion clearOn rocky eminence, the city ’neath its feetAnd winding river, and the vision sweetWhich his soul cherished was not all in vain.Behold the vast Cathedral with its lofty fane!For which he toiled and prayed, but Heaven decreedHe should not see fruition of the seed.And now within those hallowed walls at restHe lies with meek hands folded o’er his breastBeneath the altar fair he is assignedA fitting resting place for his great mind.Though he be dead, his works will follow himAnd stones shall speak in that great minster dim,Of strength and majesty so truly wrought—A temple beautiful for heavenly thought;Each arch in its magnificence aloneReveals a poem writ with pen of stone.Perchance when the sweet sound of vesper bellAnd trembling notes of the grand organ swell,Reverberating, or with cadence soft and clear,His listening spirit may be hovering near.When holy chant floats down that stately aisleAnd angel voice of choristers beguileThe soul in rapturous awe from mundane thingsWill soar aloft on Adoration’s wings!And may each human pillar moulded beBy master minds of eloquence and oratory;And down the centuries the founder’s name shall shineWith his successors in God’s House Divine,While “Glorio in Excelsis Deo” riseIn grandest anthem to the lofty skies.
With trembling limbs and side by sideTwo old folks walk at eventide,Two dear old wrinkled faces bow,Two pairs of feet are weary now,At eventide.Hush! Now they reach the old house door,Where, more than fifty years before,The bride came on her wedding morn,And true love waited for his dawn,Ere eventide.They gaze with tender age-dimmed eyesAround the hearth while memoriesSurge backward down the vanished years,Fraught with their sweetness, blent with tears,This eventide.They talk of loved ones long since gone,And one whom they in silence mourn,The erring one, and thus they stayWith bended heads for him to pray,At eventide.And he, with sudden, deep remorseResolves to change his evil course,And plead forgiveness ere too late,So softly opes the old green gate,One eventide.The cottage door is open wide,He sweeps a vagrant tear aside,Sees empty dear familiar chairs,Then gently mounts the oaken stairsAt eventide.Ah! Yes! it is their eventide,For see! He finds them side by side,Wrapped in magnificent repose,Beyond the golden light that glowsAt eventide.
With trembling limbs and side by sideTwo old folks walk at eventide,Two dear old wrinkled faces bow,Two pairs of feet are weary now,At eventide.Hush! Now they reach the old house door,Where, more than fifty years before,The bride came on her wedding morn,And true love waited for his dawn,Ere eventide.They gaze with tender age-dimmed eyesAround the hearth while memoriesSurge backward down the vanished years,Fraught with their sweetness, blent with tears,This eventide.They talk of loved ones long since gone,And one whom they in silence mourn,The erring one, and thus they stayWith bended heads for him to pray,At eventide.And he, with sudden, deep remorseResolves to change his evil course,And plead forgiveness ere too late,So softly opes the old green gate,One eventide.The cottage door is open wide,He sweeps a vagrant tear aside,Sees empty dear familiar chairs,Then gently mounts the oaken stairsAt eventide.Ah! Yes! it is their eventide,For see! He finds them side by side,Wrapped in magnificent repose,Beyond the golden light that glowsAt eventide.
With trembling limbs and side by sideTwo old folks walk at eventide,Two dear old wrinkled faces bow,Two pairs of feet are weary now,At eventide.
Hush! Now they reach the old house door,Where, more than fifty years before,The bride came on her wedding morn,And true love waited for his dawn,Ere eventide.
They gaze with tender age-dimmed eyesAround the hearth while memoriesSurge backward down the vanished years,Fraught with their sweetness, blent with tears,This eventide.
They talk of loved ones long since gone,And one whom they in silence mourn,The erring one, and thus they stayWith bended heads for him to pray,At eventide.
And he, with sudden, deep remorseResolves to change his evil course,And plead forgiveness ere too late,So softly opes the old green gate,One eventide.
The cottage door is open wide,He sweeps a vagrant tear aside,Sees empty dear familiar chairs,Then gently mounts the oaken stairsAt eventide.
Ah! Yes! it is their eventide,For see! He finds them side by side,Wrapped in magnificent repose,Beyond the golden light that glowsAt eventide.
Lo! Sad-eyed Autumn walks o’er all the land,Tenderly touching with caressing hand,Each quivering leaflet, hung from parent stem,Bearing a radiant dew-kissed diadem;And tasselled ruddy gold and variant shadeDroop o’er Psyche as in Arcadian gladeShe doth recline, and Autumn’s lover—Wind—Chants solemn dirge for Summer, left behindTo music of dead leaves, with tears of rain,While whispering, “Summer cometh yet again,And Autumn lingereth but a little while,With glance compassionate on flowers that smileIn winsome beauty ere their blooms decayAnd change when Winter cometh cold and grey.”See! Satin-winged sweet butterflies have flownLike fairy sprites, to choose a graceful throneOn crimson rose or soft hydrangea blue,Emblems of the transition we must view.These tender spirits through the fleeting hoursCull the sweet essence from the glorious flowers,And the short seasons pass and may not stay—Ephemeral pleasures, too, must pass away.So, did not Autumn Winter meet, and Winter Spring,Dear Summer’s charms would vanish nor hope bringThen melancholy Autumn with her Wind may sigh,For Spring, her smiling sister, cometh by-and-bye.
Lo! Sad-eyed Autumn walks o’er all the land,Tenderly touching with caressing hand,Each quivering leaflet, hung from parent stem,Bearing a radiant dew-kissed diadem;And tasselled ruddy gold and variant shadeDroop o’er Psyche as in Arcadian gladeShe doth recline, and Autumn’s lover—Wind—Chants solemn dirge for Summer, left behindTo music of dead leaves, with tears of rain,While whispering, “Summer cometh yet again,And Autumn lingereth but a little while,With glance compassionate on flowers that smileIn winsome beauty ere their blooms decayAnd change when Winter cometh cold and grey.”See! Satin-winged sweet butterflies have flownLike fairy sprites, to choose a graceful throneOn crimson rose or soft hydrangea blue,Emblems of the transition we must view.These tender spirits through the fleeting hoursCull the sweet essence from the glorious flowers,And the short seasons pass and may not stay—Ephemeral pleasures, too, must pass away.So, did not Autumn Winter meet, and Winter Spring,Dear Summer’s charms would vanish nor hope bringThen melancholy Autumn with her Wind may sigh,For Spring, her smiling sister, cometh by-and-bye.
Lo! Sad-eyed Autumn walks o’er all the land,Tenderly touching with caressing hand,Each quivering leaflet, hung from parent stem,Bearing a radiant dew-kissed diadem;And tasselled ruddy gold and variant shadeDroop o’er Psyche as in Arcadian gladeShe doth recline, and Autumn’s lover—Wind—Chants solemn dirge for Summer, left behindTo music of dead leaves, with tears of rain,While whispering, “Summer cometh yet again,And Autumn lingereth but a little while,With glance compassionate on flowers that smileIn winsome beauty ere their blooms decayAnd change when Winter cometh cold and grey.”See! Satin-winged sweet butterflies have flownLike fairy sprites, to choose a graceful throneOn crimson rose or soft hydrangea blue,Emblems of the transition we must view.These tender spirits through the fleeting hoursCull the sweet essence from the glorious flowers,And the short seasons pass and may not stay—Ephemeral pleasures, too, must pass away.So, did not Autumn Winter meet, and Winter Spring,Dear Summer’s charms would vanish nor hope bringThen melancholy Autumn with her Wind may sigh,For Spring, her smiling sister, cometh by-and-bye.
Sweet seraph! Borne upon the wings of love,Softly thou cometh from the realms above,With kiss as light as air, and gentler breath,More beauteous thou than thy pale brother Death,Yet not so calm as he, though both bestowA wondrous loveliness o’er cheek and brow;He with a regal majesty so marble coldIn immobility of matchless grace doth mouldEach feature with the waxen beauty of the tomb,While thou dost lend the blush of living bloom,And the soft dew of Heaven doth linger there,And lovely Peace imprints her image fair.When eve in crimson splendour of delightFalleth, thou Spirit of the starry night,And they, all million-eyed in radiance shine,Like scattered silver seeds o’er fields divine,Thou to dear children giveth dreamless rest,Softly embraced upon thy tender breast,While care-worn sufferers on the tideless seaOf blissful dreams forget their misery,And bask in visions of the verdurous hillsOf some enchanted isle where flashing rills,Gushing sweet music, to the green vales flow,Where cool, slim palms their graceful shadows throw—Angel of love, by dear Compassion led,To fold in deep repose each weary head.Nature’s sweet nurse, oh ever near us stayTill, life’s dreams o’er, “the shadows flee away.”
Sweet seraph! Borne upon the wings of love,Softly thou cometh from the realms above,With kiss as light as air, and gentler breath,More beauteous thou than thy pale brother Death,Yet not so calm as he, though both bestowA wondrous loveliness o’er cheek and brow;He with a regal majesty so marble coldIn immobility of matchless grace doth mouldEach feature with the waxen beauty of the tomb,While thou dost lend the blush of living bloom,And the soft dew of Heaven doth linger there,And lovely Peace imprints her image fair.When eve in crimson splendour of delightFalleth, thou Spirit of the starry night,And they, all million-eyed in radiance shine,Like scattered silver seeds o’er fields divine,Thou to dear children giveth dreamless rest,Softly embraced upon thy tender breast,While care-worn sufferers on the tideless seaOf blissful dreams forget their misery,And bask in visions of the verdurous hillsOf some enchanted isle where flashing rills,Gushing sweet music, to the green vales flow,Where cool, slim palms their graceful shadows throw—Angel of love, by dear Compassion led,To fold in deep repose each weary head.Nature’s sweet nurse, oh ever near us stayTill, life’s dreams o’er, “the shadows flee away.”
Sweet seraph! Borne upon the wings of love,Softly thou cometh from the realms above,With kiss as light as air, and gentler breath,More beauteous thou than thy pale brother Death,Yet not so calm as he, though both bestowA wondrous loveliness o’er cheek and brow;He with a regal majesty so marble coldIn immobility of matchless grace doth mouldEach feature with the waxen beauty of the tomb,While thou dost lend the blush of living bloom,And the soft dew of Heaven doth linger there,And lovely Peace imprints her image fair.When eve in crimson splendour of delightFalleth, thou Spirit of the starry night,And they, all million-eyed in radiance shine,Like scattered silver seeds o’er fields divine,Thou to dear children giveth dreamless rest,Softly embraced upon thy tender breast,While care-worn sufferers on the tideless seaOf blissful dreams forget their misery,And bask in visions of the verdurous hillsOf some enchanted isle where flashing rills,Gushing sweet music, to the green vales flow,Where cool, slim palms their graceful shadows throw—Angel of love, by dear Compassion led,To fold in deep repose each weary head.Nature’s sweet nurse, oh ever near us stayTill, life’s dreams o’er, “the shadows flee away.”
Monarch of all the animals is man, but what his goal?Being material, yet endowed with an immortal soul,Whence comes he? Hath he lived before? He knoweth not,But if he be immortal, must be Heaven-begot.To live for naught in the great cosmic planWould prove him lesser than his claim as man.Alone he stands amid his empire, clothed with speech,And attributes of reason and intelligence to reachThe heights sublime, for he alone surveysThe skies or lifts his eyes to mark the boundless waysOf the vast galaxy of the celestial star-strewn plains,He of the mighty animal kingdom o’er which he reigns,He who is but the veriest echo of the Almighty sound,A faint reflection of his Maker, but who yet is boundBy ties unbreakable, for doth he not receiveThe realm of thought from Him, the air to breathe?The glorious constellations move in their appointed placeTo the deep throbbing heart-beats of the universe.The planets, trembling arteries of the spacious whole,With each frail mortal the molecule called soul,And he in turn respondeth to the Almighty thought,Each entity distinct, yet like the other wrought;Creature of elements mysterious, half divine!Emotional, fearful, yet vibrating to the electric lineOf the invisible, which holds him startled at the flightAnd magnitude of thought soaring beyond the nightOf mundane things; then asks himself—as thousands more—If death the end of all created beings is, whereforeAll the ennobling longings in the human mind innateAnd love of nature and which all things beautiful elate,This spark of immortality flaming with fitful gleamsOf vague remembrance of a pre-existence, seemsTo shape itself into a dream which comes and goes.And when the influence of the Almighty over spirit throwsThe searching rays of the great Omnipresent powerIn Whom we live, to Whom we kneel in sorrow’s hour,Who bids the ministers of all the Heavenly ArgosiesOf Faith, and Hope, and Mercy, on the ethereal spheresEnthroned with Justice, Truth and Liberty,To teach man that, though mortal, immortalityIs his, Oh not, for nought, the powers of death and life,Oh not, for nought, it is the everlasting strife’Twixt mind and matter, if we be—as some would deem—Nought but the moving shadows of a melting dream,Why live, why love, why breathe the unconscious prayer?Because, deep down in the human heart, we feel God there;And dare the shadow of his Maker,—man—professThat he can build this empire without him to bless.
Monarch of all the animals is man, but what his goal?Being material, yet endowed with an immortal soul,Whence comes he? Hath he lived before? He knoweth not,But if he be immortal, must be Heaven-begot.To live for naught in the great cosmic planWould prove him lesser than his claim as man.Alone he stands amid his empire, clothed with speech,And attributes of reason and intelligence to reachThe heights sublime, for he alone surveysThe skies or lifts his eyes to mark the boundless waysOf the vast galaxy of the celestial star-strewn plains,He of the mighty animal kingdom o’er which he reigns,He who is but the veriest echo of the Almighty sound,A faint reflection of his Maker, but who yet is boundBy ties unbreakable, for doth he not receiveThe realm of thought from Him, the air to breathe?The glorious constellations move in their appointed placeTo the deep throbbing heart-beats of the universe.The planets, trembling arteries of the spacious whole,With each frail mortal the molecule called soul,And he in turn respondeth to the Almighty thought,Each entity distinct, yet like the other wrought;Creature of elements mysterious, half divine!Emotional, fearful, yet vibrating to the electric lineOf the invisible, which holds him startled at the flightAnd magnitude of thought soaring beyond the nightOf mundane things; then asks himself—as thousands more—If death the end of all created beings is, whereforeAll the ennobling longings in the human mind innateAnd love of nature and which all things beautiful elate,This spark of immortality flaming with fitful gleamsOf vague remembrance of a pre-existence, seemsTo shape itself into a dream which comes and goes.And when the influence of the Almighty over spirit throwsThe searching rays of the great Omnipresent powerIn Whom we live, to Whom we kneel in sorrow’s hour,Who bids the ministers of all the Heavenly ArgosiesOf Faith, and Hope, and Mercy, on the ethereal spheresEnthroned with Justice, Truth and Liberty,To teach man that, though mortal, immortalityIs his, Oh not, for nought, the powers of death and life,Oh not, for nought, it is the everlasting strife’Twixt mind and matter, if we be—as some would deem—Nought but the moving shadows of a melting dream,Why live, why love, why breathe the unconscious prayer?Because, deep down in the human heart, we feel God there;And dare the shadow of his Maker,—man—professThat he can build this empire without him to bless.
Monarch of all the animals is man, but what his goal?Being material, yet endowed with an immortal soul,Whence comes he? Hath he lived before? He knoweth not,But if he be immortal, must be Heaven-begot.To live for naught in the great cosmic planWould prove him lesser than his claim as man.Alone he stands amid his empire, clothed with speech,And attributes of reason and intelligence to reachThe heights sublime, for he alone surveysThe skies or lifts his eyes to mark the boundless waysOf the vast galaxy of the celestial star-strewn plains,He of the mighty animal kingdom o’er which he reigns,He who is but the veriest echo of the Almighty sound,A faint reflection of his Maker, but who yet is boundBy ties unbreakable, for doth he not receiveThe realm of thought from Him, the air to breathe?The glorious constellations move in their appointed placeTo the deep throbbing heart-beats of the universe.The planets, trembling arteries of the spacious whole,With each frail mortal the molecule called soul,And he in turn respondeth to the Almighty thought,Each entity distinct, yet like the other wrought;Creature of elements mysterious, half divine!Emotional, fearful, yet vibrating to the electric lineOf the invisible, which holds him startled at the flightAnd magnitude of thought soaring beyond the nightOf mundane things; then asks himself—as thousands more—If death the end of all created beings is, whereforeAll the ennobling longings in the human mind innateAnd love of nature and which all things beautiful elate,This spark of immortality flaming with fitful gleamsOf vague remembrance of a pre-existence, seemsTo shape itself into a dream which comes and goes.And when the influence of the Almighty over spirit throwsThe searching rays of the great Omnipresent powerIn Whom we live, to Whom we kneel in sorrow’s hour,Who bids the ministers of all the Heavenly ArgosiesOf Faith, and Hope, and Mercy, on the ethereal spheresEnthroned with Justice, Truth and Liberty,To teach man that, though mortal, immortalityIs his, Oh not, for nought, the powers of death and life,Oh not, for nought, it is the everlasting strife’Twixt mind and matter, if we be—as some would deem—Nought but the moving shadows of a melting dream,Why live, why love, why breathe the unconscious prayer?Because, deep down in the human heart, we feel God there;And dare the shadow of his Maker,—man—professThat he can build this empire without him to bless.
Imperial battlements, whose frowning browsLook ever into space and watch the dawnIn roseate loveliness above the snowsOf feathery cloudlets which thy breasts adorn.Ye regal forms! Whose jagged chasms bearThe scars of ages, scored by tempests’ rageWhen cataclysms thundering rent the air—Thou mammoth ruins of a bygone age.And hoary Kosciusko in dim distance gleams,So not alone in thy most awful prideArt thou great Austral Alps, whose purling streamsGush from the fissures in thy wounded side.What buried secrets doth thy caverns holdOf aeons marked by time’s unerring hand?What mystic rites were held by warriors bold,The dusky children of an almost vanished band?Perchance they crept within thy strongholds grim,Hiding, as erst cave dwellers once had doneIn old Europa—fearful lest limb from limbThey should be torn by some great mastodon.Mayhap from giddy height they gazed with aweUpon thy ever-changing billowy cloud,Deeming the “Eagle Rock” and “Bear” they sawGods to which they in adoration bowed.Oh! lo we bend to Him who fashioned theeFrom chaos at His own almighty word—Creation’s wonderland of moving mystery,When seas and winds alone His voice had heard.So wildly beautiful art thou, the spirit failsTo utterly describe thy variant mood.The mantled velvet of thy mossy, vernal valesAnd magic falls, which flash in foaming flood;Ye tree-crowned hills! With leafy branches spread,Ye scented pines! Whose odorous breath is flung,Wafted from “Govett’s Leap” and fen and glade,From aerial censer by wood-spirits swung.And when the orb of day in splendour dies,And trailing flambent clouds thy peaks enlace,The opalescent tints of western skiesReveal the enchantments of thy dwelling-place.Or when our lady of the night, so fair,Silvers thy forests in translucent showers,Deftly the sylvan poet thrills the airWith murmuring symphony from wind-wooed bowers.Gorges and canyon, clefts and ravines deep,And fairy grotts with starry flowerets set,Where water-lilies pale on green pool sleep;Lo! Nature’s masterpiece, her grand magnificat.Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the sprayFar, far away upon the impulsive tideFor countless years—ye too must pass away.For at His fiat who shall then abide?And He who changeth not, He who hath madeAll things of earth we love to change and die,Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shadeVain man may muse upon his immortality.
Imperial battlements, whose frowning browsLook ever into space and watch the dawnIn roseate loveliness above the snowsOf feathery cloudlets which thy breasts adorn.Ye regal forms! Whose jagged chasms bearThe scars of ages, scored by tempests’ rageWhen cataclysms thundering rent the air—Thou mammoth ruins of a bygone age.And hoary Kosciusko in dim distance gleams,So not alone in thy most awful prideArt thou great Austral Alps, whose purling streamsGush from the fissures in thy wounded side.What buried secrets doth thy caverns holdOf aeons marked by time’s unerring hand?What mystic rites were held by warriors bold,The dusky children of an almost vanished band?Perchance they crept within thy strongholds grim,Hiding, as erst cave dwellers once had doneIn old Europa—fearful lest limb from limbThey should be torn by some great mastodon.Mayhap from giddy height they gazed with aweUpon thy ever-changing billowy cloud,Deeming the “Eagle Rock” and “Bear” they sawGods to which they in adoration bowed.Oh! lo we bend to Him who fashioned theeFrom chaos at His own almighty word—Creation’s wonderland of moving mystery,When seas and winds alone His voice had heard.So wildly beautiful art thou, the spirit failsTo utterly describe thy variant mood.The mantled velvet of thy mossy, vernal valesAnd magic falls, which flash in foaming flood;Ye tree-crowned hills! With leafy branches spread,Ye scented pines! Whose odorous breath is flung,Wafted from “Govett’s Leap” and fen and glade,From aerial censer by wood-spirits swung.And when the orb of day in splendour dies,And trailing flambent clouds thy peaks enlace,The opalescent tints of western skiesReveal the enchantments of thy dwelling-place.Or when our lady of the night, so fair,Silvers thy forests in translucent showers,Deftly the sylvan poet thrills the airWith murmuring symphony from wind-wooed bowers.Gorges and canyon, clefts and ravines deep,And fairy grotts with starry flowerets set,Where water-lilies pale on green pool sleep;Lo! Nature’s masterpiece, her grand magnificat.Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the sprayFar, far away upon the impulsive tideFor countless years—ye too must pass away.For at His fiat who shall then abide?And He who changeth not, He who hath madeAll things of earth we love to change and die,Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shadeVain man may muse upon his immortality.
Imperial battlements, whose frowning browsLook ever into space and watch the dawnIn roseate loveliness above the snowsOf feathery cloudlets which thy breasts adorn.
Ye regal forms! Whose jagged chasms bearThe scars of ages, scored by tempests’ rageWhen cataclysms thundering rent the air—Thou mammoth ruins of a bygone age.
And hoary Kosciusko in dim distance gleams,So not alone in thy most awful prideArt thou great Austral Alps, whose purling streamsGush from the fissures in thy wounded side.
What buried secrets doth thy caverns holdOf aeons marked by time’s unerring hand?What mystic rites were held by warriors bold,The dusky children of an almost vanished band?
Perchance they crept within thy strongholds grim,Hiding, as erst cave dwellers once had doneIn old Europa—fearful lest limb from limbThey should be torn by some great mastodon.
Mayhap from giddy height they gazed with aweUpon thy ever-changing billowy cloud,Deeming the “Eagle Rock” and “Bear” they sawGods to which they in adoration bowed.
Oh! lo we bend to Him who fashioned theeFrom chaos at His own almighty word—Creation’s wonderland of moving mystery,When seas and winds alone His voice had heard.
So wildly beautiful art thou, the spirit failsTo utterly describe thy variant mood.The mantled velvet of thy mossy, vernal valesAnd magic falls, which flash in foaming flood;
Ye tree-crowned hills! With leafy branches spread,Ye scented pines! Whose odorous breath is flung,Wafted from “Govett’s Leap” and fen and glade,From aerial censer by wood-spirits swung.
And when the orb of day in splendour dies,And trailing flambent clouds thy peaks enlace,The opalescent tints of western skiesReveal the enchantments of thy dwelling-place.
Or when our lady of the night, so fair,Silvers thy forests in translucent showers,Deftly the sylvan poet thrills the airWith murmuring symphony from wind-wooed bowers.
Gorges and canyon, clefts and ravines deep,And fairy grotts with starry flowerets set,Where water-lilies pale on green pool sleep;Lo! Nature’s masterpiece, her grand magnificat.
Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the sprayFar, far away upon the impulsive tideFor countless years—ye too must pass away.For at His fiat who shall then abide?
And He who changeth not, He who hath madeAll things of earth we love to change and die,Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shadeVain man may muse upon his immortality.
The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung,The muse hath left the song unsung;He weareth on his poet’s browA fairer wreath than men bestowOr fame may give.As leaves are scattered o’er the mould,Unheeded by the world so cold,Yet, traced indelibly on stone,Their shapes remain through ages flown,So sweet words live.His pleasure was a healthy mind,Teaching man’s duty to mankind;No thought of glory or of gainCentred within that brilliant brainBut love to men.Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting!Swiftly upon thy glorious wing,Trembling, within the golden maze,He passed to pour his sweetest laysBeyond our ken.His ivory casket lies at restIn that dear island of the west;His song hath ceased, his rest is won,And peace is his at set of sun,For he hath ledSome weary mortals to the spheresOf fancy, far from pensive tears,Where, in imagination’s bliss,They hung upon a poet’s kiss.Oh, happy dead!And Britain mourns him not alone,And not because of sculptured stone,Or tributes great, or elegy,Will her laureate remembered be,But in her heart.Though rugged be the path to fame,Yet history hath writ his nameA star of magnitude that shines;For fame, whose lustre few entwines,Hath crowned his art.
The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung,The muse hath left the song unsung;He weareth on his poet’s browA fairer wreath than men bestowOr fame may give.As leaves are scattered o’er the mould,Unheeded by the world so cold,Yet, traced indelibly on stone,Their shapes remain through ages flown,So sweet words live.His pleasure was a healthy mind,Teaching man’s duty to mankind;No thought of glory or of gainCentred within that brilliant brainBut love to men.Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting!Swiftly upon thy glorious wing,Trembling, within the golden maze,He passed to pour his sweetest laysBeyond our ken.His ivory casket lies at restIn that dear island of the west;His song hath ceased, his rest is won,And peace is his at set of sun,For he hath ledSome weary mortals to the spheresOf fancy, far from pensive tears,Where, in imagination’s bliss,They hung upon a poet’s kiss.Oh, happy dead!And Britain mourns him not alone,And not because of sculptured stone,Or tributes great, or elegy,Will her laureate remembered be,But in her heart.Though rugged be the path to fame,Yet history hath writ his nameA star of magnitude that shines;For fame, whose lustre few entwines,Hath crowned his art.
The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung,The muse hath left the song unsung;He weareth on his poet’s browA fairer wreath than men bestowOr fame may give.As leaves are scattered o’er the mould,Unheeded by the world so cold,Yet, traced indelibly on stone,Their shapes remain through ages flown,So sweet words live.
His pleasure was a healthy mind,Teaching man’s duty to mankind;No thought of glory or of gainCentred within that brilliant brainBut love to men.Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting!Swiftly upon thy glorious wing,Trembling, within the golden maze,He passed to pour his sweetest laysBeyond our ken.
His ivory casket lies at restIn that dear island of the west;His song hath ceased, his rest is won,And peace is his at set of sun,For he hath ledSome weary mortals to the spheresOf fancy, far from pensive tears,Where, in imagination’s bliss,They hung upon a poet’s kiss.Oh, happy dead!
And Britain mourns him not alone,And not because of sculptured stone,Or tributes great, or elegy,Will her laureate remembered be,But in her heart.Though rugged be the path to fame,Yet history hath writ his nameA star of magnitude that shines;For fame, whose lustre few entwines,Hath crowned his art.
How shall I paint in words thine image fair,Set in a background of red-winged light,Glinting through portieres of soft foliage there,Gold-flecked ere fading into deepening night?List to the music of cascades which pourTheir liquid silver tribute down the steepTo moss-clad boulders, where it bubbles o’er,And fronded ferns in verdurous beauty peep.Breathless—I wait near thy pellucid streamTo view some woodland nymph with flashing feetAnd brow, flower-bound for this alluring dream—A witching Flora in this cool retreat.Pensive I grow until the bell-bird’s note—Organ-like, pealing in its grand solemnity—Brings haunting memories, as the deep tones float,Of vanished hours—lost chords of melody.Crowned in magnificence is thy majestic head,Queenly thy royal robe of purple grace,With tender nuances o’er dewy verdure spread,Where the Pacific’s jasper waves embrace.Whether in winnowed raiment of the crystal dawn,Or golden mantle of the sun’s rich ore,Or jewelled scarf star studded round thee worn,Thy smiles or tears but charm me more and more.Farewell, thy stately beauty! Stay—a thoughtHath touched the deep recesses of my soul—Thou standest, thou Colossus, tempest-wrought,A Beacon on Time’s sea to mark a shoal!
How shall I paint in words thine image fair,Set in a background of red-winged light,Glinting through portieres of soft foliage there,Gold-flecked ere fading into deepening night?List to the music of cascades which pourTheir liquid silver tribute down the steepTo moss-clad boulders, where it bubbles o’er,And fronded ferns in verdurous beauty peep.Breathless—I wait near thy pellucid streamTo view some woodland nymph with flashing feetAnd brow, flower-bound for this alluring dream—A witching Flora in this cool retreat.Pensive I grow until the bell-bird’s note—Organ-like, pealing in its grand solemnity—Brings haunting memories, as the deep tones float,Of vanished hours—lost chords of melody.Crowned in magnificence is thy majestic head,Queenly thy royal robe of purple grace,With tender nuances o’er dewy verdure spread,Where the Pacific’s jasper waves embrace.Whether in winnowed raiment of the crystal dawn,Or golden mantle of the sun’s rich ore,Or jewelled scarf star studded round thee worn,Thy smiles or tears but charm me more and more.Farewell, thy stately beauty! Stay—a thoughtHath touched the deep recesses of my soul—Thou standest, thou Colossus, tempest-wrought,A Beacon on Time’s sea to mark a shoal!
How shall I paint in words thine image fair,Set in a background of red-winged light,Glinting through portieres of soft foliage there,Gold-flecked ere fading into deepening night?List to the music of cascades which pourTheir liquid silver tribute down the steepTo moss-clad boulders, where it bubbles o’er,And fronded ferns in verdurous beauty peep.Breathless—I wait near thy pellucid streamTo view some woodland nymph with flashing feetAnd brow, flower-bound for this alluring dream—A witching Flora in this cool retreat.Pensive I grow until the bell-bird’s note—Organ-like, pealing in its grand solemnity—Brings haunting memories, as the deep tones float,Of vanished hours—lost chords of melody.Crowned in magnificence is thy majestic head,Queenly thy royal robe of purple grace,With tender nuances o’er dewy verdure spread,Where the Pacific’s jasper waves embrace.Whether in winnowed raiment of the crystal dawn,Or golden mantle of the sun’s rich ore,Or jewelled scarf star studded round thee worn,Thy smiles or tears but charm me more and more.Farewell, thy stately beauty! Stay—a thoughtHath touched the deep recesses of my soul—Thou standest, thou Colossus, tempest-wrought,A Beacon on Time’s sea to mark a shoal!
I dream of thee when morn is nighAnd Eos, incense laden,Through rosy portals of the sky,Chaseth the white mist maiden.I dream when falls the tender night,And walks the pale queen moon,And peeping stars with eyes so brightWhisper “She cometh soon.”I watch them in the fragrant gloomHanging so pure and high,For they are woven in my dream,And gleam all silently.Beloved! As a budding roseWith petals just unfolding,My passion would thy heart uncloseA flower of love’s own moulding.And oft in slumber wrapped profoundI see thy lashes wet,And know thy thoughts with mine are bound,And thou dost not forget.My dreams I cherish, and thou mustBy this, my only token,Know that my love, till I am dust,Shall e’er remain unbroken.And when that “Light that never was”On earth or sky or seaShall break o’er me, ’twill be becauseGod led me up through thee.
I dream of thee when morn is nighAnd Eos, incense laden,Through rosy portals of the sky,Chaseth the white mist maiden.I dream when falls the tender night,And walks the pale queen moon,And peeping stars with eyes so brightWhisper “She cometh soon.”I watch them in the fragrant gloomHanging so pure and high,For they are woven in my dream,And gleam all silently.Beloved! As a budding roseWith petals just unfolding,My passion would thy heart uncloseA flower of love’s own moulding.And oft in slumber wrapped profoundI see thy lashes wet,And know thy thoughts with mine are bound,And thou dost not forget.My dreams I cherish, and thou mustBy this, my only token,Know that my love, till I am dust,Shall e’er remain unbroken.And when that “Light that never was”On earth or sky or seaShall break o’er me, ’twill be becauseGod led me up through thee.
I dream of thee when morn is nighAnd Eos, incense laden,Through rosy portals of the sky,Chaseth the white mist maiden.
I dream when falls the tender night,And walks the pale queen moon,And peeping stars with eyes so brightWhisper “She cometh soon.”
I watch them in the fragrant gloomHanging so pure and high,For they are woven in my dream,And gleam all silently.
Beloved! As a budding roseWith petals just unfolding,My passion would thy heart uncloseA flower of love’s own moulding.
And oft in slumber wrapped profoundI see thy lashes wet,And know thy thoughts with mine are bound,And thou dost not forget.
My dreams I cherish, and thou mustBy this, my only token,Know that my love, till I am dust,Shall e’er remain unbroken.
And when that “Light that never was”On earth or sky or seaShall break o’er me, ’twill be becauseGod led me up through thee.
Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger childFar removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild,Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead,Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed.Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats,The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes.Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair,Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare.Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze,Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the mazeOr labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift—the flowers,With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours.Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regretThat thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forgetThat far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name,For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame.Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant dayWhen the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away.And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race,To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-placeBeneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam,And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream;Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rimOf sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slimWhere the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil,And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil.Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings;Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings,The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry,The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky,The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo,Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue.In solitary splendour Austral waits within her wallsOf rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls;Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains,Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains.Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the westWill find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest.We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crownAnd that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down;And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true,And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do.And their ever-marching army with intelligence will proveThat Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love.Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest needIs to teach thy sons to follow—where a little child may lead—
Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger childFar removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild,Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead,Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed.Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats,The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes.Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair,Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare.Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze,Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the mazeOr labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift—the flowers,With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours.Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regretThat thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forgetThat far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name,For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame.Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant dayWhen the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away.And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race,To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-placeBeneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam,And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream;Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rimOf sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slimWhere the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil,And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil.Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings;Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings,The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry,The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky,The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo,Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue.In solitary splendour Austral waits within her wallsOf rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls;Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains,Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains.Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the westWill find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest.We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crownAnd that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down;And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true,And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do.And their ever-marching army with intelligence will proveThat Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love.Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest needIs to teach thy sons to follow—where a little child may lead—
Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger childFar removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild,Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead,Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed.Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats,The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes.Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair,Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare.Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze,Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the mazeOr labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift—the flowers,With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours.Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regretThat thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forgetThat far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name,For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame.Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant dayWhen the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away.And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race,To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-placeBeneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam,And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream;Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rimOf sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slimWhere the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil,And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil.Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings;Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings,The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry,The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky,The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo,Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue.In solitary splendour Austral waits within her wallsOf rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls;Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains,Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains.Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the westWill find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest.We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crownAnd that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down;And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true,And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do.And their ever-marching army with intelligence will proveThat Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love.Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest needIs to teach thy sons to follow—where a little child may lead—
Though lovely youth seems far apart to lieIt treadeth ever on the heels of age;A few delicious years of transient joyThen turns the fly-leaf of life’s solemn page.Some duties stern blent with the lessons meetFrom nature’s wondrous garden of delight;Fair meadows, where the gold-eyed marguerite’Opes to the sun and prays, as we, at night.Then comes a page of slowly dawning thought,The alley-ways where wrong in painted guiseRose-coloured, glows in filmy beauty wrought,“’Tis then that calm reflection makes us wise.”Again a leaf, and then life’s real intent,Forceful with all its earnestness and pain,Presents itself—but useless to lamentPast idle hours—Oh! waste them not again.Youth and old age, twin destinies which swayThe human leaves; youth feeleth not the blastBut age though withered knoweth well that MayMust pass December’s threshold at the last.We turn the leaf of this the longer pageBy some as yet unfinished—let it standA volume of our hearts, while hoping ageWill lead us gently to the shadow land.And when at length our page is nearly closedWith all our faults and virtues there impressed,Let age, its mortal garment—quit composedBy the sweet thought: “Who made us knowest best.”
Though lovely youth seems far apart to lieIt treadeth ever on the heels of age;A few delicious years of transient joyThen turns the fly-leaf of life’s solemn page.Some duties stern blent with the lessons meetFrom nature’s wondrous garden of delight;Fair meadows, where the gold-eyed marguerite’Opes to the sun and prays, as we, at night.Then comes a page of slowly dawning thought,The alley-ways where wrong in painted guiseRose-coloured, glows in filmy beauty wrought,“’Tis then that calm reflection makes us wise.”Again a leaf, and then life’s real intent,Forceful with all its earnestness and pain,Presents itself—but useless to lamentPast idle hours—Oh! waste them not again.Youth and old age, twin destinies which swayThe human leaves; youth feeleth not the blastBut age though withered knoweth well that MayMust pass December’s threshold at the last.We turn the leaf of this the longer pageBy some as yet unfinished—let it standA volume of our hearts, while hoping ageWill lead us gently to the shadow land.And when at length our page is nearly closedWith all our faults and virtues there impressed,Let age, its mortal garment—quit composedBy the sweet thought: “Who made us knowest best.”
Though lovely youth seems far apart to lieIt treadeth ever on the heels of age;A few delicious years of transient joyThen turns the fly-leaf of life’s solemn page.
Some duties stern blent with the lessons meetFrom nature’s wondrous garden of delight;Fair meadows, where the gold-eyed marguerite’Opes to the sun and prays, as we, at night.
Then comes a page of slowly dawning thought,The alley-ways where wrong in painted guiseRose-coloured, glows in filmy beauty wrought,“’Tis then that calm reflection makes us wise.”
Again a leaf, and then life’s real intent,Forceful with all its earnestness and pain,Presents itself—but useless to lamentPast idle hours—Oh! waste them not again.
Youth and old age, twin destinies which swayThe human leaves; youth feeleth not the blastBut age though withered knoweth well that MayMust pass December’s threshold at the last.
We turn the leaf of this the longer pageBy some as yet unfinished—let it standA volume of our hearts, while hoping ageWill lead us gently to the shadow land.
And when at length our page is nearly closedWith all our faults and virtues there impressed,Let age, its mortal garment—quit composedBy the sweet thought: “Who made us knowest best.”