When you gave it me under the pines, I dreamed these gems from the mines Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines;That this iron link from the chain Of Bonnivard might retain Some verse of the Poet who sang Of the prisoner and his pain;That this wood from the frigate's mast Might write me a rhyme at last, As it used to write on the sky The song of the sea and the blast.
But motionless as I wait, Like a Bishop lying in state Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, And its jewels inviolate.
Then must I speak, and say That the light of that summer day In the garden under the pines Shall not fade and pass away.
I shall see you standing there, Caressed by the fragrant air, With the shadow on your face, And the sunshine on your hair.
I shall hear the sweet low tone Of a voice before unknown, Saying, "This is from me to you--From me, and to you alone."
And in words not idle and vain I shall answer and thank you again For the gift, and the grace of the gift, O beautiful Helen of Maine!
And forever this gift will be As a blessing from you to me, As a drop of the dew of your youth On the leaves of an aged tree.
ROBERT BURNS
I see amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task So clear, we know not if it is The laverock's song we hear, or his, Nor care to ask.
For him the ploughing of those fields A more ethereal harvest yields Than sheaves of grain;Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye, The plover's call, the curlew's cry, Sing in his brain.
Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass, The brighter seem.
He sings of love, whose flame illumes The darkness of lone cottage rooms;He feels the force, The treacherous undertow and stress Of wayward passions, and no less The keen remorse.
At moments, wrestling with his fate, His voice is harsh, but not with hate;The brushwood, hung Above the tavern door, lets fall Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall Upon his tongue.
But still the music of his song Rises o'er all elate and strong;Its master-chords Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude Between the words.
And then to die so young and leave Unfinished what he might achieve!
Yet better sure Is this, than wandering up and down An old man in a country town, Infirm and poor.
For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough;He sits beside each ingle-nook, His voice is in each rushing brook, Each rustling bough.
His presence haunts this room to-night, A form of mingled mist and light From that far coast.
Welcome beneath this roof of mine!
Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, Dear guest and ghost!
HELEN OF TYRE
What phantom is this that appears Through the purple mist of the years, Itself but a mist like these?
A woman of cloud and of fire;
It is she; it is Helen of Tyre, The town in the midst of the seas.
O Tyre! in thy crowded streets The phantom appears and retreats, And the Israelites that sell Thy lilies and lions of brass, Look up as they see her pass, And murmur "Jezebel!"Then another phantom is seen At her side, in a gray gabardine, With beard that floats to his waist;It is Simon Magus, the Seer;
He speaks, and she pauses to hear The words he utters in haste.
He says: "From this evil fame, From this life of sorrow and shame, I will lift thee and make thee mine;Thou hast been Queen Candace, And Helen of Troy, and shalt be The Intelligence Divine!"Oh, sweet as the breath of morn, To the fallen and forlorn Are whispered words of praise;For the famished heart believes The falsehood that tempts and deceives, And the promise that betrays.
So she follows from land to land The wizard's beckoning hand, As a leaf is blown by the gust, Till she vanishes into night.
O reader, stoop down and write With thy finger in the dust.
O town in the midst of the seas, With thy rafts of cedar trees, Thy merchandise and thy ships, Thou, too, art become as naught, A phantom, a shadow, a thought, A name upon men's lips.
ELEGIAC
Dark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud;Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon, Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea.
Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean;With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep, Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings, Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores.
Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean;Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea!
AU have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboring roadstead, Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist.
Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatisfied longings;Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams;While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at anchor, Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust!
OLD ST.DAVID'S AT RADNOR
What an image of peace and rest Is this little church among its graves!
All is so quiet; the troubled breast, The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, Here may find the repose it craves.
See, how the ivy climbs and expands Over this humble hermitage, And seems to caress with its little hands The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!
You cross the threshold; and dim and small Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold;The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall, The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old."Herbert's chapel at Bemerton Hardly more spacious is than this;But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, That lowly and holy edifice.
It is not the wall of stone without That makes the building small or great But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt, And the love that stronger is than hate.
