The Grateful Indian Part 16

And with child-like, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rus.h.i.+ng stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rus.h.i.+ng stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rus.h.i.+ng of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith s.h.i.+neth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

MIDNIGHT Ma.s.s FOR THE DYING YEAR.

Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared!

Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely,--sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain pa.s.ses The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn ma.s.ses, Singing, "Pray for this poor soul, Pray,--pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;-- But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers, and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king,--a king!

Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! Oh, the old man grey Loveth that ever-soft voice, Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith-- To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath-- "Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread Over the gla.s.sy skies, No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, "Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away!

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away!

Kyrie, eleyson!

Christe, eleyson!

CHAPTER SEVEN.

EARLIER POEMS.

These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion, "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."

AN APRIL DAY.

When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods and coloured wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide, Stand the grey rooks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below.

Sweet April!--many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.

AUTUMN.

With what a glory comes and goes the year!

The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garnitude spread out And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the cl.u.s.tered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.

Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and pa.s.sionate wooer, Kisses the blus.h.i.+ng leap, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the thres.h.i.+ng-floor the busy flail.

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent!

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.

He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.

WOODS IN WINTER.