Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 123

We buy ashes for bread; We buy diluted wine; Give me of the true, Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd Among the silver hills of heaven Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mould of statures, That I intoxicated, And by the draught a.s.similated, May float at pleasure through all natures; The bird-language rightly spell, And that which roses say so well:

Wine that is shed Like the torrents of the sun Up the horizon walls, Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls.

Water and bread, Food which needs no trans.m.u.ting, Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, Wine which is already man, Food which teach and reason can.

Wine which Music is,-- Music and wine are one,-- That I, drinking this, Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; Kings unborn shall walk with me; And the poor gra.s.s shall plot and plan What it will do when it is man.

Quicken'd so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock.

I thank the joyful juice For all I know; Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow.

Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; Retrieve the loss of me and mine!

Vine for vine be antidote, And the grape requite the lote!

Haste to cure the old despair; Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd-- The memory of ages quench'd-- Give them again to s.h.i.+ne; Let wine repair what this undid; And where the infection slid, A dazzling memory revive; Refresh the faded tints, Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew, Upon the tablets blue, The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882

672. Brahma

IF the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pa.s.s, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanish'd G.o.ds to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong G.o.ds pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

Richard Henry Horne. 1803-1884

673. The Plough A LANDSCAPE IN BERKs.h.i.+RE

ABOVE yon sombre swell of land Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy.

Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-stream Of stalwart horses come to plough.

Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind Your labour is for future hours: Advance--spare not--nor look behind-- Plough deep and straight with all your powers!

Robert Stephen Hawker. 1804-1875

674. King Arthur's Waes-hael

WAES-HAEL for knight and dame!

O merry be their dole!

Drink-hael! in Jesu's name We fill the tawny bowl; But cover down the curving crest, Mould of the Orient Lady's breast.

Waes-hael! yet lift no lid: Drain ye the reeds for wine.

Drink-hael! the milk was hid That soothed that Babe divine; Hush'd, as this hollow channel flows, He drew the balsam from the rose.

Waes-hael! thus glow'd the breast Where a G.o.d yearn'd to cling; Drink-hael! so Jesu press'd Life from its mystic spring; Then hush and bend in reverent sign And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.

Waes-hael! in shadowy scene Lo! Christmas children we: Drink-hael! behold we lean At a far Mother's knee; To dream that thus her bosom smiled, And learn the lip of Bethlehem's Child.

Robert Stephen Hawker. 1804-1875

675. Are they not all Ministering Spirits?

WE see them not--we cannot hear The music of their wing-- Yet know we that they sojourn near, The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel's touch hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee!

Thomas Wade. 1805-1875

676. The Half-asleep

O FOR the mighty wakening that aroused The old-time Prophets to their missions high; And to blind Homer's inward sunlike eye Show'd the heart's universe where he caroused Radiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused, And sent them forth to preach divinity; And made our Milton his great dark defy, To the light of one immortal theme espoused!

But half asleep are those now most awake; And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have none Who for eternity put time at stake, And hold a constant course as doth the sun: We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake; And feebly cease ere we have well begun.

Francis Mahony. 1805-1866

677. The Bells of Shandon

WITH deep affection, And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling around my cradle Their magic spells.

On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Bra.s.s tongues would vibrate-- But all their music Spoke naught like thine; For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly-- O, the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

There 's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk O!

In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summits Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there 's an anthem More dear to me,-- 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861

678. Rosalind's Scroll

I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears.