Poems by Walter Richard Cassels Part 4

On, like a giant, stalketh the strong Wind, Wrapping the clouds about him, close and dark, Rifting Creation's soul, for rage is blind,-- No pity hath he for the Earth all stark, s.h.i.+vering beneath the loose and drifting snow, A scanty shroud to hide the dead below.

Dead? There is life within the mother's breast-- So claspeth she her young ones to her heart;-- "The time will come--the time will come--rest! rest!

Let the mad greybeard to his North depart; Earth shall arise and mock him in his grave-- Patience a little, let the dotard rave!"

The palsied boughs grew still--there came a pause, And Nature's heart scarce beat for listening, Gazing abroad from all the tempest-flaws, With prayerful longing for the saviour Spring; And when she heard Spring coming up the sky, Earth rose and threw her shroud off joyfully.

Then she who once had wept like Niobe, Beheld her children springing round her feet, Raising young voices in the early day, That never to her ear had seem'd so sweet; And the soft murmur of a thousand rills Proclaim'd how Spring had loosed them on the hills.

The bright Evangel came, girt round with mirth, And garlanded with youth, and crown'd with flowers "Awake! arise! ye sons of the new birth, And move to the quick measure of the hours!

Summer is coming--go ye forth to meet her, With sweetest hymeneal songs to greet her."

So there arose straightway a joyous train, Gather'd by every nook and hedgerow shade, That in its pa.s.sage o'er the verdant plain, 'Still in the heart a thrilling music made-- Sweet pilgrims they of Love in youth's gay time, Leading the year on to its golden prime.

The birds sang homage to her evermore; And myriad winged things, whose radiant dyes Made suns.h.i.+ne beautiful, still hover'd o'er, And bore her witness in the sunlit skies; And rising from the tomb in glad amaze, Came many a sainted flower to hymn her praise.

Thus from the streams, and rivers, from the sea, From the stirr'd bosom of the mighty hills, From every glade there rose continually A blessing for her, till with joyous thrills Earth's bosom heaved, and in man's heart a voice Echoed the anthem--"Spring is come! Rejoice!"

THE BITTERN.

The reeds are idly waving o'er the marshy ground, The rank and ragged herbage rots on many a mound, And desolate pools and marshes deadly lie around.

There is no life nor motion, save the winds that fly With the close-m.u.f.fled clouds in silence through the sky, There is no sound to stir it, save the Bittern's cry;

The Bittern, sitting sadly on the fluted edges Of pillars once the prop and pride of palace ledges, Now smear'd with damp decay and sunk in slimy sedges;

Shatter'd and sunken, with the sculptured architrave Peering above the surface of the sluggish wave, Like a gaunt limb thrust fleshless from a shallow grave.

The Bittern sitteth sadly on the time-worn stone, Upon life's mouldering relics, fearfully alone, Searing the silence ofttimes with his solemn tone.

The Bittern--monarch of the sad and dreary place, Mocking the pride and pageant of a ruin'd race, Whose very name's forgotten, and whose deeds have left no trace.

The pleasant songs of peace, the lute, the lover's sigh, The statesman's eloquence, the warrior's battle-cry Have pa.s.s'd,--and like their echo from the heedless sky, The lonely Bittern's note comes sadly floating by.

Oh, melancholy sound! Shall thus for ever end The glory and the greatness whither all hopes tend, And as the Past comes booming shall the Present wend?

No ear to listen to the old and hard-earn'd glory, That wore the heart out, made the locks grow scant and h.o.a.ry, No ear to listen, and no tongue to tell the story!

The Bittern sitteth 'midst the marshes of the Past, Sitteth amidst the ruins, whilst the hours fleet fast, And at his own hoa.r.s.e cry he looketh round aghast.

The hours fleet fast unnoted, and the time is nigh, When even he on noiseless wings shall soar on high, Till his deep note is lost amid the azure sky.

GONE.

The night is dark, and evermore The thick drops patter on the pane The wind is weary of the rain, And round the thatches moaneth sore; Dark is the night, and cold the air; And all the trees stand stark and bare, With leaves spread dank and sere below, Slow rotting on the plashy clay, In the G.o.d's-acre far away, Where she, O G.o.d! lies cold below-- Cold, cold below!

And many a bitter day and night Have pour'd their storms upon her breast, And chill'd her in her long, long rest, With foul corruption's icy blight; Earth's dews are freezing round the heart, Where love alone so late had part; And evermore the frost and snow Are burrowing downward through the clay, In the G.o.d's-acre far away, Where she, O G.o.d! lies cold below,-- Cold, cold below!

Those eyes so full of light are dim; And the clear chalice of her youth, All sparkling up with love and truth, Hath Death drain'd keenly from the brim;-- No more can mortal ear rejoice In the soft music of her voice; No wistful eye, through tears of woe, Can pierce down through the heavy clay, In the G.o.d's-acre far away, Where she, O G.o.d! lies cold below,-- Cold, cold below.

A star s.h.i.+nes, sudden, from the sky-- G.o.d's angel cometh, pure and bright, Making a radiance through the night, Unto the place where, mute, I lie, Gazing up in rapt devotion, Shaken by a deep emotion; And my thoughts no longer go Wandering o'er the plashy clay, In the G.o.d's-acre far away, Where she, O G.o.d! _lay_ cold below-- Cold, cold below!

G.o.d's angel! ah I divinely bright!

But still the olden grace is there-- The soft brown eyes--the raven hair-- The gentle smile of calm delight, That could such peace and joy impart-- The veil is rent from off my heart, And gazing upward, well I know The rain may beat upon the clay In the G.o.d's-acre far away; But she no longer lies below, Enshrouded by the frost and snow-- Cold, cold below!

BEATRICE DI TENDA.

1.

It was too sweet--such dreams do ever fade When Sorrow shakes the sleeper from his rest-- Life still to me hath been a masquerade, Woe in Mirth's wildest, gayest mantle drest, With the heart hidden--but the face display'd.

But now the vizard droppeth, crush'd and torn, And there is nought left but some tinsell'd rags, To mock the wearer in the face of morn, As through the gaping world she feebly drags Her day-born measure of reproach and scorn.

But that _his_ hand should pluck the dream away-- And thus--and thus--O Heaven! it strikes too deep!

The knife that wounds me, if not meant to slay, Stumbles upon my heart the while I weep: So be it; no hand of mine its course shall stay.

False? false to him? Release me--let me go Before Heaven's judgment-seat to make appeal; Unfold the records of this life, and show All that the secret pages can reveal, That Heaven and Earth the inmost truth may know!

He cannot think it in his heart of hearts; He cannot wear this falsehood in his soul, Or deem me perjur'd; no delusive arts Can make him blot my name from honour's scroll: The sun will s.h.i.+ne forth when the cloud departs.

Patience, my heart! Error is quick, but Truth Moves slowly, but moves surely up the earth, Wiping from age the heresies of youth, And kindling warmth on the once blasted hearth: Patience, my heart! and rage will turn to ruth.

There is no blush upon my brow, though tears Are in mine eyes, and sorrow in my heart; This sobbing breast heaves not with traitor fears: No sighs for sin are these that sadly start, And bear their bitter burden to thine ears.

And though my woman's strength bend like a reed Before the flowing of Affliction's river, Not, not for shame, nor for one strumpet deed Doth this weak frame bow down, or faintly quiver, As I stand forth alone in deadly need.

No! before thee, Filippo, and the world, Cased in its petty panoply of scorn, With myriad slavish lips in mocking curl'd, Spotless and innocent, though most forlorn, Here stand I, 'gainst the shafts Falsehood hath hurl'd.

2.

Confess'd! Confess'd the guilty act! What act?

What act, my Lord, that cometh home to me Closer than each hot word, by torment rack'd, Flies at the bidding of false tyranny, That makes at will the pain-wrung falsehood fact?