COME back before the birds are flown, Before the leaves desert the tree, And, through the lonely alleys blown, Whisper their vain regrets to me Who drive before a blast more rude, The plaything of my gusty mood, In vain pursuing and pursued!
Nay, come although the boughs be bare, Though snowflakes fledge the summer's nest,
And in some far Ausonian air The thrush, your minstrel, warm his breast.
Come, sunshine's treasurer, and bring To doubting flowers their faith in spring, To birds and me the need to sing!
TURBID from London's noise and smoke, Here I find air and quiet too : Air filtered through the beech and oak,
Quiet by nothing harsher broke Than wood-dove's meditative coo.
The Truce of God is here; the breeze Sighs as men sigh relieved from care, Or tilts as lightly in the trees As might a robin: all is ease, With pledge of ampler ease to spare. Time, leaning on his scythe, forgets To turn the hourglass in his hand, And all life's petty cares and frets, Its teasing hopes and weak regrets, Are still as that oblivious sand.
Repose fills all the generous space Of undulant plain; the rook and crow Hush; 't is as if a silent grace, By Nature murmured, calmed the face Of Heaven above and Earth below.
From past and future toils I rest, One Sabbath pacifies my year; I am the halcyon, this my nest; And all is safely for the best While the World's there and I am here.
So I turn tory for the nonce, And think the radical a bore, Who cannot see, thick-witted dunce, That what was good for people once Must be as good forevermore.
Sun, sink no deeper down the sky; Earth, never change this summer mood; Breeze, loiter thus forever by, Stir the dead leaf or let it lie: Since I am happy, all is good. MIDDLETON, August, 1884.
ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS. WITH what odorous woods and spices Spared for royal sacrifices, With what costly gums seld-seen, Hoarded to embalm a queen, With what frankincense and myrrh, Burn these precious parts of her, Full of life and light and sweetness As a summer day's completeness, Joy of sun and song of bird Running wild in every word, Full of all the superhuman Grace and winsomeness of woman?
O'er these leaves her wrist has slid, Thrilled with veins where fire is hid 'Neath the skin's pellucid veil, Like the opal's passion pale; This her breath hath sweetened; Still seems trembling with the kiss She half-ventured on my name, Brow and cheek and throat aflame; Over all caressing lies
Sunshine left there by her eyes; From them all an effluence rare With her nearness fills the air, Till the murmur I half-hear Of her light feet drawing near.
Rarest woods were coarse and rough, Sweetest spice not sweet enough, Too impure all earthly fire For this sacred funeral-pyre; These rich relics must suffice For their own dear sacrifice.
Seek we first an altar fit
For such victims laid on it;
THE PETITION. - FACT OR FANCY?
It shall be this slab, brought home In old happy days from Rome,- Lazuli, once blest to line Dian's inmost cell and shrine. Gently now I lay them there, Pure as Dian's forehead bare, Yet suffused with warmer hue, Such as only Latmos knew.
Fire I gather from the sun In a virgin lens: 't is done! Mount the flames, red, yellow, blue, As her moods were shining through, Of the moment's impulse born,- Moods of sweetness, playful scorn, Half defiance, half surrender, More than cruel, more than tender, Flouts, caresses, sunshine, shade, Gracious doublings of a maid Infinite in guileless art, Playing hide-seek with her heart.
On the altar now, alas, There they lie a crinkling mass, Writhing still, as if with grief Went the life from every leaf; Then (heart-breaking palimpsest!) Vanishing ere wholly guessed, Suddenly some lines flash back, Traced in lightning on the black, And confess, till now denied, All the fire they strove to hide. What they told me, sacred trust, Stays to glorify my dust,
There to burn through dust and damp Like a mage's deathless lamp, While an atom of this frame Lasts to feed the dainty flame.
All is ashes now, but they
In my soul are laid away,
And their radiance round me hovers Soft as moonlight over lovers, Shutting her and me alone In dream-Edens of our own; First of lovers to invent
Love, and teach men what it meant.
I COULD not bear to see those eyes On all with wasteful largess shine, And that delight of welcome rise Like sunshine strained through amber wine,
And consciousness with effort moves From habit past to present fact.
So, in the country waked to-day, I hear, unwitting of the change, A cuckoo's throb from far away Begin to strike, nor think it strange.
The sound creates its wonted frame : My bed at home, the songster hid Behind the wainscoting, -all came As long association bid.
Then, half-aroused, ere yet Sleep's mist From the mind's uplands furl away, To the familiar sound I list, Disputed for by Night and Day.
ONE kiss from all others prevents me, And sets all my pulses astir,
And burns on thy lips and torments me: "Tis the kiss that I fain would give her.
One kiss for all others requites me, Although it is never to be,
And sweetens my dreams and invites me: "T is the kiss that she dare not give me.
Ah, could it be nine, it were sweeter Than honey bees garner in dream, Though its bliss on my lips were fleeter Than a swallow's dip to the stream.
And yet, thus denied, it can never In the prose of life vanish away; O'er my lips it must hover forever, The sunshine and shade of my day.
SILENCIOSO por la puerta Voy de su casa desierta Do siempre feliz entré,
Y la encuentro en vano abierta Cual la boca de una muerta Despues que el alma se fué.
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL CHILDREN OF THE CHURCH OF THE DISCIPLES.
"WHAT means this glory round our feet," The Magi mused, "more bright than
And voices chanted clear and sweet, "To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"
"What means that star," the Shepherds said,
"That brightens through the rocky And angels, answering overhead, glen?
Sang, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"
"Tis eighteen hundred years and more
Since those sweet oracles were dumb; We wait for Him, like them of yore;
Alas, He seems so slow to come!
But it was said, in words of gold
No time or sorrow e'er shall dim, That little children might be bold In perfect trust to come to Him.
All round about our feet shall shine A light like that the wise men saw, If we our loving wills incline
To that sweet Life which is the Law.
WALKING alone where we walked to- So shall we learn to understand
If a dead leaf startle behind me,
I think 't is your garment's hem,
The simple faith of shepherds then, And, clasping kindly hand in hand, Sing, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"
And they who do their souls no wrong, But keep at eve the faith of morn,
And, oh, where no memory could find me, Shall daily hear the angel-song,
Might I whirl away with them!
"To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"
MY PORTRAIT GALLERY.
OFT round my hall of portraiture I gaze, By Memory reared, the artist wise and holy,
From stainless quarries of deep-buried days.
There, as I muse in soothing melancholy, Your faces glow in more than mortal youth,
Companions of my prime, now vanished wholly,
The loud, impetuous boy, the low-voiced maiden,
Now for the first time seen in flawless truth.
Ah, never master that drew mortal breath Can match thy portraits, just and generous Death,
Whose brush with sweet regretful tints is laden!
Thou paintest that which struggled here below
Half unders ood, or understood for woe, And with a sweet forewarning Mak'st round the sacred front an aureole glow
Woven of that light that rose on Easter morning.
For, given thy nearness, nothing is denied.
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