Night fell, with rain. The Earth so sick of sin
Had turned her face into the dark to weep.
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V.
A REWARD.
Because a
steadfast flame of clear intent
Gave force and beauty to full-actioned life;
Because his way was one of firm ascent,
Whose stepping-stones were hewn of change and strife;
Because as husband loveth noble wife
He loved fair Truth; because the thing he meant
To do, that thing he did, nor paused, nor bent,
In face of poor and pale conclusions; yea,
Because of this, how fares the Leader dead?
What kind of mourners weep for him to-day?
What golden
shroud is at his
funeral spread?
Upon his brow what leaves of
laurel, say?
About his breast is tied a sackcloth grey,
And knots of thorns deface his
lordly head.
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VI.
TO
A HANDMAID to the Genius of thy song
Is sweet fair Scholarship. 'Tis she supplies
The fiery Spirit of the
passioned eyes
With subtle syllables whose notes belong
To some chief source of perfect melodies.
And glancing through a
laurelled
lordly throng
Of shining singers, lo, my
vision flies
To William Shakespeare! he it is whose strong
Full flute-like music haunts thy
stately Verse.
A
worthy Levite of his court thou art!
One sent among us to defeat the curse
That binds us to the Actual. Yea, thy part,
Oh, lute-voiced lover! is to lull the heart
Of love repelled: its darkness to disperse.
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VII.
THE STANZA OF CHILDE HAROLD.
WHO framed the
stanza of Childe Harold? He
It was who, halting on a stormy shore,
Knew well the lofty Voice which evermore,
In grand
distress, doth haunt the
sleepless sea
With
solemn sounds! And as each wave did roll
Till one came up, the mightiest of the whole,
To sweep and surge across the
vacant lea,
Wild words were
wedded to wild melody.
This poet must have had a
speechless sense
Of some dead summer's
boundless affluence!
Else, whither can we trace the
passioned lore
Of Beauty, steeping to the very core
His royal verse? And that rare light which lies
About it like a Sunset in the skies?
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VIII.
A LIVING POET.
HE knows the sweet
vexation in the strife
Of Love with Time, this bard who fain would stray
To fairer place beyond the storms of Life,
With astral faces near him day by day.
In deep-mossed dells the
mellow waters flow
Which best he loves; for there the echoes, rife
With rich suggestions of his Long Ago,
Astarte! pass with thee. And, far away,
Dear Southern Seasons haunt the
dreamy eye:
Spring, flower-zoned, and Summer, warbling low
In tasselled corn,
alternate come and go;
While gypsy Autumn, splashed from heel to thigh
With vine-blood, treads the leaves; and, halting nigh,
Wild Winter bends across a beard of snow.
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IX.
DANTE AND VIRGIL.
WHEN lost Francesca sobbed her broken tale
Of Love, and Sin, and
boundless Agony;
While that wan spirit by her side did wail
And bite his lips for utter
misery -
The Grief which could not speak, nor hear, nor see;
So tender grew the superhuman face
Of one who listened, that a
mighty trace
Of superhuman woe gave way, and pale,
The sudden light upstruggled to its place;
While all his limbs began to faint and fail
With such
excess of Pity. But, behind,
The Roman Virgil stood - the calm, the wise -
With not a shadow in his regal eyes,
A
stately type of all his
stately kind!
Page: 112
X.
REST.
SOMETIMES we feel so spent for want of rest,
We have no thought beyond. I know to-day,
When tired of bitter lips and dull delay
With
faithless words, I cast mine eyes upon
The shadows of a distant mountain-crest,
And said, ``That hill must hide within its breast
Some secret glen secluded from the sun.
Oh, mother Nature! would that I could run
Outside to thee, and, like a wearied guest
Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, lay
An aching head on thee. Then down the streams
The moon might swim; and I should feel her grace,
While soft winds blew the sorrows from my face
So quiet in the
fellowship of dreams.''
Page: 113
XI.
AFTER PARTING.
I CANNOT tell what change hath come to you
To vex your splendid hair. I only know
One grief: The Passion left betwixt us two,
Like some
forsaken watchfire, burneth low.
'Tis sad to turn and find it dying so
Without a hope of resurrection! Yet,
O
radiant face that found me tired and lone,
I shall not for the dear dead past forget
The sweetest looks of all the Summers gone.
Ah! time hath made familiar wild Regret;
For now the leaves are white in last year's bowers;
And now doth sob along the ruined leas
The
homeless storm from saddened southern seas,
While March sits
weeping over withered flowers.
Page: 114
XII.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
THE
silvery dimness of a happy dream
I've known of late. Methought where Byron moans,
Like some wild gulf in
melancholy zones,
I passed tear-blinded! Once a lurid gleam
Of stormy
sunset loitered on the sea
While, travelling troubled, like a
straitened stream,
The voice of Shelley died away from me.
Still sore at heart I reached a lake-lit lea.
And then the green-mossed glades with many a grove
Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love;
And
lastly, Locksley Hall! from
whence did rise
A haunting Song that blew, and breathed, and blew,
With rare delights: 'twas there I woke and knew
The
sumptuous comfort left in
drowsy eyes.
Page: 115
SUTHERLAND'S GRAVE.
[The first white man buried in Australia.]
ALL night long the sea out yonder - all night long the wailful sea,
Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly!
Seeketh rest in dens of
tempest where, like one distraught with pain,
Shouts the wild-eyed
sprite, Confusion: seeketh rest, and moans in vain!
Ah! but you should hear it
calling,
calling when the
haggard sky
Takes the darks and damps of Winter with the
mournful marsh-fowl's cry;
Even while the strong, swift torrents from the rainy ridges come
Leaping down and breaking
backwards - million-coloured shapes of foam!
Page: 116
Then, and then, the sea out yonder
chiefly looketh for the boon
Portioned to the pleasant valleys and the grave sweet summer moon:
Boon of Peace, the still, the saintly spirit of the dew-dells deep -
Yellow dells, and hollows
haunted by the soft dim dreams of sleep.
All night long the flying water breaks upon the
stubborn rocks -
Ooze-filled forelands burnt and blackened, smit and scarred with
lightning shocks;
But above the tender sea-thrift, but beyond the flowering fern,
Runs a little
pathwaywestward -
pathwayquaint with turn on turn -
Westward trending, thus it leads to shelving shores and slopes of mist:
Sleeping shores, and
glassy bays of green and gold and amethyst!
There tread
gently -
gently,
pilgrim; there with
thoughtful eyes look round;
Cross thy breast and bless the silence: lo, the place is holy ground!
Holy ground for ever, stranger! All the quiet silver lights
Page: 117
Dropping from the
starry heavens through the soft Australian nights -
Dropping on those lone grave-grasses - come
serene,
unbroken, clear,
Like the love of God the Father, falling, falling, year by year!
Yea, and like a Voice supernal, there the daily wind doth blow
In the leaves above the Sailor buried ninety years ago.
Page: 118
SYRINX.
A HEAP of low dark rocky coast,
Unknown to foot or feather!
A sea-voice moaning like a ghost;
And fits of fiery weather!
The flying Syrinx turned and sped
By dim
mysterious hollows,
Where night is black, and day is red,
And frost the fire-wind follows.
Strong heavy footfalls in the wake
Came up with flights of water:
The gods were
mournful for the sake
Of Ladon's lovely daughter.
Page: 119
For when she came to spike and spine,
Where reef and river gather,
Her feet were sore with shell and chine;
She could not travel farther.
Across a naked
strait of land,
Blown sleet and surge were humming;
But trammelled with the shifting sand,
She heard the
monster coming!
A thing of hoofs and horns and lust!
A gaunt goat-footed stranger!
She bowed her body in the dust,
And called on Zeus to change her.
And called on Hermes fair and fleet,
And her of hounds and quiver,
To hide her in the thickets sweet
That sighed above the river.
So he that sits on
flaming wheels,