  To-day a chief was buried—let him rest. His country's bards are up like larks, and fill With singing the wide heavens of his fame. To-night I sit within my lonely room, The atmosphere is full of misty rain, Wretched the earth and heaven. Yesterday The streets and squares were choked with yellow fogs, To-morrow we may all be drenched in sleet! Stretched like a homeless beggar on the ground, The city sleeps amid the misty rain. Though Rain hath pitched his tent above my head, Since I've begun to trace these lines, Sunrise Has struck a land and woke its bleating hills; Afar upon some black and silent moor The crystal stars are shaking in the wind; An ocean gurgles, for the stooping moon Hath kissed him into peace, and now she smooths The well-pleased monster with her silver hand. Come, naked, gleaming Spring! great crowds of larks Fluttering above thy head, thy happy ears Loud with their ringing songs, Bright Saviour, come! And kill old Winter with thy glorious look, And turn his corse to flowers! I sit to-night As dreary as the pale, deserted East, That sees the Sun, the Sun that once was hers, Forgetful of her, flattering his new love, The happy-blushing West. In these long streets Of traffic and of noise, the human hearts Eternity doth wear upon her face The veil of Time. They only see the veil, And thus they know not what they stand so near. Oh, rich in gold! Beggars in heart and soul! Poor as the empty void! Why, even I, Sitting in this bare chamber with my thoughts, Am richer than ye all, despite your bales, Your streets of warehouses, your mighty mills, Each booming like a world faint heard in space: Your ships; unwilling fires, that day and night Writhe in your service seven years, then die Without one taste of peace. Do ye believe A simple primrose on a grassy bank Forth-peeping to the sun, a wild bird's nest, The great orb dying in a ring of clouds, Like hoary Jacob 'mong his waiting sons; The rising moon, and the young stars of God, Are things to love? With these my soul is brimmed; Then all thy heaven of money-bags can bring Thy dry heart, Worldling! The terror-stricken rain Flings itself wildly on the window-panes, Imploring shelter from the chasing wind. Alas! to-night in this wide waste of streets It beats on human limbs as well as walls! God led Eve forth into the empty world From Paradise. Could our great Mother come And see her children now, what sight were worst; A worker woke by cruel Day, the while A kind dream feeds with sweetest phantom-bread, Him, and his famished ones; or when the Wind, With shuddering fingers, draws the veil of smoke, And scares her with a battle's bleeding face? Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England! Oh, I know a tale Listening to her own larks, with growing limbs, And mighty hands, which since have tamed the world, Dreaming about their tasks. This dreary night I'll tell the story to my listening heart. I sang 't to thee, O unforgotten Friend! (Who dwellest now on breezy English downs, While I am drowning in the hateful smoke) Beside the river which I long have loved. O happy Days! O happy, happy Past! O Friend! I am a lone benighted ship; Before me hangs the vast untravelled gloom, Behind, a wake of splendour, fading fast Into the hungry gloom from whence it came. Two days the Lady gazed toward the west, The way that he had gone; and when the third From its high noon sloped to a rosy close, Upon the western margin of the isle, Feeding her petted swans by tossing bread She stood. The fond Day pressed against her face; His am'rous, airy fingers, with her robe Fluttered and played, and trembling, touched her throat, And toying with her ringlets, could have died Upon her sweet lips and her happy cheeks! With a long rippling sigh she turned away, And wished the sun was underneath the hills. Anon she sang; and ignorant Solitude, Astonished at the marvel of her voice, Stood tranced and mute as savage at the door Of rich cathedral when the organ rolls, And all the answering choirs awake at once. Then she sat down and thought upon her love; Fed on the various wonders of his face To make his absence rich. "'Tis but three days Since he went from me in his light canoe, And all the world went with him, and to-night He will be back again. Oh, when he comes, And in the pauses of the sweetest storm Of kisses that e'er beat upon a face, I'll tell him how I've pined, and sighed, and wept, And thought of those sweet days and nights that flew O'er us unheeded as a string of swans, That wavers down the sky toward the sea,— And he will chide me into blissful tears, Then kiss the tears away." Quick leapt she up, "He comes! he comes!" She laughed, and clapt her hands, A light canoe came dancing o'er the lake, And he within it gave a cry of joy. She sent |
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