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diff --git a/old/53800-0.txt b/old/53800-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ca9832a..0000000 --- a/old/53800-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2849 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Orpheus and Other Poems, by Edward Burrough Brownlow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Orpheus and Other Poems - -Author: Edward Burrough Brownlow - -Release Date: December 24, 2016 [EBook #53800] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORPHEUS AND OTHER POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - ORPHEUS - AND - OTHER POEMS - - BY - EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW. - - (SAREPTA.) - - PUBLISHED BY - THE PEN AND PENCIL CLUB. - - MONTREAL. - - 1896. - - - - -_Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the Year 1896, by_ - - THE PEN AND PENCIL CLUB, - - _at the Department of Agriculture, Ottawa_. - - - - - THESE POEMS - - ARE NOW COLLECTED AND PUBLISHED - - IN MEMORY OF - - EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW, - - BORN IN LONDON, ENGLAND, - 27 NOVEMBER, 1857, - DIED IN MONTREAL, CANADA, - 8 SEPTEMBER, 1895, - - BY - - HIS FELLOW-MEMBERS OF - - THE PEN AND PENCIL CLUB. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -Orpheus 1 - -Dead Summer 14 - -Autumn 15 - -The Sky-Lark 16 - -Constancy 17 - -A Ballade of the Street 18 - -Sonnet 19 - -Pantoum--The Blush 20 - -The Rondeau 22 - -Winter 23 - -Purpose 24 - -Sonnet 25 - -A Roman Girl’s Prayer 26 - -A Ballade of Boccaccio 27 - -Release 28 - -The Whip-Poor-Will 29 - -The Death of the Laureate 30 - -The Sonnet 32 - -The Poet 33 - -In Bœtia 35 - -Love-Land 36 - -The Legends and Lilies of France 38 - -Hawthorn Spray 40 - -If I were King 41 - -World, Wind, Leaves and Snow 42 - -Rose 45 - -A Sea Dream 46 - -The Black Knight 49 - -The Golden Line 56 - -Sweet of my Life 57 - -Hastings 58 - -Shelley 59 - -Morning 60 - -Love’s Voice 63 - -Lilies and Poppies 64 - -To Bacchus 65 - -Love’s Whispers 66 - -Work 67 - -Where Blue-bells nod 69 - -Loss and Gain 70 - -Trio 71 - -De Senectute 74 - -The Coming of Summer 78 - -Rondel 84 - -The Abbey Walls 85 - -The Violet 87 - -La Farfalla 88 - -Cowper 92 - -Rain 93 - -Hymn 94 - -The Great Play 96 - - - - - ORPHEUS AND OTHER POEMS. - - - - - Printed by D. BENTLEY & CO. - At Montreal, Canada, this First day of May, - A.D. 1896. - - - - - ORPHEUS. - - - Unto the realm of Pluto many roads - Lead with dark winding from the bright abodes - Of men, and when life’s last detaining thread - Is cut by Iris, and the body, dead, - With Charon’s coin in palm, rests in the tomb - Or on the pyre, the dæmon of its doom - After much pitiful forbearance tears - The soul from its environment of cares - With promise sweet of love’s awaiting kiss, - Of old friends greeting, and much holy bliss - On shores Elysian, where all ways are peace, - And all existence virtue without cease; - But ere the fields of Asphodel are won - Dire labours manifold must first be done - By soul and dæmon. - - All the paths descend - To four great streams, whose turgid waters blend - With suffering souls: here flows sad Acheron - On whose black banks impatient spirits run - And call to that grim boatman, ferrying o’er - His last embarker to the nether shore - In silence, bent with duty’s measured pull, - Certain of all to follow; there, too, full - Of awful lamentations from lost souls - Cocytus its fierce waves of sorrow rolls - Wherein dwells one whose face is only seen-- - - Above the surface, human and serene, - Below, her horrid serpent-form encoils - And stings the hapless spirits in her toils - With scorpion venom; Phlegethon rolls by - Flaming with waves that hiss, and mount on high - To lick with burning tongue each crusted shore - Where not the vilest weed dare clamber o’er, - There swim huge salamanders, whose desire - Grows with the maddening tumult of the fire; - And lastly, Styx, that pool of pitchy slime - Whereby the great gods swear their vows sublime, - In whose black channel hatred finds a home, - And breeds with fury many a plague-born gnome - Loathsome to gods and men. - - These rivers run - Far to the West, beyond the sinking sun, - Beyond old Ocean’s limits, past the range - Of starry travel or where comets strange - Rush in hot madness; there too Lethe flows - Where souls must drink to gain the sweet repose - Of all-forgetfulness, before the Fates - Lose power to plague them, or their bygone states - Haunt them like ghosts. - - These waters safely crossed, - The plains beneath thick filled with spirits lost, - Avernus meets the view, vast, horrid lake - At Hades’ entrance; who its waters take, - Sicken and die in torture that must rend - With endless tooth, for such death has no end. - Beyond Avernus stands the gate of Hell, - With Cerberus to guard its portals well. - - Unto that gate came Orpheus with his lute - Whose most melodious music had made mute - The wailing souls on Acheron’s sad shore, - And charmed old Charon, as he ferried o’er - The son of great Apollo in his quest - For her whom of all women he loved best, - And as he came fierce Cerberus stood still - Fixed by the magic of the player’s skill: - On Orpheus went and played, for he knew well - The wondrous potency of this great spell - Would by a pause be broken, and his fate - Never to pass alive the solemn gate; - He roused the Harpies, those most fearful things - With heads and breasts of women and the wings - Of birds, and talons of the lion fierce, - Whose breath is poison and whose venoms pierce - Deep in man’s soul--the hags were planning then - Foul plots for planting grief in hearts of men; - He stayed stern Nemesis, now poised for flight - As she in darkness left her mother Night; - The three great judges of the soul now paused - In giving sentence, for the music caused - Minos and Æacus and Rhadamanthus think - What change the gods had wrought, that at the brink - Of Tartarus such heavenly sounds should rise - To make the heart upleap and to the eyes - Communicate swift tears of sudden joy-- - Had Jupiter grown mad to let this boy, - This gold-haired stripling with the silver strings - Enter dark Hades with such sound that brings - Pity to their stern breasts? - - The Gorgons stare - In vain at Orpheus through their viper-hair, - He sings and heeds them not, and he alone - Looks at them, eye for eye, and not to stone - Is turned; the Lemures, that spectral swarm, - That fill the space of Hades without form, - Halt in their wanderings to hear the notes - That fall as from a thousand song-birds’ throats. - Pale Death sits sharpening her dart and hears - With sad dismay the sound that soothes her ears, - Her arm grows powerless--the black dart falls - With echoing clang on Hades’ marbled halls; - The triple sisters who turn mad the mind - With envy, rage, and hatred, and make blind - The heart with judgment false, hear the high strains, - And knowledge of lost joy o’erwhelms their brains; - Triptolemus stands still with bated breath - While on his way to that great hall of death - Where his stern fellow judges sit aghast - Still pondering on Orpheus. - - Now he passed - Poor Marsyas, whose love of music great - Lured him to challenge for his after-fate - The laurel-crowned Apollo and his lyre, - Wherefore he stayed in the eternal fire; - But Orpheus, passing, played so wondrous well - That all the flames about him flickered, fell, - And left the wretch in peace to hear once more - The power of sound he staked his spirit for. - Black Discord in her den of hideous noise - Grew sudden silent, and her breast with joys - Filled, as the gentle tremblings of the lute - Found subtle ways to reach her. - - Resolute - Strode Orpheus on his path, and to the right - Stood Sisyphus, the stone just at the height - Of the great mountain, ready to roll again - Into the vale beneath, but that sweet strain - Held it in place so long as it could reach - The spot it rested on--and to beseech - Eternal playing, Sisyphus held high - Tired arms to Jove as Orpheus passed him by; - There to the left Ixion ceased to feel - The endless revolutions of the wheel - Over the flaming river, and the fangs - Of serpents leave him as he, listless, hangs - Listening to such sweet music. - - Now the lake - Whose tempting waters Tantalus forsake - When his parched lips and maddened hands would take - Of their cool touch relief, hears the new sound - And Tantalus with surfeit is near drowned - For this brief respite, and with hungry clutch - Plucks tender fruits before he could not touch, - Eating in joyous wonder that Hell’s God - Gave him such feasting for a period. - Now Orpheus passed the black, oblivious lair - Of Sleep, a cave devoid of light or air, - Paved with strange shapes and horrid phantasies - Inanimate and senseless, and they rise, - As through the cave’s dark mouth the music sweet - Fills to the inmost parts that foul retreat, - Crying for air to breathe and light to see - The wondrous worker of such harmony. - Pluto’s high throne within the distance looms, - Built of the gold and marble of men’s tombs - Upon a base of bones, and by its side - Stood the pale throne of his beloved bride, - Persephone.--Behind her shadowy seat - Shone one blue star and at its cloud-hid feet - Glared the red oval of the waning moon - That tells sage shepherds of a storm in June - When flocks grow restless.--When the player came - Nearer to that great place a sudden flame - Shot from the silent air, and blazed as fierce - As though a thousand lightning strokes would pierce - In one vast sheet of overwhelming fire - The daring mortal who would thus aspire - To reach great Plato’s love-shrine;--in the blaze - Millions of serpents writhe, but Orpheus plays - Heedless of all, nor dares to cease lest he - Lose the safe conduct of his minstrelsy. - Unharmed he passes through the floods of flame - That would arrest his progress, and he came - Unharmed beyond them. - - Lo! before his eyes - A scene of wondrous beauty did arise; - Such as a poet sees when every sense - Leaves its abode, and the intelligence - Of soul usurps the functions of the mind, - When unto every object he grows blind - Seeing through all beyond. - - For Pluto’s throne - Is more magnificent than Love might own - In higher regions. Orpheus stood beneath - The lowest step thereof; a flowery wreath - Crowned his bright golden locks--the flowers - Plucked from the dew-fed meadows and fair bowers - Where he had wandered with his beauteous bride - In happy love-quests, ere that eventide - When he was wakened by the short, sharp cry - Calling his name, and saw a snake glide by - Into the thicket--when he saw the breast - That oft had made his head a pillowy rest - Marked with the fatal venom, which his lips, - Used to the honey that the love-bee sips, - Closed on in vain endeavor to remove - The sentence of the gods on their sweet love-- - When his strong hands clutched madly the thin air - As unto Jove he poured his soul’s deep prayer - For pity--when, with all his blood turned lead, - He looked and saw Eurydice was dead, - And when ’gainst all the gods he took that oath - Sacred to her, Death’s awful bridal troth, - That by the power of music’s magic spell - Against their will he would go down to Hell - And rescue his lost love. Whereat Jove laughed - And said to Bacchus as they gaily quaffed - In high carousal: “Let the fool take care, - Pluto can mind his own. Once in the lair - Of Hades, e’en Apollo’s son must stay, - No goats from that black fold can ever stray.” - - Thus Orpheus stood; but now no longer mute, - For to the rich-wrought tremblings of his lute - He raised his rare-heard voice and stilled the word - On Pluto’s lips, and then all Hades heard:-- - - Persephone! Persephone! - Give back my lost delight to me! - By thy great love for thy great lord, - By each sweet thought for him adored, - By love that thrills and love that fills - Thy heart as with a thousand rills - Of joy, break down his frozen breast - And lull his vengeful mood to rest, - Till mighty Pluto joyfully - Shall, from his very love for thee, - Give back my soul’s delight to me-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - Recall thy lord’s great love for thee, - When in sweet Enna’s golden meads - Thou heard’st that rustling of the reeds, - And in thy hands the love-crushed flowers - Were grasped with fear, as from earth’s bowers - He strained thee to his mighty breast, - And bore thee, senseless, to the West - Beyond the opalescent sea - That nightly sings its song of thee; - Give back my soul’s delight to me-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - I bring love’s garland unto thee:-- - She made it with her loving hands, - She plaited it in golden bands, - And placed it on my chosen brow - When by my side she sat, as now - Thou sittest by thy great lord’s side: - That night no lover snatched his bride, - But Death seized all remorselessly, - And took her soul beyond the sea; - And life became a memory-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - Let this lute’s magic minstrelsy - Find with love’s music, sweet and clear, - Thy heart-depths through each pearly ear: - Behold! how when I strike one string - The lone sound floats with cheerless ring; - Behold! when double chords are driven, - With harmony the air is riven; - So Fate plays on our souls, and we - Yield plaints of love or misery; - Give back my soul’s delight to me-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - By all the joy that lovers see - When first they feel the hidden fire - Burst forth in blaze of heart’s desire, - By all the music lovers hear - When language laps against the ear, - Like crystal waves on golden sands, - By touch of lips and clasp of hands - When long-zoned raiments are made free, - By all love’s sweets that fell to thee; - Give back my soul’s delight to me-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - Mark how thy lord yet frowns on me, - Behold the tightening of his lip-- - Kiss--kiss his mouth lest there may slip - One word of doom to dash my hope; - Bend down on him thine eyes and cope - With love the gleams that in them shine, - The while I summon to me, mine; - Break--break--by love and memory - The bond of Hades, set me free - Her soul, that is the soul of me-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - Clasp him so close he may not see; - Look deep into his soul with love - That from thine eyes he shall not move - His own;--ah! thus I gazed on her - That night and heard no serpent stir, - For love, once thralling all the mind, - Makes all the little senses blind; - ’Tis well! he drinks love’s alchemy! - Where’er in Hades thou may’st be-- - Come back! my love! come back to me, - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - Lull him with love that unto me - No thought may leap with sudden ire, - And steal again my heart’s desire - When she shall come. Ye Gods! that light! - It shone when on that fatal night - The dæmons took her from my side;-- - ’Tis she! they bring her back! my bride! - Let Pluto wake--let Jove decree-- - My self--my soul--come back to me - My joy in life and death to be-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - Persephone! Persephone! - A moment more and we are free; - I feel the breath of outer air, - I see the upper stars so fair, - I hear the lapping of salt waves, - I see the light of day that saves, - I feel the pulsing heart-throbs run - Through her fair limbs, I watch the sun - Uprising in her eyes--and see! - Its living light thrills into me; - She has come back! come back to me-- - Eurydice! Eurydice! - - - - - DEAD SUMMER. - - - The lord and lover of the year is slain, - Fair Summer! Nature’s joy and earth’s sweet pride. - The wind mourns sadly as a mournful bride - Loading the air with monodies of pain; - Down from the branches rustle, light as rain, - The rarely-coloured leaves; afar and wide - Blight-stricken blossoms strew the country-side, - No more to deck it with delight again; - The bright winged choristers that carolled round - Sweet overflowings of supernal joy, - No more their thrilling ecstasies employ - To glad man’s soul with music’s purest sound; - Summer lies dead upon the lap of earth, - Pale melancholy weeps where late laughed mirth. - - - - - AUTUMN. - - - When Autumn, like a prophet filled with fears, - Warns Summer’s golden beauty of that death - Which soon the chilling blast of Winter’s breath - Shall bring; fond Nature by her falling tears - Attests her grief unchanged through all the years, - And from the blossoms that lie dead beneath - Seizing the unseen colours, weaves a wreath, - And lo! a garland on each tree appears. - So, when to thee life’s end is drawing near - And weeping kinsmen kneel about thy bed - May all the rays of goodness thou hast shed - From out the buried past shine bright and clear, - And golden deeds and thoughts of heavenly hues - Over thy fading mind soft light diffuse. - - - - - THE SKY-LARK. - - - Blithe is the lark when first the morning breaks, - And from his nest up-circling through the air - He leaves below a world of shadowy care, - And off his wings the dew of darkness shakes; - For those high lakes of blue he gladly makes, - With song that overfloweth everywhere - Like the sweet grace that falleth after prayer - To one who from sin’s sleep at last awakes. - Poets have sung thy praises;--but thy song - Is far above all sound of poet’s voice, - Though listening to thy notes he may rejoice, - And wonder if some raptured angel-throng - Pause in their service as thou soarest near, - And to thy music lend entrancèd ear. - - - - - CONSTANCY. - - - I did not ask thy love nor tell mine own - When others sought thee in thy sovereign days, - For my sad heart, beholding the bright blaze - Of thy great beauty, seemed to turn to stone, - And on my lips that now have bolder grown, - No word would form to utter thy high praise; - So stricken was I in love’s conquering ways - That my poor soul consumed its love alone. - - Vindictive time now veils thy queen-like charms - To thy old champions, and they quickly leave, - As grim misfortune comes to cross their arms - And pluck thy colours from each coward sleeve, - All fly the tilt-yard. Now to Fate’s alarms - I fling my gage at last. Wilt thou believe? - - - - - A BALLADE OF THE STREET. - - - High clamour of rooks o’er a meadow of clover - That make for their haunts at the break of the day; - Low babble of brooks where the rain-spotted plover - Paddles at noon through the sand-banks grey; - Gold-banded bees on their murmuring way - To the honey-filled blossoms that yield their sweet-- - These are the visions that round us play - As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street. - - Slow pacing of herds and the song of the drover; - A score of clean sails in a Kentish bay, - With a glimpse of the castle and cliffs of Dover, - And the girdle of sea that shall gleam alway; - Far off in the fields where they make the hay - Darby and Dorothy manage to meet, - And kiss for a moment--alack-a-day! - As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street. - - Across the wide world Love is ever a rover, - In palace or cot not content to stay. - Soon the pastoral play of our youth is over - With its spangles of hope and its fine array. - June stifles the flowers that are born in May, - And their beauties the autumn shall not repeat; - Our fancies the Fates try to strangle and slay-- - As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street. - - Let us heed not the passers or what they say, - While Love in our hearts finds a safe retreat, - For souls can reach Heaven, though feet may stray - As they steer through the turbulent throng of the street. - - - - - THE BLUSH. - - - Within my heart there fell a hush, - I thought my very soul had died, - When first I saw my lady blush - And own the love she strove to hide. - - I thought my very soul had died - Before affection bade her speak, - And own the love she strove to hide - With silent ways and manners meek. - - Before affection bade her speak, - I watched her as she used to go - With silent ways and manners meek, - Whilst I with love was all aglow. - - I watched her as she used to go - To gather simple blossoms fair, - Whilst I with love was all aglow - Yet dared not lay my passion bare. - - To gather simple blossoms fair - I often went--to give to her, - Yet dared not lay my passion bare - Though all my soul with love did stir. - - I often went to give to her - My life if she would deign to take, - Though all my soul with love did stir - My lips their silence dared not break. - - My life if she would deign to take - ’Twas her’s, not mine--yet strange to tell - My lips their silence dared not break, - Ere she had learned love’s sacred spell. - - ’Twas her’s, not mine--yet strange to tell - Moons waxed and waned and years flew by, - Ere she had learned love’s sacred spell - By touch of hand and glance of eye. - - Moons waxed and waned and years flew by, - I thought she loved, alas! not me; - By touch of hand and glance of eye - The truth was told--ah! ecstasy! - - I thought she loved, alas! not me-- - Within my heart there fell a hush, - The truth was told ah! ecstasy! - When first I saw my lady blush. - - - - - THE RONDEAU. - - - First find your refrain--then build as you go - With delicate touch, neither heavy nor slow, - But dainty and light as a gossamer thread, - Or the fleecy white cloud that is breaking o’erhead, - Or the sea-foam that curls in the soft evening glow; - And your rhyme must be swinging--not all in a row, - But as waves on the sands in fine ebb and quick flow; - Yet of rules for a rondeau I hold this the head-- - First find your refrain. - - For the subject--there’s nothing above or below, - That a poet can learn or a critic may know, - But a rondeau will hold a rhyme-ring that will wed - The thought to the thing; yet whatever is said - Will ne’er be a rondeau till you with one blow-- - First find your refrain. - - - - - WINTER. - - - Winter’s blast is coldly sweeping - O’er the pallid face of earth; - All the merry elves are sleeping, - Wearied out with last year’s mirth; - Dismal spirits doomed to wander, - Never resting anywhere, - Chase the sparkling crystals yonder - Through the chill and cheerless air; - Where the birds sang in the branches - Not a sound is heard at all; - Snowy flakes in avalanches - Flutter down with silent fall; - Where the grasses nursed the flowers - Not a sign of life is seen - And the frost has turned the showers - Into sheets of icy sheen; - All the air is sadly sighing, - All the trees with sorrows ring; - All is dying--dying--dying - Winter--go! come back, O Spring. - - - - - PURPOSE. - - - Brother! awake from thy long lethargy; - Walk forth into the world, search out the task - That is allotted thee; tear off the mask - Of morbid thought that ever blindeth thee. - God hath appointed each good man to be - His warrior in the righteous fray; then ask - His benison, and, donning sword and casque, - March forth to meet the common enemy. - Each good deed done shall be a death-blow given - Unto a sin conceived; each true word said - Shall be a javelin that hath not sped - In vain--its force doth come direct from Heaven. - Waste not the time; man’s inmost spirit saith - “Life without purpose is a lingering death.” - - - - - SONNET. - - - Year after year I see the trees unfold - Their baby leaves to the maturing sun; - Then tender birth of blossoms, one by one, - From parent stems that still their nurture hold; - Later the tall green corn takes on its gold, - Crowned with the glory of a purpose done; - And last, the sands of beauty being run, - All things decline into the common mould. - Age after age whirls on the appointed round - Of mortal destiny; old thoughts take bloom; - And new minds battle in the time-worn strife, - Death’s winter nips before the task is crowned, - And, soon or late, within oblivion’s tomb - Men fall like leaves from God’s great tree of life. - - - - - A ROMAN GIRL’S PRAYER. - - - On thy grassy altar, dear, - Pour I out the two-year wine, - And the incense rises clear - From thy holy shrine. - - Lend me Venus, both thine ears; - Let me whisper unto thee - All the hopes and all the fears - Raging now in me. - - He whom I have loved so well-- - For whose love my soul hath burned, - Yields to Chloe’s fatal spell - And my vows hath spurned. - - On her beauty now his eyes - Beam as once they beamed on mine-- - Broken are the solemn ties - Made beneath the vine. - - It cannot be that he is born - All my joy to turn to grief, - For if he do prove forsworn-- - Death is my relief. - - Mother Venus, look with smiles, - Lest I lose this joy of love: - Lend me all thy wit and wiles - His cold heart to move. - - Bless this philtre I prepare - From the swift and sweet vervain; - Mother Venus, hear my prayer-- - Lead him back again! - - - - - A BALLADE OF BOCCACCIO. - - - The length of each day to make short - And friendship to bind by a chain, - Our Queen was appointed to reign - In the realm of a leafy resort. - Strong laws did her ruling support - If need were her wish to maintain; - Though none could Love’s presence profane - When Philomel governed the court. - - How fine did our gallants disport - With ladies who followed the train, - Whilst wisdom enlightened each brain - In the wit of each ready retort. - Ah! those were the days of fair sport - The world ne’er will witness again, - For Honour her rights did retain - When Philomel governed the Court. - - What stories our souls did transport - O’er the beauties of Fancy’s domain, - And their morals and meanings were plain, - Though your critics now try to distort. - When Beauty and Truth do consort, - Hypocrisy preacheth in vain, - And Scandal and Slander were slain - When Philomel governed the Court. - - Ye moderns, who fight, might and main, - For Mammon, believe this report, - Men lived in their castles in Spain - When Philomel governed the Court. - - - - - RELEASE. - - - He fears to die who knows not how to live, - For Death is friendly, shaping to an end - The woeful accidents which fate doth blend - With high success, to fairer fortunes give; - Who for this close would ask alternative - Unto a further lease of earth to lend - His soul, and clip the wings that would ascend - To God, the source of life infinitive? - Look at the parable of things--the sun - Must some day out--the fairest blossoms die-- - Sweet-throated songsters cease their minstrelsy-- - And Nature endeth all she hath begun. - So fear ye not to meet the great release, - For direst storms dissolve in lasting peace. - - - - - THE WHIP-POOR-WILL! - - - When early shades of evening’s close - The air with solemn darkness fill, - Before the moonlight softly throws - Its fairy mantle o’er the hill, - A sad sound goes - In plaintive thrill; - Who hears it knows - The Whip-poor-will. - - The Nightingale unto the rose - Its tale of love may fondly trill; - No love-tale this--’tis grief that flows - With pain that never can be still, - The sad sound goes - In plaintive thrill; - Who hears it knows - The Whip-poor-will. - - Repeated oft, it never grows - Familiar; but is sadder still, - As though a spirit sought repose - From some pursuing, endless ill, - The sad sound goes - In plaintive thrill; - Who hears it knows - The Whip-poor-will. - - - - - THE DEATH OF THE LAUREATE. - - - Weep, England, weep! if thou hast tears to shed-- - Thy master-son of song has passed away; - The Arthur of thy poets far has sped, - As the long-toiling light fades out of day - Into an unseen land; no later lay, - To cheer thy heart and make thy soul more strong, - Shall sound within thy walls of sea-girt gray, - From the rare voice of him who gave so long - The noblest numbers of new English song. - - Around the world the echoes of that song - Swiftly rebound, all English hearts to fill, - And o’er each peak of empire speed along - In roseate splendour, as the sudden thrill - Of sunrise tips with beauty each new hill; - From east and west the glory of his fame - Rolls back to Albion’s shores, and ever will-- - For east and west can show no poet’s name - More true and pure, more free from blot and shame. - - He died in dear old England--in the land - Where Chaucer first sang tales of jovial cheer; - Where Spenser chanted forth his pæans grand, - And Shakespeare left a word supreme and clear; - Where Milton bade the epic reappear, - And Wordsworth, later, gained a deathless name; - With these great five, this memorable year - Has yielded Tennyson, for future fame - The sixth true English poet to acclaim. - - The moon streamed through the lattice where he lay, - In that last struggle of the living powers, - And round his brow her glory ’gan to play, - As when he wooed her in sweet English bowers, - ’Midst silent birds and open-hearted flowers, - Till scenes of old-time beauty through his brain - Before him passed; thus kindly death endowers - The last sad moments, lulling them from pain, - And memory brings her sweetest stores again. - - - - - THE SONNET. - - - The sonnet is a diamond flashing round - From every facet true rare colored lights; - A gem of thought carved in poetic nights - To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned; - A miniature of soul wherein are found - Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights; - A drop of blood with which a lover writes - His heart’s sad epitaph in its own bound; - A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep - Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note - Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark’s throat; - A cascade small flung in a canyon steep - With crystal music. At this shrine of song - High priests of poesy have worshipped long. - - - - - THE POET. - - - Men call him mad because he weaves - The glory of the golden corn - And paints the beauty of the sheaves - They gather night and morn. - - They laugh when he in rhapsody, - With eye uplift and soul serene, - Translates the wonders of the sky - Which they have dimly seen. - - Or if he pluck a wayside flower - And tell them of its beauty rare, - They smile, not knowing God’s great power - Is manifested there. - - Or if when tempests rule the sky - He walk and talk with wind and rain, - They call his soul’s great ecstacy - A sickness of the brain. - - He walks unrecognized of men, - For sense may not discern the soul; - The morrow’s wonders of his pen - Their sympathies control. - - Along the battle-field of life, - Content to lose if others gain, - He lifts no finger in the strife, - Yet feels its bitter pain. - - He wanders through the crowded street, - Or lingers by the country side, - For all things good his heart doth beat - With love that is world-wide. - - The troubles of his fellow men - He shrines with pity in heart, - And prays the time to hasten when - All sorrow shall depart. - - And when the kindly voice of Death - Proclaims life’s journey duly trod, - He blesses all with parting breath - And leaves the rest to God. - - - - - IN BŒOTIA. - - - Vine tendrils drooping in the mid-day sun - Take me to Greece, ere Sappho sang those lays, - Whose echoes, falling down this length of days, - Trance us with beauty, sweet and halcyon; - Satyrs, green-garlanded, skip madly on - Through woody wilds, loud shouts of ribald praise - Mingle with merry laughter, and amaze - The peaceful shepherds, who, affrighted, run; - Fair dryads swell the riot-filling song - From every tree trunk, and from each pure spring - Sweet naiad voices rise with silvery ring - To welcome him who leads the dancing throng, - Old Bacchus! reeling ’neath the weight of wine, - Chanting a stave, half drunken, half divine. - - - - - LOVE-LAND. - - - Ah! Jenny! though life is not over, - Yet the sweetness of living is past; - No longer we walk through the clover - And watch the white clouds sailing fast; - For a darkness has newly arisen - To spread and to spoil our fair sky, - All our days must be spent in a prison - And the black cloud shall never pass by. - - Ah! Jenny! though bright the scales glitter, - In the midst of the coil lurks a fang, - The fruit of the almond is bitter - Though the blossoms are fair while they hang; - The rose has a canker within it, - And some day the lark will not sing, - The year that flew by as a minute - Shall bear heavy on Love’s broken wing. - - Ah! Jenny! our play-book lies broken - Behind us;--before is the page - Hermetic;--and so for a token - To charm away grief in our age - Remember the words of Creation, - Our “Let there be Love,” when Love’s fire - Through our lips like a sacred libation - Drenched our souls with the wine of desire. - - Ah! Jenny! we journeyed together - Life’s road for a year and a day, - Bright summer has been all our weather, - Fair blossoms have strewn all our way; - And shall we now part at the corner - Of the cross-roads and meet nevermore, - Because the world leers like a scorner - And mocks when we pass by its door? - - Ah! Jenny! the hand that I gave you - That night when I promised to keep - Your heart--lo! I stretch out to save you - And to save my own soul from Hell’s deep; - Let the world say its worst;--we shall never - Hear its voice or see aught of its gloom, - For in Love-land the birds sing forever - And the roses are always in bloom. - - - - - THE LEGENDS AND LILIES OF FRANCE. - - - Sad and soft is the dirge on the Gallic shore - By the mournful moan of the ocean made - For the days and the deeds that are now no more - ’Ere the last of the Knights in his tomb was laid - In the depth of an old cathedral’s shade; - Above are his casque, shield, banner and lance - With the sword that had struck him the accolade; - But dead are the legends and lillies of France. - - Did he pine for the powder and polished floor, - Gay dances, bright glances of masquerade? - When he parleyed of politics, was it not o’er - The lightning-blue gleam of his Damascene blade? - If he sang, was it not of an old Crusade? - If he listened and laughed at a love romance, - Would he rather not look at a carronade? - But dead are the legends and lilies of France. - - If his lady’s fair favour he sought to implore - By a witty ballade or a sad serenade - Did he write it? Not he, when a troubadour - Was willing to sing all the day if paid - In a bower of bloom or a vine arcade, - Or to sigh all night in the moonbeam’s dance, - While he dreamed of rampart and escalade; - But dead are the legends and lilies of France. - - The Cathedral still stands with its fine façade; - Some old stones of the rampart remain by chance; - There are diplomats, dances, and gasconade-- - But dead are the legends and lilies of France. - - - - - HAWTHORN SPRAY. - - - After the early spring’s dissolving powers - Had eased the earth of winter’s icy weight, - I went into the woods with soul elate - To watch the coming of the first-born flowers; - Fair Flora soon began to build her bowers - Of leaf and bloom in forms both small and great, - The trees put forth their canopies of state, - And from the ground sprang up between the hours - Most beauteous blossoms in a glorious band - Of perfect shapes and colors richly blent, - And all my soul was fill’d with glad content; - But one pink hawthorn in a far-off land - Sent all my thoughts like birds on eager wing - Back to the beauty of Old England’s spring. - - - - - IF I WERE KING. - - - If I were King of some great land - With lords and commons to command, - My crown should be with justice bright - Instead of jewels--and Love’s light - Should be the sceptre in my hand. - - One law of virtue should be planned - That all alike might understand - The simple rule, that right is right-- - If I were King. - - One Church should stand in God’s own sight - Where all who wished to worship, might, - Its ministers should be a band - Of soldiers with a purpose grand - To put all evil thoughts to flight, - If I were King. - - - - - WORLD, WIND, LEAVES AND SNOW - - - _World._ - - Grey wind of the North! with thy burden so chill, - (Oh! for the blast and the blowing,) - Why flyest thou fast over river and rill, - Adown the deep valley and up the steep hill, - (Alas! for the storms that are sowing.) - Through gloom-spreading forest, bare meadow, bleak moor, - Above the sea-surges, along the sea shore, - O! whither, grey wind, art thou going? - - - _Wind._ - - The corpse of my lover my arms do enfold, - (Oh! for the roar and the rattle.) - Whose beauty was rarer and fairer than gold, - Whose joys were bright jewels, unbought and unsold, - (Alas! for the fear-stricken cattle.) - And I chant in thine ear the sad dirge of the dead, - For the summer is slain and the winter so dread - Is hasting to offer thee battle. - - - _World._ - - Sere leaves of the autumn, resplendent and bright, - (Oh! for the frost and the fading.) - Why fall ye so thickly by day and by night, - With raining of color that dazzles the sight, - (Alas! for the winter’s invading.) - Till heaped on my bosom like relics of love - Ye lie, sad remembrancers, sorrow to move - My spirit with woe overlading. - - - _Leaves._ - - We thought to have woven a garment of grace, - (Oh! for the moon and the veiling.) - Embroidered with beauties bright fancy should trace, - But, alas! we have gazed on his death-stricken face, - (Alas! for the heavens are paling.) - And the robe of our fancy is changed to a pall - And the garlands that lately did crown him must fall; - Love’s labor is all unavailing. - - - _World._ - - Pale snow, with a touch that is light as the air, - (Oh! for sky’s cloud and earth’s cover.) - Why weighest thou down on my heart filled with care, - On my soul with its anguish too heavy to bear. - (Alas! for the end when ’tis over.) - In thy mantle of gauze why hid’st thou mine eyes, - That would look at fond love e’er forever love lies - In the grave of my newly-slain lover. - - - _Snow._ - - I cover thy face lest the sight of thy dead, - (Oh! for love, sacred and splendid.) - Should strike in thy soul its unnameable dread, - For sympathy now and forever is fled, - (Alas! for lost love, undefended.) - And I wrap up thy breast with the warmth of my heart, - Which shall stay till the spring breaks and bids me depart, - When the time of thy mourning is ended. - - - - - ROSE. - - - Know you whence the roses came? - Roses are the queen of flowers; - Rose is my beloved’s name. - - All my heart was set aflame - As we walked through Cupid’s bowers; - Know you whence the roses came? - - Is it sweetness--is it shame-- - When the sunshine’s spoiled by showers? - Rose is my beloved’s name. - - Duty sits a stern old dame - On a throne of ruined towers; - Know you whence the roses came? - - Youth must live and who shall blame - If with love it pass the hours? - Rose is my beloved’s name. - - Life and love is all a game, - Shine and shadow--gleams and glowers-- - Know you whence the roses came? - Rose is my beloved’s name. - - - - - A SEA DREAM. - - - My spirit wandered by the ocean shore; - Proud argosies sailed out to Albion’s isle - Deep-laden with a new world’s golden store, - The sun-kissed waves danced lightly, Nature’s smile - Suffused o’er all the scene sweet loveliness awhile. - - Light silver veils, like tender thoughts outspread - When dreaming lovers taste supernal joy, - Floated around Heaven’s azure bridal bed - In listless splendour; others did convoy - Earth’s treasures o’er the deep that plotted to destroy. - - There rose as from the sea a strange mirage - Out of the past; the clouds like floating drapes - Each moment changed, and ocean’s long rivage - Was wreathed by magic in a thousand shapes, - Now gemmed with flashing isles, now girt with solemn capes. - - And all the cities that have loved the sea - To their destruction, passed along the sky, - And I beheld them, as the drowning see, - In that last moment when they sink to die, - All life’s forgotten scenes unrolled by memory. - - Time-honoured Greece, whose fingers clutched the wave - And clasped it to a heart that beats no more, - Sank with her wisdom in a silent grave, - Leaving her sons a splendour to deplore - While moans the tideless sea around each classic shore. - - Rich Carthage, whose swift keels swam round the world, - Phœnicia’s loveliest daughter. Her fair hand - Was fought for by the nations; Fate hath hurled, - Her and her glory from their sea-throne grand, - Buried like some old palm beneath the burning sand. - - Great Venice stood amid the nuptials gay - Blessing as bride the fair but fickle sea; - But all her pride and pomp have passed away, - Dukes, doge, ships, senate, riches, sovereignty, - That once compelled the world to fall on bended knee. - - Imperial Rome, set like a lustrous gem - Within seven guardian jewels! Tyrant Time - Stole from her thoughtful brow its diadem - And the three wreaths that crowned her all-sublime, - Stained though their golden leaves with many a bloody crime. - - Proud Spain! once mistress of the sea, before - The fool Ambition led her ships in vain - Against the bulwarks of old England’s shore, - When God smote down her pride upon the main - And sank her power so low, it never rose again. - - Then fell a mist before my wondering sight - Over the past, and slowly there arose - Our blessèd Britain in her glorious might, - The awe and admiration of her foes, - Whose land of liberty protecting seas enclose. - - The diamond of nations, set in gold, - Flashing with truth that sparkles o’er the earth, - Compared to her what empery of old - Hath wrought for suffering man such deeds of worth, - Or filled with living light dark lands of ageless dearth? - - - - - THE BLACK KNIGHT. - - - To King Banalin’s court there came - From divers lands beyond the sea - A score of knights, with hearts aflame - With love for lady Ursalie, - Whose wondrous beauty and fair fame - Were sung by Europe’s minstrelsy. - - Each lord in retinue did bring - A noble and a princely band, - Whose deeds the troubadours did sing - Through length and breadth of Christian land, - And each by turn besought the King - The favour of his daughter’s hand. - - But spake the King to each brave lord, - “When first the sun shall shine in May - A tourney in the palace-yard - We do appoint, and on that day - Who holds his own with spear and sword - Shall take our daughter fair away.” - - Whereat the Lady Ursalie - Blanched as a lily of the vale, - For many moons had waned since she - First pledged her love to Sir Verale, - And for that sick to death was he - Her trembling lips turned ashen pale. - - The heavy scent of musk and myrrh - Hung all about the inner room, - Dim taper lights did faintly stir - To life the arras through the gloom,-- - She bade her handmaid bring to her - The treasure-box that held her doom. - - With lightest touch a secret spring - Upraised the silver casket’s lid; - She took therefrom a golden ring, - A broken coin, a heart hair-thrid, - And many a sweet and precious thing - Wherein her plighted troth was hid. - - “Then welcome death, if death it prove,” - She said and kissed with lips still pale - Each sweet remembrance of his love;-- - “I will not fail thee, Sir Verale, - Though from thy couch thou canst not move - To don for me thy coat of mail.” - - Unto the chapel straight she went - And knelt before the altar-stone; - Her face within her hands she bent - Praying with many a tear and moan - Until the day was well-nigh spent, - When came a beadsman she had known; - - “O! Father! join thy prayer with mine - The life of Sir Verale to save; - O! plead then at our Lady’s shrine - For health to one so young and brave. - For I will wed, with help divine, - No other lord this side the grave.” - - The holy friar knelt him there - And crossed him, and began to tell - His beads, each counted for a prayer, - Until the sound of vesper-bell - Stole through the darkling twilight air - And warned them of the day’s farewell. - - Each day at morn and noon and night - Her trusted handmaid she did send - To learn if her belovèd knight - In life’s estate was like to mend, - And on the eve of April’s flight - This message came her heart to rend. - - “Tell thou my lady fair,” he said, - To her who bore the answer back, - “To-morrow will I leave this bed - And wear my suit of armour black; - To-morrow will I win and wed - Or lose both love and life, alack.” - - The Lady Ursalie knew well - He could not rise, so ill he was, - And shuddered as her maid did tell - His dying state, then forth did pass - Unto the chapel, as the bell - Proclaimed the holy evening mass. - - The morrow broke with golden rush - And chased the gloom of night away; - The pipe of blackbird, song of thrush, - Rose with the skylark’s roundelay, - The wild flowers started with a blush - To meet the first bright morn of May. - - The palace-yard was all prepared; - Bright-hued pavilions stood around, - The banners waved, the armour glared, - The eager steeds tore up the ground, - And twenty princes who had dared - The tourney in the lists were found. - - The King and Queen on daïsed throne - Received each knight on bended knee; - But like an image carved in stone - Sat lovely Lady Ursalie - And none who saw her would have known - For her the tourney was to be. - - But one there knelt in sable mail - Of whom the King in accents rude, - Did ask his name, and why this bale - Of armour black, he did intrude; - He answered: “I am Sir Verale, - Long months thy daughter have I wooed. - - And by this sable suit I wear, - This sterling blade of Spanish steel, - This iron shield and trusty spear,-- - But chiefly by the love I feel, - I ask to wife thy daughter fair - And that, proud King, is why I kneel.” - - When Lady Ursalie that voice - Did hear, her heart beat high with fears, - Her troubled soul did half rejoice - And memory filled her eyes with tears; - But as she smiled upon her choice - There fell a clash of shields and spears. - - Knight after knight was overthrown, - Some ready for the bier and shroud, - At last the black knight stood alone-- - And in the air applause rang loud - As proudly strode he to the throne - Pursued by all the noble crowd. - - Then cried the King: “Right nobly won, - Most puissant, worthy Sir Verale, - I would the words were well undone - That erst in anger I did rail.” - The knight replied, “Words injure none, - And after-grief doth not avail. - - And now, O King, thou soon shalt wis - Thy daughter is forever mine, - And when thy loving liegemen miss - Both thee and all thou callest thine, - They shall recall the Black Knight’s kiss - And know that love hath power divine.” - - Then at the Lady Ursalie - The Black Knight looked and she arose. - But what strange visage she did see - That his raised vizor did disclose-- - Is still an awful mystery - Which only that dead lady knows. - - For when her eyes of lustre rare - Gazed there, where none could see a face, - A flash of lightning rent the air; - And, passing in a moment’s space, - The Black Knight was no longer there - And of his steed there was no trace. - - All looked at Lady Ursalie, - Who blushed with love like any bride: - “No power can take my soul from thee, - I come, I come,” she faintly cried, - And swooned in arms held hastily - And smiling closed her eyes and died. - - But who the Black Knight was none knew, - Though one said who had second sight, - He watched a raven as it flew - In circles slow and did alight - Upon the tourney ground and grew - Into a sable horse and knight. - - By some, it is believed and said, - That Sir Verale gave one deep sigh - And turned himself on his sick bed - And muttered a low welcome cry, - And ere the watchers knew, was dead, - As his dear lady’s soul passed by. - - - - - THE GOLDEN LINE. - - - As each small ripple of the mighty sea - Reflects a tiny image of the sun - Until in radiance joining one by one, - They do present a path of brilliancy; - In this broad stripe of gold that comes to me - From the horizon, as though God had spun - A thread of golden thought for me alone, - Out of His universal mystery-- - So from the mirror of each human soul - Shall flash the radiance of God’s great love - Which ever shineth on us from above - Until Love’s splendour lighteth up life’s whole, - And man shall look on man, and soul through soul behold - One flaming line of Truth, God’s pure and shining gold. - - - - - SWEET OF MY LIFE. - - - Love is to life as perfume to the rose, - A sweet unseen enjoyment that doth lend - Rapture to beauty--so doth Nature send - The harmony of happiness that flows - Half-way between hot Passion’s leaps and throes - And Apathy, where worn-out feelings end, - Throughout the universe, there doth attend - Upon all active ordering, repose. - O Thou! the fair embodiment of good, - Who first within me struck the chord of Love, - Necessity of Life! in thee doth move - The pure quintessence of pure womanhood, - Without thy love my life would be as bare - As fairest rose without its perfume rare. - - - - - HASTINGS. - - - The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray, - O! sing of the battle on Hasting’s shore, - When the arrows of Normandy won the day. - - Flushed by debauch at the break of day, - Their keen-edged axes athirst for gore, - The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray. - - Proud soldiers fell down on their knees to pray, - Lord! yield us the victory, we implore; - When the arrows of Normandy won the day. - - King Harold, whose heart never felt dismay, - Spake loud of the deeds they had done before; - The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray. - - Taillefer the jongleur, sang well his lay - And laughed as he flung up the lance he bore, - When the arrows of Normandy won the day. - - Duke William in England proclaimed his sway; - King Harold lay dead; the battle was o’er; - The Saxons fought hard in the fatal fray, - But the arrows of Normandy won the day. - - - - - SHELLEY. - - - A bird of song, far soaring to its home, - Over the sea-waves cleaves with tireless wing - The cloudless blue; but, swiftly gathering, - A storm breaks up the crystal into foam - That dashes mountain-high ’gainst Heaven’s dome - Now darkened. Down the aerial harpies fling - The sweet-voiced minstrel and sad surges sing - The dirge of death with sorrow burdensome. - O Heart of Hearts! high-beating o’er the world - From whom fell sweetest song that unto man - Told love and life, since life and love began; - Like some lone bird thou wert by Nature hurled - Into the restless jaws of death’s devouring sea - With still a Song of Songs to bear thee company. - - - - - MORNING. - - - The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds, - While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky; - Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds, - And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly. - - The feathered minstrels of the opening day, - Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose, - Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray, - And all their ruffled beauties now disclose. - - The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee, - Seeks dark security from pressing morn, - And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree, - Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn. - - The busy ants from their great hills descend - In careful haste, and cross the grassy plain, - Saluting silently each passing friend, - But disregarding strangers with disdain. - - The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed, - With laggard steps begins the dreary day, - After the toiling snail hath long beslimed - His burdened march upon the open way. - - Along its silken threads the spider walks, - And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground; - No chance entanglement his duty balks, - As patiently he treads each subtle round. - - Forth from the little door of his domain - The gentle bee, armed with industrious powers, - Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again, - Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers. - - Within the wood the dove begins to coo, - Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mate - How he has sought her presence but to sue, - And all day long her love will supplicate. - - Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech, - The natural portal of his spacious cell, - The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach, - To spy if all is safe within the dell. - - The marigolds unfold their yellow heads, - That vie in colour with the saffron sun; - The violets stretch within their scented beds, - And raise their beauteous faces, one by one. - - Along the meadow land the daisies pied - Proclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass; - The morning-glories, in their prudish pride, - Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass. - - And whilst within the parsonage dull sleep - Still holds the inmates with mesmeric power, - The martins one unending circle keep, - In morning service round the old church tower. - - The robin, rosy from his early bath, - With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs, - Hops, uninvited, down the garden path - And breaks the silence with his tuneless songs. - - Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth, - Chases the bold invader far away, - And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth, - With joyful bark proclaims the break of day. - - - - - LOVE’S VOICE. - - - As little streams that start to find the sea - Proclaim with babbling tongues their voyaging - And with proud riot make the meadows ring, - Or fill the wild woods with much noisy glee, - As of their course they tell each waving tree - And wandering bird that chances near to wing; - So shallow lovers in the world’s ear sing - Their plaint of passion with vain minstrelsy. - But vast as restless ocean’s deep expanse, - Superbly splendid, solemnly sublime, - Whose music beats upon the shore of time - In rhythmic beauty, is my heart’s romance: - But as no song can sound the mighty sea, - My soul is silent in its love for thee. - - - - - LILIES AND POPPIES. - - - White lilies languish on their graceful stems, - Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn; - Lilies at poppies look with lofty scorn - And cherish dear their own chaste diadems; - Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gems - Blaze in the splendor of a life, love-born - And love-begetting, and do most adorn - Those whom love’s beauty unto death condemns. - Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bier - Of her who passed away, so pure and young,-- - Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers among - Her syren-sisters who live sinning here. - O! star-souled lily! white for none to blame. - O! blood-stained poppy! red with blush of shame. - - - - - TO BACCHUS. - - - The poet sings in love-sick verse - Plaints thy goblets soon disperse; - Pluck the willow from his head, - ’Twine the vine-leaf in its stead, - Fill the bowl with drink divine, - Give the wounded minstrel wine; - And the fool now fraught with pain, - Ne’er shall weep for love again. - See! it scarcely stains his lips, - Yet to draughts have turned his sips. - Subtle raptures swiftly fill - Every vein with fiery thrill; - Long before its rage is o’er - Pants the reeling wretch for more; - Squeeze the grape, fill high the bowl, - Wine shall cheer the wounded soul. - Let the ruddy torrent flow, - Heal all wounded hearts below, - Freely let the red stream pour, - With its storm the blood shall roar; - Surges of mad ecstacy - Shall embroil life’s phantasy; - Clouds of joy before the brain - Dull the deeper sense of pain. - Love is great; but in life’s dream - Wine alone shall reign supreme; - To old Bacchus! drink and sing; - Cupid’s Victor! Pleasure’s King! - - - - - LOVE’S WHISPERS. - - - I hear soft breathings in the gentle breeze, - Though whence or how they spring I cannot tell. - They whisper on the hill and in the dell, - Along the streamlets and among the trees; - Like the sweet humming of a thousand bees - In harmony, as if some magic spell - Fashioned the dew to music as it fell, - Like merry mermaids, chanting ’neath the seas, - Or fairy chorus in a moon-lit grove, - Or band of nightingales, each to its rose - Trilling of love when all things else repose. - Such sweet sounds haunt me wheresoe’er I rove - Shaping themselves to words that sing to me, - “Happy art thou of men, thy loved one loves but thee!” - - - - - WORK. - - - Work! use all thy will, give all thy might, - Ply all thy strength, - Until the golden dawn of early light - Shall change at length - Into deep purple shades, soft, pure and bright, - That bring glad tidings of the peaceful night. - - Work! while the subtle seasons onward roll - In certain course, - The ways of this frail world to help control; - That keen remorse - In life’s last moment--’ere thy deeds unroll - May strike no sudden anguish to thy soul. - - Work! taking lessons from the mighty Past, - What men have done; - Yet let not those old masters hold thee fast, - They have begun; - What later souls must finish. They have cast - The first stones at earth’s evil--not the last. - - Work! but seek not false Ambition’s flame - To light thee on; - Not so the men of wisdom ever came - In days long gone; - No sordid dream,--no bare desire for Fame - Has left on Memory’s lips one worthy name. - - Work! in the hope of sowing seedlings great; - Let others reap,-- - That, when stern Nature bids thy step abate, - Thy body sleep, - Thy soul shall tremble not at Death’s dark gate, - But calm and sure shall meet its After-Fate. - - - - - WHERE BLUE BELLS NOD. - - - Where blue-bells nod beneath the trees - And violets scent the summer breeze - I love to lie the whole day long - And listen to the wild bird’s song, - While bees hum in their harmonies. - - Proud wealth can buy its days of ease, - But not made up of hours like these; - To none doth rank or fame belong - Where blue-bells nod. - - In vain the arts may strive to please - The sense with novel images; - For me, this sweet, cool fern among, - All Nature’s right, all Art is wrong; - Ah! leave me with my birds and bees, - Where blue-bells nod. - - - - - LOSS AND GAIN. - - - Since thou hast come the world and I have parted, - Like chance-met friends whom love has never chained, - Away it spins, mad-brained and merry-hearted, - While I count o’er what I have lost and gained. - My losses are the breath of idle greeting, - The siren-song of pleasure, folly’s laugh, - Wealth’s patron smile, the pedant’s wit most fleeting, - And all that goes to make youth’s epitaph. - My gain is thee, who hath removed my blindness, - Torn off the mask of sin, stript shame’s disguise, - Shown me man’s frailty, taught me gold’s unkindness, - And made a very heaven beneath the skies. - So do I feel like one from dreams awaking - Who laughs at night and all its foolish making. - - - - - TRIO. - - FOUNDED ON A WELL KNOWN PASSAGE OF DANTE. - - - I. - - Do you remember, dear, the day we sat - And read together from an old love-book - Alone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nook - Which Nature made for souls to marvel at? - Beneath us stretched a soft and shining mat - Of velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shook - As songsters all their melodies forsook - To hear a legend from Love’s laureate - We knew no fear, for there was no one by, - The stream seemed in its ripple to repeat - That tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet, - Whom love enthralled in endless slavery. - Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel - The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal. - - - II. - - When from your lips the words fell on mine ear - Full many a thought our souls together drew - In sympathy, that with the story grew - Still more intense, and oh! so wondrous near. - Our eyes were dimmed by Love’s all-pitying tear - And from our cheeks the blushing colour flew - As if ashamed of its divulgent hue;-- - How well we understood the story, dear! - The blue vault overhead bore not a cloud - Upon its surface; on our sky of love - Not e’en the shadow of a sigh did move, - Where now the soul-storm rages long and loud. - Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel - The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal. - - - III. - - But one sweet passage from the book you read - The o’ergrown bud of love contrived to burst, - And all the beauty it had warmly nursed - Broke in our trembling hearts and blossomèd. - Youth’s long-fought fire our unloosed fancies fed; - Our souls felt Love’s unsatiable thirst; - O! happiest moment then, but now the worst, - When life’s blue sky grew all aflame with red! - But when you told how that long looked for smile - Was kissed by noble Lancelot, then--then-- - You kissed my quivering lips; nor read again; - And bliss eternal breathed in us awhile. - Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel - The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal. - - - - - DE SENECTUTE. - - - Ninety years forever fled - Seem but ninety minutes past, - As I, waiting for the last, - Live alone among the dead. - - Musing in the gloom and glow, - Lo! I see a ghostly train, - Spectres conjured by the brain, - Images of long ago. - - From the soul rise strangled cries, - Death-groans from the sins it wrought; - From the mind spring buried thought, - Poisoned hopes, vain sympathies. - - In a weird, phantasmal band, - Seen as though in life’s eclipse, - Perished women kiss my lips, - Dead men take me by the hand. - - Infant figures glad with glee, - Cluster in unbidden band, - Clasp my old and palsied hand - Pulsing high with memory. - - Pass light fingers through my hair, - Once like their’s all tangled gold, - Silvery now and thin and old, - Bleached with age and blanched with care. - - Softly touch my parchment skin, - Laugh and touch again and ask - That I throw aside time’s mask, - Dull with years and dark with sin. - - Look into my dim, dead eyes, - Dimmer now with tears that start - From the little left of heart - That to those dear souls outflies. - - Crowds of spirit-children pass, - Faces, lost long years ago, - Buds, soon buried in the snow, - Playmates--comrades in the class. - - Chide me for my childish tears, - Bid me join the childish game, - Call me by a childish name - None have named for scores of years. - - Youths, high-souled, with aims that age - Neither blighted nor betrayed, - Look with truth-lit eyes that made - Noble life’s short pilgrimage. - - Friends whose friendship now I crave, - Hearts whose love I yet would feel, - One by one before me steal, - In and out my living grave. - - All things I have seen and known, - Read in book and dreamed in dream, - Stand as true as they did seem - When I claimed them for my own. - - I have tried the truth of life, - Kissed love’s lips till they grew cold, - Drained the cup and clutched the gold, - Mingled in the human strife. - - Seen men come and go like leaves - Through the falls of many years, - Joined their laughter, shared their tears, - In the plot the great God weaves. - - Ninety years forever fled, - Seem but ninety minutes past, - And I, waiting for the last, - Live alone among the dead. - - - - - THE COMING OF SUMMER. - - - Grim Winter rose and girded on his sword - To battle with the world. At each swift blow - The wind hissed cold, and at the sound abhorred - Birds ceased their singing and the river’s flow - Stayed in its course, the sun’s warm glow - Reached not the flowers through the air’s dark frown, - The last leaves perished, and the crystal snow - Paled the soft bosom of the earth so brown - And all her pulsing life was frozen down. - - Within Time’s wondrous palace of past years - Nature sat grieving on her ancient throne; - Her furrowed cheeks were wet with scalding tears, - And from her wrinkled mouth ’scaped many a moan; - For she was brooding on delights long flown, - When all was bright and happy and the land - Flourished in fruitfulness, and there was known - No sign of sorrow, ere stern Winter’s hand - Gave right of spoil to all his ruthless band. - - “Ah me!” she cried aloud in accents sad, - “That ever son of Time should work such woe, - And he of all the offspring I have had, - The eldest, unto whom my love did go - Like streams that meadow margins overflow - With rainy surfeit for the thirsty earth; - Whom I had hoped from childhood would upgrow - Rich in high thought, bold deed and noble worth, - And yet Woe’s curse fell on him from his birth.” - - In simple beauty Spring knelt gently down, - Kissed the sad tears from Nature’s care-worn face, - Smoothed from her thoughtful brow each troublous frown - With tender hands, that left of pain no trace, - And then upstood in modest maiden grace, - Saying: “Behold! mine hour hath come to me; - I go to make my love a resting-place - Against his coming from beyond the sea-- - A throne most fitting for his sovereignty.” - - So Spring walked forth into the icy cold, - And as her first soft footfall touched the earth, - A joyous thrill on everything took hold, - And from the spot a snowdrop white had birth; - Then a bold robin piped across the dearth - Of frozen land a loud defiant sound; - Then Winter knew his power was little worth, - And sped him forth to higher vantage ground, - With all his yelling rout fast flying round. - - The birds set up a chorus of glad song, - Watching their nests among the shady trees; - Insects in quick innumerable throng - Made live the earth and air; gold-laden bees - Scorned the fine butterflies that flew at ease - Among the blossomed beauties of the fields; - The strong young leaves defied the assaulting breeze, - Spreading the brightness of their verdant shields - To guard the nurseling fruit that Autumn yields. - - Where the thin moonbeams cast their joys along - A verdured vale of rapturous delight - Spring caught the echoes of the herald’s song, - And saw the flowerets in the dead of night - Lift up their watchful faces, glad and bright, - And heard the birds soft singing through the shade, - Singing for Summer and the morning light; - Then sank her soul within her, and afraid, - She watched the circuit that the fast moon made. - - As Death, unseen, poised high his vengeful dart, - And Nature knelt beside Spring’s fallen form, - Night’s outer curtain ’gan to wave and part - Before the sun’s first breath, so bright and warm; - The diamond dew to rainbows did transform, - The flowers raised up their heads to their full height, - The breeze bore on its wings a music storm - As every bird sang forth in full delight - And loudest strain the sighings of the night. - - And Spring, revived a little, moved her head, - And to her mother said, in accents mild: - “Before he comes, alas! I may be dead. - O hasten to him, mother, for thy child, - And give him this, I plucked it in the wild, - And tell him ere King Death his mantle throws - I would he kissed my lips, and on me smiled. - O haste thee, mother mine! take this white rose, - And bid him come my dying eyes to close.” - - With her last word the golden door swung free, - A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom, - Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea, - The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom, - And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groom - That ever bride had waited for and won; - But Spring lay like an image on a tomb, - Her too-short pilgrimage already done, - Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun: - - And as her soul forsook its frail abode, - Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain, - Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode, - With tears that fell in showers like to rain, - Calling on Spring to come to life again. - But tears could not disturb her last repose, - And all the calling of his heart was vain. - Summer still thinks of Spring--his grief he shows, - When golden raindrops fall upon the rose. - - - - - RONDEL. - - - God’s wisdom all my spirit fills - With faith that puts to flight all doubt, - The snow dissolving into rills - Refreshing earth from last year’s drought - Adown the peeping slopes of hills - Carve their increasing channels out, - God’s wisdom all my spirit fills - With faith that puts to flight all doubt. - - The day that stirs, the night that stills; - Spring’s masque of flowers; rich summer’s rout; - Each wonder, far past finding out, - With joy and love my bosom thrills; - God’s wisdom all my spirit fills - With faith that puts to flight all doubt. - - - - - THE ABBEY WALLS. - - - This was the Abbey long years ago - When a priest was pious, a lord was brave - And a lady repeated her Ave slow - With fair eyes fixed on the architrave - As she heard a sanctified voice that clave - The clear bright air with a holy strain: - All have been lost in Time’s great wave-- - Only the old grey walls remain. - - One arch still stands of all the row - That circled the Abbey so tall and brave, - These flags as legend would have us know, - Are the very stones that used to pave - The cloister-walk, when a proud margrave - Heard from his hiding a love-talk plain - Which he never forgot and never forgave, - Only the old grey walls remain. - - Here where the nettle and nightshade grow - By a nameless stone, is the quiet grave - Of a murdered priest;--they laid him low - Under the walk of the quiet nave. - ’Tis whispered alas! that a dagger gave - A stab to the heart that brought no pain; - Of all the story that Time could save - Only the old grey stones remain. - - - ENVOI. - - Ballade! To that dead lady go - Say Love still sings its sad refrain; - Of its lofty hope and sunny glow - Only its old grey walls remain. - - - - - THE VIOLET. - - - Born in the night and christened with the dew, - The violet lifts its face for morning’s kiss; - And each fair petal, filled with Nature’s bliss, - Weaves from the sunshine a sweet robe of blue. - The birds look down and wonder how it grew, - For yesterday the leaves where now it is - Lay green i’ the grass, and nought was like to this, - Earth’s earliest counterfeit of Heaven’s hue. - The shy hepatica; the showdrop white; - The trebly mounted trillium; the blaze - Of golden daffodil with sunny rays-- - Have all arisen in their beauty bright; - But none of Flora’s first-born can compare, - With this blue-blossomed darling of the air. - - - - - LA FARFALLA. - - - Bright little butterfly, mounting at morning - Over Love’s garden of sweet delight, - Heedless of harm and the honey-bee’s warning, - Bent upon pleasure, in pains despite. - Gaily thou flutterest, gaudily flaunting - All thy fair charms to the winds that kiss - Like a soul in elysian happiness haunting - New meadows of bliss. - - When the first grey beam of the dawn uplifting - Shadows of sleep from a world of dreams, - From sea-marge to mountain and meadow-land drifting, - Lighted at last on thy wings’ bright gleams - Kissed thee and waked thee and whispered thee hasten - To herald the sun where it might not smite - In the deeps of dark dells where white flowers wasten - And languish for light. - - Thou hast bathed in the sun-flashing spray that arises - From ripples that laugh on the brook’s fair face, - Thou hast gazed in the mirror that Nature devises - For Beauty’s delight in her own sweet grace, - Thou hast basked in the heat of the noon-tide splendour - When cricket piped high in the grass beneath, - And the blossoms that carried thy burden so tender - Were crowned with a wreath. - - The lily grew pale for thou passed its perfection, - The violet bowed in a passion of grief, - The daisy had hope of thy gracious election, - The blue-bell despaired of its heart’s relief, - The hyacinth spread all its beauties before thee, - The marjoram blushed as it caught thine eye, - The mignonette flung its sweet fragrance o’er thee-- - But thou passed them by. - - Light was thy heart and the pleasures thou scattered - Were pure as the flowers on which they fell, - Till the red rose sought thee and caught thee and flattered, - With promise of love thou hast known too well. - All the long hours till the low sun glamoured - The bright blushing petals to kiss and to toy, - Thou paused in thy flight, for thy heart enamoured - Drank deeply of joy. - - The blossoms that drooped in the dark and were sighing - For tidings of light thou wert bidden to tell - Lay down in despair, dreading death, and yet dying - And great was the grief in deeps of the dell, - For thou hadst forgotten the message of morning - And the work of the day thou wast given to do, - For the love of the rose and the honey-bee’s scorning - For thy love was true. - - Poor little butterfly! dying so sadly - At the rise of the moon o’er the ripe-gold grain; - Dost thou rue of the pleasure thou tasted so madly, - Would’st thou take back thy love to take life again? - Ah, no! Love is sweeter and meeter than duty, - And shall hold thee in joy till thy last breath beats, - Till thou liest at rest--a dead marvel of beauty - Surrounded by sweets. - - - - - COWPER. - - - A gentle stream purled on its peaceful way - Through woodlands fair and meadows wondrous sweet, - Chancing at length a cavern dark to meet - Within whose depth ne’er fell the light of day; - Lo! as it entered, heavenward flew the spray - All loth to pass beyond and backward beat, - As though the natural course it would defeat - That plunged it where the sun cast not a ray. - Through that lone cave of blackness on it sped, - Its happy music turned to mournful sigh, - Until it reached the end, when earth and sky - Shone doubly bright that seemed for so long dead;-- - Thus didst thou pass, sweet singer, through the gloom - Of life’s dark hollow. Light came at the tomb. - - - - - RAIN. - - - Love only laughs when sunshine floods the air, - When winds flute summer music through the trees, - When nature’s masquers are attired to please - And Flora holds gay gala everywhere; - But now Heaven’s brow is underknit with care, - Low clouds burst forth a-weeping, flowery leas - Are drowned with runnels and the ponds grow seas, - Leaves droop beneath the dripping loads they bear, - And silence reigns in each late lute-filled bough; - The cricket chorus and the humming crowd - That tell how labour lightens earth’s hard way - Are all--all gone. Love hears no music now-- - Only an endless falling, sharp and loud, - The dreary rhythm of a rainy day. - - - - - HYMN. - - - When the calm of night is falling - And the cares of day are o’er, - Hear the voice of Jesus calling;-- - Go to Him and sin no more. - - When the heart is sad and troubled - He alone can peace restore, - By his love is life ennobled;-- - Go to Him and sin no more. - - When the soul in grief and anguish - Mourns the evil done before, - Let your faith no longer languish;-- - Go to Him and sin no more. - - Go to Him! for He can only - Soothe the pain and heal the sore, - All who are distressed and lonely;-- - Go to Him and sin no more. - - Go to Him! lay down your burden, - At His feet His love implore, - Ask in penitence for pardon;-- - Go to Him and sin no more. - - Go to Him! He hath invited - All to enter Heaven’s door, - Sinners by His love united;-- - Go to Him and sin no more. - - - - - THE GREAT PLAY. - - - There is a playwright older than the years, - Who maketh all men actors in his play, - And, though they know not what they do or say, - The purpose of the plot in all appears. - Each in his turn, beset with inborn fears, - Enters unseen, youth’s comedy so gay, - Laughs through the hours that glide too soon away - Beneath the clouds of soul-consuming tears. - Then manhood’s tragedy with perils fraught, - Pursues its fickle fortunes to the end, - When Fate, the villain of the piece doth send - By whom the last exciting scene is wrought; - A timely stab from Death’s sure-falling knife - Brings down the curtain o’er the play of life. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Orpheus and Other Poems, by -Edward Burrough Brownlow - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORPHEUS AND OTHER POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 53800-0.txt or 53800-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/8/0/53800/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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