A Celtic Psaltery Part 27
SUMMER MORNING'S WALK
'Tis scarcely four by the village clock, The dew is heavy, the air is cool-- A mist goes up from the gla.s.sy pool, Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock: No sound is heard but the magpie's mock.
Very low is the sun in the sky, It needeth no eagle now to regard him.
Is there not one lark left to reward him With the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry, For sad he seemeth, I know not why.
Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm There glides and gazes a sadder face; Spectre Queen of a vanished race-- 'Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film, And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.
These are but selfish fancies, I know, Framed to solace a secret grief-- Look again--scorning such false relief-- Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe-- Look again! whence do these fancies flow?
What is the moon but a lamp of fire That G.o.d shall relume in His season? the Sun, Like a giant, rejoices his race to run With flaming feet that never tire On the azure path of the starry choir.
The lark has sung ere I left my bed: And hark! far aloft from those ladders of light Many songs, not one only, the morn delight.
Then, sad heart, dream not that Nature is dead, But seek from her strength and comfort instead.
SNOW-STAINS
The snow had fallen and fallen from heaven, Unnoticed in the night, As o'er the sleeping sons of G.o.d Floated the manna white; And still, though small flowers crystalline Blanched all the earth beneath, Angels with busy hands above Renewed the airy wreath; When, white amid the falling flakes, And fairer far than they, Beside her wintry cas.e.m.e.nt h.o.a.r A dying woman lay.
"More pure than yonder virgin snow From G.o.d comes gently down, I left my happy country home,"
She sighed, "to seek the town, More foul than yonder drift shall turn, Before the sun is high, Downtrodden and defiled of men, More foul," she wept, "am I."
"Yet, as in midday might confessed, Thy good sun's face of fire Draws the chaste spirit of the snow To meet him from the mire, Lord, from this leprous life in death Lift me, Thy Magdalene, That rapt into Redeeming Light I may once more be clean."
REMEMBRANCE
(To music)
The fairest blooming flower Before the sun must fade; Each leaf that lights the bower Must fall at last decayed!
Like these we too must wither, Like these in earth lie low, None answering whence or whither We come, alas! or go.
None answering thee? thou sayest, Nay, mourner, from thy heart, If but in faith thou prayest, The Voice Divine shall start; "I gave and I have taken, If thou wouldst comfort win To cheer thy life forsaken, I knock, O, let me in!
"Thy loved ones have but folden Their earthly garments by, And through Heaven's gateway golden Gone gladly up on high.
O, if thou wouldst be worthy To share their joy anon, Cast off, cast off the earthy, And put the heavenly on!"
SANDS OF GOLD
Hope gave into my trembling hands An hour-gla.s.s running golden sands, And Love's immortal joys and pains I measured by its glancing grains.
But Evil Fortune swooped, alas!
Remorseless on the magic gla.s.s, And shivered into idle dust The radiant record of my trust.
Long I mated with Despair And craved for Death with ceaseless prayer; Till unto my sick-bed side There stole a Presence angel-eyed.
"If thou wouldst heal thee of thy wound,"
Her voice to heavenly harps attuned Bespake me, "Let the sovran tide Within this gla.s.s thy future guide."
Therewith she gave into my hands No hour-gla.s.s running golden sands, Only a horologe forlorn Set against a cross of thorn, And cold and stern the current seemed That through its clouded crystal gleamed.
"Immortal one," I cried, "make plain This cure of my consuming pain.
Open my eyes to understand, And sift the secrets of this sand, And measure by its joyless grains What yet of life to me remains."
"The sand," she said, "that glimmers grey Within this gla.s.s, but yesterday Was dust at Dives' bolted door Shaken by G.o.d's suffering poor; Then by blasts of heaven upblown Before the Judge upon His throne To swell the ever-gathering cloud Of witnesses against the proud-- The dust of throats that knew no slaking, The dust of brows for ever aching-- Dust unto dust with life's last breath Sighed into the urn of Death."
With tears I took that cross of thorn, With tears that horologe forlorn.
And all my moments by its dust I measure now with prayerful trust, And though my courage oft turns weak, Fresh comfort from that cross I seek; In wistful hope I yet may wake To find the thorn in blossom break, And from life's shivered gla.s.s behold My being's sands ebb forth in gold.
THE MOURNER
When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner's bed, Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow For his beloved one dead, If all be not in vain, his pa.s.sionate prayer Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue, To fall transfigured back on his despair In drops of Heavenly dew;
Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing Of incense from his soul's hushed altar start, And still return to rise with rich increasing, A well-spring from his heart; Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing Through other lives shall still run radiant on, Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing, Long after he is gone.
DE PROFUNDIS
Out of the darkness I call; I stretch forth my hands unto Thee.
Loose these fetters that foully enthral; To their lock Thou alone hast the key.
Low at Thy footstool I fall, Forgive and Thy servant is free!
Folly took hold of my time, On pleasure I perched, to my woe; I was snared in The Evil One's lime And now all his promptings I know.
Crimson as blood is my crime.
Yet Thou canst wash whiter than snow.