The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems Part 14

Here mayest thou lie, and looking up, behold Far up the stately trees sway to and fro In the deep sunny air, with motion slow, And whispering to each other weird and low, The secrets of the haunted cloud-land old

Heaven seems not half so far as in the town,-- Looking through smoke and dust and tears to gam Some heavenly comfort for thy human pain, Heaven seems far off, but here the dews and ram Come like a benediction from the Father down.

Nor will He who forgets not any weed That blooms its little life in forest shade, And dies when it hath cast its ripened seed, Forget the human creatures He has made, Frail as they are, and full of infinite need.

Now like a sheaf of golden arrows fall The last rays of the Indian Summer sun; And hark along the hollow hills they run, Invisible messengers, the battle-call Of coming storms, in pipings faint and small They bring:--the pageant of the year is done.

RESIGNATION.

If Thou who seest this heart of mine To earthly idols p.r.o.ne, Should'st all those clinging cords untwine, And take again Thy own,-- Help me to lay my hands in thine, And say Thy will be done!

But Oh, when Thou dost claim the gift Which Thou did'st only lend, And leav'st my life of love bereft, And lonely to the end,-- Oh Saviour! be Thyself but left, My best beloved Friend!

And still the chastening hand I bless, Which doth my steps uphold Along earth's th.o.r.n.y wilderness, Back to the Father's fold, Where I Thy face in righteousness Shall evermore behold.

EUTHANASIA

"O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet!"

--_Mrs. Browning._

Dread phantom, with pale finger on thy lips, Who dost unclose the awful doors for each, That ope but once, and are unclosed no more, Turn the key gently in the mystic ward, And silently unloose the silver cord; Lay thy chill seal of silence upon speech, And mutely beckon through the soundless door To endless night, and silence and eclipse.

Even now the soul unfettered may explore On its swift wing beyond the gates of morn, (Unravelled all the weary round of years) And stand, unfenced of time and crowding s.p.a.ce, With love's fond instinct in that primal place, The distant northern isle where she was born; She sees the bay, the waves' deep voice she hears, And babbles of the forms that are no more.

They are the dead, long laid in foreign graves, One with his sword upon his loyal breast, And one in tropic lands beneath the palm; The sea rolls dark between those hemispheres, And all the long procession of the years, Since last those warm young hands she fondly pressed, And heard through mute farewells the funeral psalm, The "nevermore" of the dividing waves.

The record of a life is writ between; The new world's story supplements the old; The heathery hills, the rapture of the morn, The fishers' huts, the chieftain's castle gray, And the smooth crescent of the land-locked bay,-- These, the long hunger of the heart outworn, New scenes replace, and the once strange and cold, Become like those kept in the memory green.

But thou hast found already that dread place, And thy lost loved ones in that unknown goal, Ere thou hast quite put off the scrip and sh.e.l.l, And gathered up thy feet into the bed, And closed thine eyes, the last prayers being said, Thy lips move dumbly, thy delaying soul Pa.s.ses in salutation, not farewell, To join the heroes of thine ancient race.

Unoutlined shadow, angel of release, Whose cool hand stills the fever in the veins, And all the tumult of life's crowding cares-- Ambition, envy, love and fear and hate, Hope's eager prophecies fulfilled too late, And fierce desires, and sorrows, and despairs-- Thou wav'st thy mystic wand, and there remain Sleep and forgetfulness, and utter peace.

Why should we fear thy shadow at the door, Oh thou mysterious Death?--art thou not sweet To the worn pilgrim of life's toilsome day, Who com'st at evening time, and show'st instead Of pilgrim tent, and pilgrim pallet spread, The doors of that vast caravansera Where all the pilgrims of the ages meet, And rest together, and return no more?

BALLAD OF THE MAD LADYE.

The rowan tree grows by the tower foot, (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, Can the dead feel joy or pain?_) And the owls in the ivy blink and hoot, And the sea-waves bubble around its root, Where kelp and tangle and sea-sh.e.l.ls be, When the bat in the dark flies silently.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

The ladye sits in the turret alone, (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The dead--can they complain?_) And her long hair down to her knee has grown, And her hand is cold as a hand of stone, And wan as a band of flesh may be, While the bird in the bower sings merrily.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

Sadly she leans by her cas.e.m.e.nt side (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, Can the dead arise again?_) And watcheth the ebbing and flowing tide, But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide; The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free And the bird is mute in the rowan tree.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

The moon shone in on the turret stair (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The dead are bound with a chain._) And touched her cheek and brightened her hair, And found naught else in the world so fair, So ghostly fair as the mad ladye, While the bird in the bower sang lonesomely.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

The weary days and the months crept on, (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea, The words of the dead are vain_) At last the summer was over and gone, And still she sat in her turret alone, Her white hands clasping about her knee, And the bird was mute in the rowan tree.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

Wild was the sound of the wind and the sleet, (_Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea.

The dead--do they walk again?_) Wilder the roar of the surf that beat; Whose was the form that it bore to her feet Swayed with the swell of the unquiet sea, While the raven croaked in the rowan tree.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

Oh Lady, strange is the silent guest-- (_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, Can the dead feel sorrow or pain?_) With the sea-drenched locks and the pulseless breast And the close-shut lips which thine have pressed And the wide sad eyes that heed not thee, While the raven croaks in the rowan tree.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

The tower is dark, and the doors are wide, (_Flotsam and jetsam cast up by the sea, The dead are at peace again._) Into the harbour the fisher boats ride, But two went out with the ebbing tide, Without sail, without oar, full fast and free, And the raven croaks in the rowan tree.

(_Hark to the wind and the rain._)

THE COMING OF THE KING.

"O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted, behold, I will lay thy atones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children." Isaiah, liv. 11-13.

As the sand of the desert is smitten By hoof-beats that strike out a light, A flash by which dumb things are litten, The children of night; So Thou who of old did'st create us, Among the high G.o.ds the Most High, Strike us with Thy brightness, and let us Behold Thee, and die.

Grown old in blind anguish and travail, Thy world thou mad'st sinless and free Gropes on, with no power to unravel The clue back to Thee: Since his feet from Thy ways torn and bleeding The long march of ages began, And the gates of Thy sword-guarded Eden Were closed upon man.

Fates thicken, and prophecies darken, Grown up into blossom and fruit; And we lean in these last days to hearken The sound of Thy foot.

Not now as a star-fallen stranger, By shepherds, and pilgrims adored, As couched among kine in a manger, An undeclared lord:

Not now in waste wilderness places, And mountains, and wind-shaken seas, Proclaiming to strange alien races The gospel of peace; Who rended'st the prey from the leopard, With sorrowful wounding and strife, The Priest--the Lamb slain--the Good Shepherd, The way and the life.

Not the face that wept over the city Nor that with its anguish of pain In the garden, nnlightened by pity Of angels or men; Nor the suffering form, unreplying.

With the chrysm of death at its lips; Cross-uplifted, and nail-pierced, and dying In fateful eclipse:

But with all heaven's glory and splendour Through the gates of the morning come down, And with thrones and dominions to render Him sceptre and crown!

With the Face beyond all men's thinking, Beholden of all men's eyes; And the earth in its gladness drinking The light of the skies.