Poems by Walter Richard Cassels Part 10

SONG.

Love took me softly by the hand, Love led me all the country o'er, And show'd me beauty in the land, That I had never dreamt before, Never before, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

There was a glory in the morn, There was a calmness in the night, A mildness by the south wind borne, That I had never felt aright, Never aright, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

But now it cannot pa.s.s away, I see it wheresoe'er I go, And in my heart by night and day, Its gladness waveth to and fro, By night and day, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

THE BELL.

Through the calm and silent air Floats the tolling funeral bell, Swooning over hill and dell, Heavy laden with despair; Mute between each m.u.f.fled stroke, Sad as though a dead voice spoke, Out of the dim Past time spoke, Stands my heart all mute with care.

The Bell is tolling on, and deep, Deep and drear into my heart All its bitter accents dart.

Peace! sad chime, I will not weep-- What is there within thy tone, That should wring my heart alone, Rive it with this endless moan?

Peace! and let past sorrows sleep!

Fling your music on the breeze, Mock the sighing of the willows, Mock the lapping of the billows, Mock not human sympathies; Slow chime, sad chime, mock me not, With that loved voice ne'er forgot, Flooding me with tears blood-hot; Mock not soul-deep memories!

Come not from the unseen Past, Flying up the silent gale, With that deep and m.u.f.fled wail, Slaying me with lying tale, Base chime, false chime from the Past!

Not in sighs of mortal pain, Pain and anguish rise again, Voices from the far Death-plain-- Not thus speaks she from the Past.

Peace! yet--for though she speaks not From her Paradise in thee, Whispers nevermore to me In my lonely misery, Oh! that loved voice ne'er forgot, Thou dost wake my brooding soul, Smit'st it till the bitter dole Breaks aloud beyond controul, While the briny tear-drops roll, Drowning, cries which she hears not.

Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on, I shall turn my heart to stone, Flinging back thy mocking tone, Callous of thy deepest moan Lying Bell! thy power is gone!

Spake she from her golden cloud, Spake she to my heart aloud, Every murmur of her voice, Would bid my lone heart rejoice; Every murmur of her voice, Ah! would make my heart rejoice, Lying Bell! thy power is gone.

LLEWELLYN.

I.--_In the Porch._

MORGAN _and a_ MONK.

MORGAN.

The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise-- Llewellyn went at morn among the hills, To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too, With all her maidens, early sallied forth, A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales, Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home; And so the child lay sleeping in his crib, With Gelert--you remember the old hound?

He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well-- With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.

MONK.

The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!

MORGAN.

Strange! Not a whit, for fifty times before The hound hath kept him like his own bred whelp, And ne'er a one could touch him; but the child Play'd with his s.h.a.ggy ears and great rough coat, As no grown man had dared.

MONK.

I know there is A strange n.o.bility in dogs, to bear The utmost sport of children, that would seize Man by the throat e'en for a finger touch-- But to your tale--

MORGAN.

Well! suddenly at noon, Llewellyn, baffled of his game, hied back, Striding right grimly in his discontent, And whistling, oft his spear upon the ground, Slaying the visions of his fretful dreams; And presently he thought him of his child: So with its winsome ways to wile the time, He went unto the chamber where it lay, Watch'd o'er by Gelert, as his custom was: But there, alack! or that the child had crost The savage humour of the beast, or that Some sudden madness had embolden'd it, He saw the child lie b.l.o.o.d.y mid the sheets, Slain by the hound, as it would seem, for there Lay Gelert lapping from his chaps the blood, That hung in gouts from every grisly curl.

MONK.

O Heaven! the woful deed! What did your lord?

MORGAN.

You know the hasty humour of the man, That brooks no let betwixt him and his mood-- He slew the old hound with his heavy spear, That almost licking of his feet fell dead; For Gelert loved him well, and, crouching, took Without a cry the blow that struck his heart.

MONK.

This is a sorry day for all the house; they say Llewellyn had his soul set on the child.

MORGAN.

His soul! Ay, marry! many a time and oft I've seen the man's great heart stare from his eyes, Just like a girl's, out at the crowing boy: And yesterday it was he perch'd him fair Upon his broad rough shoulder, like a lamb Laid on the topmost reaches of a hill, And so he bore him, all his face a-glow, When heralds came with war-notes from the king; At which he turn'd him soft--the startled babe Still set astride, and looking fondly up, Said he, "See! here's the only lord that sets His foot upon my shoulder." The man's heart Scarce beats, I warrant, now the child is dead.

MONK.

And hath he master'd aught his sorrow now, Or still rides pa.s.sion curbless through his soul?

MORGAN.

Ah! there, good Father, lies the chiefest woe, For in the slaying of the hound his rage Quite spent its force, and now I fear me much His mind bath lost its olden empery.

MONK.

Nay! Death smites pa.s.sion still upon the mouth, And its grim shade is silence--'Tis no sign.

MORGAN.

But in this one act all his fury pa.s.s'd; And turning softly from the dead child there, Suffering none to touch it where it lay, He sat him down in awful calmness nigh, And gazed forth blankly like a sculptured face; And when we fain would pa.s.s to take the child, A strange wild voice still warns us back again, "Hus.h.!.+ for the boy is sleeping." It would seem He will not think that Death hath struck the babe, But blinds his willing soul, and deems it sleep.

MONK.

A longer sleep, whose waking is not here!