Kitabı oku: «Robert F. Murray (Author of the Scarlet Gown): His Poems; with a Memoir», sayfa 5

TRAFALGAR SQUARE

 
These verses have I pilfered like a bee
Out of a letter from my C. C. C.
   In London, showing what befell him there,
With other things, of interest to me.
 
 
One page described a night in open air
He spent last summer in Trafalgar Square,
   With men and women who by want are driven
Thither for lodging, when the nights are fair.
 
 
No roof there is between their heads and heaven,
No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given,
   No comfort but the company of those
Who with despair, like them, have vainly striven.
 
 
On benches there uneasily they doze,
Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose,
   And if through weariness they might sleep sound,
Their eyes must open almost ere they close.
 
 
With even tramp upon the paven ground,
Twice every hour the night patrol comes round
   To clear these wretches off, who may not keep
The miserable couches they have found.
 
 
Yet the stern shepherds of the poor black sheep
Will soften when they see a woman weep.
   There was a mother there who strove in vain,
With sobs, to hush a starving child to sleep.
 
 
And through the night which took so long to wane,
He saw sad sufferers relieving pain,
   And daughters of iniquity and scorn
Performing deeds which God will not disdain.
 
 
There was a girl, forlorn of the forlorn,
Whose dress was white, but draggled, soiled, and torn,
   Who wandered like a ghost without a home.
She spoke to him before the day was born.
 
 
She, who all night, when spoken to, was dumb,
Earning dislike from most, abuse from some,
   Now asked the hour, and when he told her ‘Two,’
Wailed, ‘O my God, will daylight never come?’
 
 
Yes, it will come, and change the sky anew
From star-besprinkled black to sunlit blue,
   And bring sweet thoughts and innocent desires
To countless girls.  What will it bring to you?
 

A SUMMER MORNING

 
Never was sun so bright before,
   No matin of the lark so sweet,
   No grass so green beneath my feet,
Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’er.
 
 
I stand with thee outside the door,
   The air not yet is close with heat,
   And far across the yellowing wheat
The waves are breaking on the shore.
 
 
A lovely day!  Yet many such,
   Each like to each, this month have passed,
      And none did so supremely shine.
One thing they lacked: the perfect touch
   Of thee – and thou art come at last,
      And half this loveliness is thine.
 

WELCOME HOME

 
The fire burns bright
And the hearth is clean swept,
As she likes it kept,
And the lamp is alight.
She is coming to-night.
 
 
The wind’s east of late.
When she comes, she’ll be cold,
So the big chair is rolled
Close up to the grate,
And I listen and wait.
 
 
The shutters are fast,
And the red curtains hide
Every hint of outside.
But hark, how the blast
Whistled then as it passed!
 
 
Or was it the train?
How long shall I stand,
With my watch in my hand,
And listen in vain
For the wheels in the lane?
 
 
Hark!  A rumble I hear
(Will the wind not be still?),
And it comes down the hill,
And it grows on the ear,
And now it is near.
 
 
Quick, a fresh log to burn!
Run and open the door,
Hold a lamp out before
To light up the turn,
And bring in the urn.
 
 
You are come, then, at last!
O my dear, is it you?
I can scarce think it true
I am holding you fast,
And sorrow is past.
 

AN INVITATION

 
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,
   And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating
Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.
      Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
 
 
The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating
   The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie,
And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.
 
 
The Links are full of larks’ nests, and the larks possess the sky,
   Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating,
All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie – yes, and I,
      Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
 

FICKLE SUMMER

 
Fickle Summer’s fled away,
   Shall we see her face again?
   Hearken to the weeping rain,
Never sunbeam greets the day.
 
 
More inconstant than the May,
   She cares nothing for our pain,
   Nor will hear the birds complain
In their bowers that once were gay.
 
 
Summer, Summer, come once more,
   Drive the shadows from the field,
      All thy radiance round thee fling,
Be our lady as of yore;
   Then the earth her fruits shall yield,
      Then the morning stars shall sing.
 

SORROW’S TREACHERY

 
I made a truce last night with Sorrow,
   The queen of tears, the foe of sleep,
To keep her tents until the morrow,
   Nor send such dreams to make me weep.
 
 
Before the lusty day was springing,
   Before the tired moon was set,
I dreamed I heard my dead love singing,
   And when I woke my eyes were wet.
 

THE CROWN OF YEARS

 
Years grow and gather – each a gem
   Lustrous with laughter and with tears,
   And cunning Time a crown of years
Contrives for her who weareth them.
 
 
No chance can snatch this diadem,
   It trembles not with hopes or fears,
   It shines before the rose appears,
And when the leaves forsake her stem.
 
 
Time sets his jewels one by one.
   Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lie
      In attic chambers of the past?
They withered ere the day was done.
   This coronal will never die,
      Nor shall you lose it at the last.
 

HOPE DEFERRED

 
When the weary night is fled,
And the morning sky is red,
Then my heart doth rise and say,
‘Surely she will come to-day.’
 
 
In the golden blaze of noon,
‘Surely she is coming soon.’
In the twilight, ‘Will she come?’
Then my heart with fear is dumb.
 
 
When the night wind in the trees
Plays its mournful melodies,
Then I know my trust is vain,
And she will not come again.
 

THE LIFE OF EARTH

 
The life of earth, how full of pain,
   Which greets us on our day of birth,
Nor leaves us while we yet retain
      The life of earth.
 
 
There is a shadow on our mirth,
   Our sun is blotted out with rain,
And all our joys are little worth.
 
 
Yet oh, when life begins to wane,
   And we must sail the doubtful firth,
How wild the longing to regain
      The life of earth!
 

GOLDEN DREAM

 
Golden dream of summer morn,
   By a well-remembered stream
In the land where I was born,
      Golden dream!
 
 
Ripples, by the glancing beam
   Lightly kissed in playful scorn,
Meadows moist with sunlit steam.
 
 
When I lift my eyelids worn
   Like a fair mirage you seem,
In the winter dawn forlorn,
      Golden dream!
 

TEARS

 
Mourn that which will not come again,
   The joy, the strength of early years.
   Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain.
 
 
For tears are like a summer rain,
   To murmur in a mourner’s ears,
   To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
 
 
And though thy tears will not awake
   What lies beneath of young or fair
      And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,
Yet, watered thus, the sod may break
   In flowers which sweeten all the air,
      And fill with life the place of death.
 

THE HOUSE OF SLEEP

 
When we have laid aside our last endeavour,
   And said farewell to one or two that weep,
And issued from the house of life for ever,
   To find a lodging in the house of sleep —
 
 
With eyes fast shut, in sunless chambers lying,
   With folded arms unmoved upon the breast,
Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying,
   Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?
 
 
Or shall there come at last desire of waking,
   To walk again on hillsides that we know,
When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking,
   Or in the stillness of the after-glow?
 
 
Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices,
   The sight of faces, and the touch of hands,
The will that works, the spirit that rejoices,
   The heart that feels, the mind that understands?
 
 
Shall dreams and memories crowding from the distance,
   Shall ghosts of old ambition or of mirth,
Create for us a shadow of existence,
   A dim reflection of the life of earth?
 
 
And being dead, and powerless to recover
   The substance of the show whereon we gaze,
Shall we be likened to the hapless lover,
   Who broods upon the unreturning days?
 
 
Not so: for we have known how swift to perish
   Is man’s delight when youth and health take wing,
Until the winter leaves him nought to cherish
   But recollections of a vanished spring.
 
 
Dream as we may, desire of life shall never
   Disturb our slumbers in the house of sleep.
Yet oh, to think we may not greet for ever
   The one or two that, when we leave them, weep!
 

THE OUTCAST’S FAREWELL

 
The sun is banished,
The daylight vanished,
No rosy traces
   Are left behind.
Here in the meadow
I watch the shadow
Of forms and faces
   Upon your blind.
 
 
Through swift transitions,
In new positions,
My eyes still follow
   One shape most fair.
My heart delaying
Awhile, is playing
With pleasures hollow,
   Which mock despair.
 
 
I feel so lonely,
I long once only
To pass an hour
   With you, O sweet!
To touch your fingers,
Where fragrance lingers
From some rare flower,
   And kiss your feet.
 
 
But not this even
To me is given.
Of all sad mortals
   Most sad am I,
Never to meet you,
Never to greet you,
Nor pass your portals
   Before I die.
 
 
All men scorn me,
Not one will mourn me,
When from their city
   I pass away.
Will you to-morrow
Recall with sorrow
Him whom with pity
   You saw to-day?
 
 
Outcast and lonely,
One thing only
Beyond misgiving
   I hold for true,
That, had you known me,
You would have shown me
A life worth living —
   A life for you.
 
 
Yes: five years younger
My manhood’s hunger
Had you come filling
   With plenty sweet,
My life so nourished,
Had grown and flourished,
Had God been willing
   That we should meet.
 
 
How vain to fashion
From dreams and passion
The rich existence
   Which might have been!
Can God’s own power
Recall the hour,
Or bridge the distance
   That lies between?
 
 
Before the morning,
From pain and scorning
I sail death’s river
   To sleep or hell.
To you is given
The life of heaven.
Farewell for ever,
   Farewell, farewell!
 

YET A LITTLE SLEEP

 
Beside the drowsy streams that creep
   Within this island of repose,
   Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,
Oh, let us fold our hands to sleep!
 
 
Is it ignoble, then, to keep
   Awhile from where the rough wind blows,
   And all is strife, and no man knows
What end awaits him on the deep?
 
 
The voyager may rest awhile,
   When rest invites, and yet may be
      Neither a sluggard nor a craven.
With strength renewed he quits the isle,
   And putting out again to sea,
      Makes sail for his desirèd haven.
 

LOST LIBERTY

 
Of our own will we are not free,
   When freedom lies within our power.
   We wait for some decisive hour,
To rise and take our liberty.
 
 
Still we delay, content to be
   Imprisoned in our own high tower.
   What is it but a strong-built bower?
Ours are the warders, ours the key.
 
 
But we through indolence grow weak.
   Our warders, fed with power so long,
      Become at last our lords indeed.
We vainly threaten, vainly seek
   To move their ruth.  The bars are strong.
      We dash against them till we bleed.
 

AN AFTERTHOUGHT

 
You found my life, a poor lame bird
   That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
   To give it voice and wing.
 
 
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
   I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
   It might have sung and flown.
 

TO J. R

 
Last Sunday night I read the saddening story
   Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine,
The ‘faith unfaithful’ and the joyless glory
   Of Lancelot, ‘groaning in remorseful pain.’
 
 
I thought of all those nights in wintry weather,
   Those Sunday nights that seem not long ago,
When we two read our Poet’s words together,
   Till summer warmth within our hearts did glow.
 
 
Ah, when shall we renew that bygone pleasure,
   Sit down together at our Merlin’s feet,
Drink from one cup the overflowing measure,
   And find, in sharing it, the draught more sweet?
 
 
That time perchance is far, beyond divining.
   Till then we drain the ‘magic cup’ apart;
Yet not apart, for hope and memory twining
   Smile upon each, uniting heart to heart.
 

THE TEMPTED SOUL

 
Weak soul, by sense still led astray,
   Why wilt thou parley with the foe?
   He seeks to work thine overthrow,
And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.
 
 
Hast thou forgotten many a day,
   When thou exulting forth didst go,
   And ere the noon wert lying low,
A broken and defenceless prey?
 
 
If thou wouldst live, avoid his face;
   Dwell in the wilderness apart,
      And gather force for vanquishing,
Ere thou returnest to his place.
   Then arm, and with undaunted heart
      Give battle, till he own thee king.
 

YOUTH RENEWED

 
When one who has wandered out of the way
   Which leads to the hills of joy,
Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,
   Though it be but the heart of a boy —
When such a one turns back his feet
   From the valley of shadow and pain,
Is not the sunshine passing sweet,
   When a man grows young again?
 
 
How gladly he mounts up the steep hillside,
   With strength that is born anew,
And in his veins, like a full springtide,
   The blood streams through and through.
And far above is the summit clear,
   And his heart to be there is fain,
And all too slowly it comes more near
   When a man grows young again.
 
 
He breathes the pure sweet mountain breath,
   And it widens all his heart,
And life seems no more kin to death,
   Nor death the better part.
And in tones that are strong and rich and deep
   He sings a grand refrain,
For the soul has awakened from mortal sleep,
   When a man grows young again.
 

VANITY OF VANITIES

 
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
Ye shall pass and be forgot,
And your place shall know you not.
 
 
Other generations rise,
With the same hope in their eyes
That in yours is kindled now,
And the same light on their brow.
 
 
They shall see the selfsame sun
That your eyes now gaze upon,
They shall breathe the same sweet air,
And shall reck not who ye were.
 
 
Yet they too shall fade at last
In the twilight of the past,
They and you alike shall be
Lost from the world’s memory.
 
 
Then, while yet ye breathe and live,
Drink the cup that life can give.
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away,
 
 
Ere the golden bowl be broken,
Ere ye pass and leave no token,
Ere the silver cord be loosed,
Ere ye turn again to dust.
 
 
‘And shall this be all,’ ye cry,
‘But to eat and drink and die?
If no more than this there be,
Vanity of vanity!’
 
 
Yea, all things are vanity,
And what else but vain are ye?
Ye who boast yourselves the kings
Over all created things.
 
 
Kings! whence came your right to reign?
Ye shall be dethroned again.
Yet for this, your one brief hour,
Wield your mockery of power.
 
 
Dupes of Fate, that treads you down
Wear awhile your tinsel crown
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
 

LOVE’S WORSHIP RESTORED

 
O Love, thine empire is not dead,
Nor will we let thy worship go,
Although thine early flush be fled,
Thine ardent eyes more faintly glow,
And thy light wings be fallen slow
Since when as novices we came
Into the temple of thy name.
 
 
Not now with garlands in our hair,
And singing lips, we come to thee.
There is a coldness in the air,
A dulness on the encircling sea,
Which doth not well with songs agree.
And we forget the words we sang
When first to thee our voices rang.
 
 
When we recall that magic prime,
We needs must weep its early death.
How pleasant from thy towers the chime
Of bells, and sweet the incense breath
That rose while we, who kept thy faith,
Chanting our creed, and chanting bore
Our offerings to thine altar store!
 
 
Now are our voices out of tune,
Our gifts unworthy of thy name.
December frowns, in place of June.
Who smiled when to thy house we came,
We who came leaping, now are lame.
Dull ears and failing eyes are ours,
And who shall lead us to thy towers?
 
 
O hark!  A sound across the air,
Which tells not of December’s cold,
A sound most musical and rare.
Thy bells are ringing as of old,
With silver throats and tongues of gold.
Alas! it is too sweet for truth,
An empty echo of our youth.
 
 
Nay, never echo spake so loud!
It is indeed thy bells that ring.
And lo, against the leaden cloud,
Thy towers!  Once more we leap and spring,
Once more melodiously we sing,
We sing, and in our song forget
That winter lies around us yet.
 
 
Oh, what is winter, now we know,
Full surely, thou canst never fail?
Forgive our weak untrustful woe,
Which deemed thy glowing face grown pale.
We know thee, mighty to prevail.
Doubt and decrepitude depart,
And youth comes back into the heart.
 
 
O Love, who turnest frost to flame
With ardent and immortal eyes,
Whose spirit sorrow cannot tame,
Nor time subdue in any wise —
While sun and moon for us shall rise,
Oh, may we in thy service keep
Till in thy faith we fall asleep!
 

BELOW HER WINDOW

 
Where she sleeps, no moonlight shines
   No pale beam unbidden creeps.
Darkest shade the place enshrines
      Where she sleeps.
 
 
Like a diamond in the deeps
   Of the rich unopened mines
There her lovely rest she keeps.
 
 
Though the jealous dark confines
   All her beauty, Love’s heart leaps.
His unerring thought divines
      Where she sleeps.