Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 155

O world, in very truth thou art too young: They gave thee love who measured out thy skies, And, when they found for thee another star, Who made a festival and straightway hung The jewel on thy neck. O merry world, Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd One banner of thy bridal car for them.

O world, in very truth thou art too young.

There was a voice which sang about thy spring, Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips, And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue Before thy nightingales were come again.

O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?

Say, has thy merriment no secret pain, No sudden weariness that thou art young?

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

823. The Two Highwaymen

I LONG have had a quarrel set with Time Because he robb'd me. Every day of life Was wrested from me after bitter strife: I never yet could see the sun go down But I was angry in my heart, nor hear The leaves fall in the wind without a tear Over the dying summer. I have known No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death.

The fair world is the witness of a crime Repeated every hour. For life and breath Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly The voices of these robbers of the heath Sound in each ear and chill the pa.s.ser-by.

--What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time?

What have we done to Death that we must die?

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

824. A Garden Song

HERE in this sequester'd close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus,-- More had not Alcinous!

Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else--afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long; Here be s.p.a.ces meet for song; Grant, O garden-G.o.d, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,-- Now that mood and moment please,-- Find the fair Pierides!

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

825. Urceus Exit Triolet

I INTENDED an Ode, And it turn'd to a Sonnet It began a la mode, I intended an Ode; But Rose cross'd the road In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode; And it turn'd to a Sonnet.

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

826. In After Days Rondeau

IN after days when gra.s.ses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honour'd dust, I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days!

But yet, now living, fain would I That some one then should testify, Saying--'He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or l.u.s.t.'

Will none?--Then let my memory die In after days!

Henry Clarence Kendall. 1841-1882

827. Mooni

HE that is by Mooni now Sees the water-sapphires gleaming Where the River Spirit, dreaming, Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming Under lute of leaf and bough!-- Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is, Psalms from unseen wildernesses Deep amongst far hill-recesses-- He that is by Mooni now.

Yea, for him by Mooni's marge Sings the yellow-hair'd September, With the face the G.o.ds remember, When the ridge is burnt to ember, And the dumb sea chains the barge!

Where the mount like molten bra.s.s is, Down beneath fern-feather'd pa.s.ses Noonday dew in cool green gra.s.ses Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels in flowerful forest arches Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is, And the suns in thunder set!

Housed beneath the gracious kirtle Of the shadowy water-myrtle-- Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle, He is safe by Mooni yet!

Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through pa.s.sion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses s.h.i.+ning tracks of green-hair'd mosses, Like a soul with radiant wings: Then the psalm the wind rehea.r.s.es-- Then the song the stream disperses-- Lent a beauty to his verses, Who to-night of Mooni sings.

Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme!

Certain days are not above me, Certain hearts have ceased to love me, Certain fancies fail to move me, Like the effluent morning dream.

Head whereon the white is stealing, Heart whose hurts are past all healing, Where is now the first, pure feeling?

Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme!

Still to be by Mooni cool-- Where the water-blossoms glister, And by gleaming vale and vista Sits the English April's sister, Soft and sweet and wonderful!

Just to rest beneath the burning Outer world--its sneers and spurning-- Ah, my heart--my heart is yearning Still to be by Mooni cool!

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

828. Ode

WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fas.h.i.+on an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

829. Song

I MADE another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above.

Why did my Summer not begin?

Why did my heart not haste?

My old Love came and walk'd therein, And laid the garden waste.

She enter'd with her weary smile, Just as of old; She look'd around a little while And s.h.i.+ver'd with the cold: Her pa.s.sing touch was death to all, Her pa.s.sing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turn'd the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the gra.s.s Seem'd like a snake That bit the gra.s.s and ground, alas!

And a sad trail did make.

She went up slowly to the gate, And then, just as of yore, She turn'd back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.