Kitabı oku: «Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems», sayfa 4

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON

 
     One autumn day, when hedges yet were green,
       And thick-branched trees diffused a leafy gloom,
     Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide,
       I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare's tomb.
 
 
     O happy church, beneath whose marble floor
       His ashes lie who so enriched mankind;
     The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul,
       And dowered with an all-embracing mind.
 
 
     Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall
       In softened glory on the chancel floor;
     While I, a pilgrim from across the sea,
       stand with bare head in reverential awe.
 
 
     Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults
       Repose the bones of those that once were kings;
     Their power has passed, and what remains but clay?
       While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.
 
 
     Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,—
       Faint shadows they without his plastic art,—
     He waves his wand, and lo! they live again,
       And in his world perform their mimic part.
 
 
     Born in the purple, his imperial soul
       Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind.
     Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay,
       Time but confirms his empire o'er mankind.
 

MRS. BROWNING'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE

 
     FLORENCE wears an added grace,
       All her earlier honors crowning;
     Dante's birthplace, Art's fair home,
       Holds the dust of Barrett Browning.
 
 
     Guardian of the noble dead
       That beneath thy soil lie sleeping,
     England, with full heart, commends
       This new treasure to thy keeping.
 
 
     Take her, she is half thine own;
       In her verses' rich outpouring,
     Breathes the warm Italian heart,
       Yearning for the land's restoring.
 
 
     From thy skies her poet-heart
       Caught a fresher inspiration,
     And her soul obtained new strength,
       With her bodily translation.
 
 
     Freely take what thou hast given,
       Less her verses' rhythmic beauty,
     Than the stirring notes that called
       Trumpet-like thy sons to duty.
 
 
     Rarest of exotic flowers
       In thy native chaplet twining,
     To the temple of thy great
       Add her—she is worth enshrining.
 

MY CASTLE

 
     I have a beautiful castle,
       With towers and battlements fair;
     And many a banner, with gay device,
       Floats in the outer air.
 
 
     The walls are of solid silver;
       The towers are of massive gold;
     And the lights that stream from the windows
       A royal scene unfold.
 
 
     Ah! could you but enter my castle
       With its pomp of regal sheen,
     You would say that it far surpasses
       The palace of Aladeen.
 
 
     Could you but enter as I do,
       And pace through the vaulted hall,
     And mark the stately columns,
       And the pictures on the wall;
 
 
     With the costly gems about them,
       That send their light afar,
     With a chaste and softened splendor
       Like the light of a distant star!
 
 
     And where is this wonderful castle,
       With its rich emblazonings,
     Whose pomp so far surpasses
       The homes of the greatest kings?
 
 
     Come out with me at morning
       And lie in the meadow-grass,
     And lift your eyes to the ether blue,
       And you will see it pass.
 
 
     There! can you not see the battlements;
       And the turrets stately and high,
     Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,
       And lost in the arching sky?
 
 
     Dear friend, you are only dreaming,
       Your castle so stately and fair
     Is only a fanciful structure,—
       A castle in the air.
 
 
     Perchance you are right. I know not
       If a phantom it may be;
     But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel
       That it lives, and lives for me.
 
 
     For when clouds and darkness are round me,
       And my heart is heavy with care,
     I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
       To dwell in my castle fair.
 
 
     There are servants to do my bidding;
       There are servants to heed my call;
     And I, with a master's air of pride,
       May pace through the vaulted hall.
 
 
     And I envy not the monarchs
       With cities under their sway;
     For am I not, in my own right,
       A monarch as proud as they?
 
 
     What matter, then, if to others
       My castle a phantom may be,
     Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,
       That it is not so to me?
 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS

 
     I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
       In the fragrant orchard close,
     And around me floats the scented air,
       With its wave-like tidal flows.
     I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
       And call no king my peer;
     For is not this the rare, sweet time,
       The blossoming time of the year?
 
 
     I lie on a couch of downy grass,
       With delicate blossoms strewn,
     And I feel the throb of Nature's heart
       Responsive to my own.
     Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,
       That maketh life so dear;
     For is not this the rare, sweet time,
       The blossoming time of the year?
 
 
     I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
       The delicate blue of the sky,
     And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
       That drift so lazily by.
     And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
       And Heaven, it seemeth near;
     Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
       The blossoming time of the year?
 

SUMMER HOURS

 
     It is the year's high noon,
       The earth sweet incense yields,
       And o'er the fresh, green fields
     Bends the clear sky of June.
 
 
     I leave the crowded streets,
       The hum of busy life,
       Its clamor and its strife,
     To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
 
 
     O rare and golden hours!
       The bird's melodious song,
       Wavelike, is borne along
     Upon a strand of flowers.
 
 
     I wander far away,
       Where, through the forest trees,
       Sports the cool summer breeze,
     In wild and wanton play.
 
 
     A patriarchal elm
       Its stately form uprears,
       Which twice a hundred years
     Has ruled this woodland realm.
 
 
     I sit beneath its shade,
       And watch, with careless eye,
       The brook that babbles by,
     And cools the leafy glade.
 
 
     In truth I wonder not,
       That in the ancient days
       The temples of God's praise
     Were grove and leafy grot.
 
 
     The noblest ever planned,
       With quaint device and rare,
       By man, can ill compare
     With these from God's own hand.
 
 
     Pilgrim with way-worn feet,
       Who, treading life's dull round,
       No true repose hast found,
     Come to this green retreat.
 
 
     For bird, and flower, and tree,
       Green fields, and woodland wild,
       Shall bear, with voices mild,
     Sweet messages to thee.
 

JUNE

 
     Throw open wide your golden gates,
       O poet-landed month of June,
     And waft me, on your spicy breath,
       The melody of birds in tune.
 
 
     O fairest palace of the three,
       Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,
     I gaze upon your leafy courts
       From out the vestibule of May.
 
 
     I fain would tread your garden walks,
       Or in your shady bowers recline;
     Then open wide your golden gates,
       And make them mine, and make them mine.
 

LITTLE CHARLIE

 
     A VIOLET grew by the river-side,
       And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;
     While over the fields, on the scented air,
       It breathed a rich perfume.
     But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
       And its portals were opened wide;
     And the heavy rain beat down the flower
       That grew by the river-side.
 
 
     Not far away in a pleasant home,
       There lived a little boy,
     Whose cheerful face and childish grace
       Filled every heart with joy.
     He wandered one day to the river's verge,
       With no one near to save;
     And the heart that we loved with a boundless love
       Was stilled in the restless wave.
 
 
     The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,
       And we bade farewell to joy;
     For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie
       To the grave of the little boy.
     The birds still sing in the leafy tree
       That shadows the open door;
     We heed them not, for we think of the voice
       That we shall hear no more.
 
 
     We think of him at eventide,
       And gaze on his vacant chair
     With a longing heart that will scarce believe
       That Charlie is not there.
     We seem to hear his ringing laugh,
       And his bounding step at the door;
     But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,
       We shall never hear them more!
 
 
     We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,
       In the pleasant summer hours;
     We will speak his name in a softened voice,
       And cover his grave with flowers;
     We will think of him in his heavenly home,—
       In his heavenly home so fair;
     And we will trust with a hopeful trust
       That we shall meet him there.