Poems by Walter Richard Cassels Part 7

But ah! no, in endless slimmer, Roams my heart through Wytham Woods, Meeting in their solitudes Evermore that angel comer, Sweeter than the light of summer Making golden Wytham Woods, Now so far, so far from me In the world of Memory.

THE STAR IN THE EAST.

O'er the wide world I wander evermore, Through wind and weather heedless and alone, Alike through summer, and through winter h.o.a.r, On cloud-capt mountain, by the sea-wash'd sh.o.r.e, Seeking the star that riseth in the East.

O'er the wide world--the world that knows not why, And stares with stupid scorn to see me go; Whilst I with solemn secret face pa.s.s by, To laugh in desert spots where none are nigh, Laugh loud and shrill unto the winds, Ho! Ho!

For that which none but I and _it_ do know.

To think how when I find this lucky star, And stand beneath it, like the Wise of old, I shall mount upward on a golden car, Girt round with glory unto worlds afar, While Earth amazed the wonder shall behold, That bears me unto happiness untold!

Hus.h.!.+ I'll not whisper it, lest some should hear, And hurry on before me to the spot, Leaving me bound for ever to this sphere, Parted for ever from my child--I here, She in the realm that I could enter not.

Hus.h.!.+ I must hurry on--for many nights Have I sought for the star about the sky, And found it not amid the myriad lights, Greater and lesser with their satellites, Flas.h.i.+ng confusedly upon mine eye.

I must unravel every golden hair Upon the brow of Night for what I seek, Lift every straggler from its moony lair, Lest too _the_ star should haply linger there, Unnoted by mine eyes so faint and weak.

For as the Wise Men did in old time trace The Holy Child by this same guiding star, So I know well that by the Virgin's grace, I too by it shall come unto the place Where my sweet babe and its nurse-angels are.

Wearisome are the days, they mock me so, Pouring down light that seems to bid me see, Yet hides the starry pilot by its glow, Whose light I thirst for, whilst light-fountains, flow Around me like the swelling of the sea.

Wearisome are they, till the sun-G.o.d pales Beneath the surges of the western wave, And the last fold of his golden mantle trails O'er the horizon where Earth's vision fails, And s.p.a.ce becomes a darkness and a grave.

I ofttimes think to curse the Day, that tries To keep my babe hid in its envious breast, Smit with its hair of gold, and large blue eyes, Close hid within its mantle, careless of my sighs, That night and day must wake it from its rest.

But Patience! when the sun is in the deep, The Star will beam upon me suddenly, And ere the sun-G.o.d waketh from his sleep, The dear one shall be mine for whom I weep, Mine, mine alone for all eternity.

They call me crazed--Ha! ha!--They little know Who are the crazed of Earth, or they, or I-- They, by their greed of gold urged to and fro, For petty pleasures bending G.o.d's soul low-- I, seeking for my star about the sky.

When it is found,--when it is found, how great Will be the wonder of these blind and mad!

How great will be the wonder and the hate, Waking to see the glorious truth too late Will _he_, too, see his error, and be sad?

The wind sweeps weirdly o'er the heaven to-night, Weirdly and black, as though from guilty deeds,-- From some sad s.h.i.+pwreck, it has taken flight, Leaving the drowning in their direful plight-- Leaving the drown'd low waving in the weeds.

No stars, no stars again! Oh woe! again Night drowns me in its darkness and its gloom, And I must crouch amidst the wind and rain, Without one hope-gleam lightening my pain; All things are leagued to darken down my doom.

Perchance it is that I am growing weak, And faint with wandering afar, afar, And my dim eyes see not the thing I seek; And yet I must not ask, I must not speak, Nor tell--the secret of the Saviour star.

No! dumb,--dumb,--I shall set me down to scan Each twinkling orb that rolleth up through s.p.a.ce, Hesper, heaven's loveliest, leading up the van-- To-morrow--yes! to-morrow I shall watch, and man Shall see this wonder when I reach the place.

Will the babe know me--ope its sweet blue eyes-- And stretch its little arms to clasp me round?

Ah! yes, G.o.d will send knowledge from the skies, In pity for my prayers, and tears, and sighs, Angels will sing for joy that I have found My treasure, and _he_--he will hear the sound!

Cold--cold it is--the wind is bitter chill-- And the rain falls like curses on my head-- No! no! not curses, for the drops say still That there's an end to sorrow, and all ill Flows from us like the water down a hill; The star shall s.h.i.+ne, and all the clouds be sped....

The sought-for Star uprose upon the dead.

UNDER THE SEA.

Deep in the bosom of the ocean, Where suns.h.i.+ne fades to twilight gloom, The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloom Rests unsway'd by the upper motion-- Calm and still the hours pa.s.s by The lovely things that sleeping lie, Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The thunder rolls from cloud to cloud, And the bitter blast sweeps o'er the sea, Shaking the waters mightily; But ne'er the tempest's voice so loud, Sinketh down to the things that lie-- The lovely things that sleeping lie, Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The icebergs crack with a sullen boom, Riven by the hands of the angry North; And, like the Angel of Wrath sent forth, The whirlwind stalks with the breath of doom, Crus.h.i.+ng, like dust 'neath its heavy tread, The last frail spar o'er the seaman's head; But nought can reach the things that lie-- The lovely things that sleeping lie, Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

Deep in the bosom of G.o.d's-acre, Beyond the reach of grief or care, As sweetly rest the good and fair, Where Life's rude foes can ne'er o'ertake her; Calmly and sweetly the hours pa.s.s by The blessed ones who sleeping lie, Deep in the bosom of G.o.d's-acre.

Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary, For thou shalt come unto this rest, And leaning on a mother's breast, Forget the world to thee so dreary: Calmly and sweetly the hours pa.s.s by The happy ones who hoping lie Deep in the bosom of G.o.d's-acre.

WIND.

Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea, Sad with the murmur of the weary waves, Wand'ring for ever through old ocean caves, Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee, With echoes of forgotten misery?

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing From the far waters of the stormy main, Welling their woes forth wearily in rain, Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging, And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.

Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart, Till as of old the unseal'd waters run?

Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one, To make still sorrows from their slumbers start, And play again, unsought, their bitter part?

We are all one with Nature--every breeze Stealeth about the chambers of the soul, Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole; And every cloud that creepeth from the seas, Traileth its shade o'er human sympathies.

Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent, And starlight glimmer through the riven seams, Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams, Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent, And the bright Future gem the firmament.

Blow! blow! Night's "Mene Tekel" even now Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pa.s.s Like the dim vapour from a burnish'd gla.s.s; And no chill shadows o'er the soul shall go, Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.

A CHALLENGE.

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!