Part 4

With her last word the golden door swung free, A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom, Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea, The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom, And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groom That ever bride had waited for and won; But Spring lay like an image on a tomb, Her too-short pilgrimage already done, Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun:

And as her soul forsook its frail abode, Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain, Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode, With tears that fell in showers like to rain, Calling on Spring to come to life again. But tears could not disturb her last repose, And all the calling of his heart was vain. Summer still thinks of Spring--his grief he shows, When golden raindrops fall upon the rose.

RONDEL.

God’s wisdom all my spirit fills With faith that puts to flight all doubt, The snow dissolving into rills Refreshing earth from last year’s drought Adown the peeping slopes of hills Carve their increasing channels out, God’s wisdom all my spirit fills With faith that puts to flight all doubt.

The day that stirs, the night that stills; Spring’s masque of flowers; rich summer’s rout; Each wonder, far past finding out, With joy and love my bosom thrills; God’s wisdom all my spirit fills With faith that puts to flight all doubt.

THE ABBEY WALLS.

This was the Abbey long years ago When a priest was pious, a lord was brave And a lady repeated her Ave slow With fair eyes fixed on the architrave As she heard a sanctified voice that clave The clear bright air with a holy strain: All have been lost in Time’s great wave-- Only the old grey walls remain.

One arch still stands of all the row That circled the Abbey so tall and brave, These flags as legend would have us know, Are the very stones that used to pave The cloister-walk, when a proud margrave Heard from his hiding a love-talk plain Which he never forgot and never forgave, Only the old grey walls remain.

Here where the nettle and nightshade grow By a nameless stone, is the quiet grave Of a murdered priest;--they laid him low Under the walk of the quiet nave. ’Tis whispered alas! that a dagger gave A stab to the heart that brought no pain; Of all the story that Time could save Only the old grey stones remain.

ENVOI.

Ballade! To that dead lady go Say Love still sings its sad refrain; Of its lofty hope and sunny glow Only its old grey walls remain.

THE VIOLET.

Born in the night and christened with the dew, The violet lifts its face for morning’s kiss; And each fair petal, filled with Nature’s bliss, Weaves from the sunshine a sweet robe of blue. The birds look down and wonder how it grew, For yesterday the leaves where now it is Lay green i’ the grass, and nought was like to this, Earth’s earliest counterfeit of Heaven’s hue. The shy hepatica; the showdrop white; The trebly mounted trillium; the blaze Of golden daffodil with sunny rays-- Have all arisen in their beauty bright; But none of Flora’s first-born can compare, With this blue-blossomed darling of the air.

LA FARFALLA.

Bright little butterfly, mounting at morning Over Love’s garden of sweet delight, Heedless of harm and the honey-bee’s warning, Bent upon pleasure, in pains despite. Gaily thou flutterest, gaudily flaunting All thy fair charms to the winds that kiss Like a soul in elysian happiness haunting New meadows of bliss.

When the first grey beam of the dawn uplifting Shadows of sleep from a world of dreams, From sea-marge to mountain and meadow-land drifting, Lighted at last on thy wings’ bright gleams Kissed thee and waked thee and whispered thee hasten To herald the sun where it might not smite In the deeps of dark dells where white flowers wasten And languish for light.

Thou hast bathed in the sun-flashing spray that arises From ripples that laugh on the brook’s fair face, Thou hast gazed in the mirror that Nature devises For Beauty’s delight in her own sweet grace, Thou hast basked in the heat of the noon-tide splendour When cricket piped high in the grass beneath, And the blossoms that carried thy burden so tender Were crowned with a wreath.

The lily grew pale for thou passed its perfection, The violet bowed in a passion of grief, The daisy had hope of thy gracious election, The blue-bell despaired of its heart’s relief, The hyacinth spread all its beauties before thee, The marjoram blushed as it caught thine eye, The mignonette flung its sweet fragrance o’er thee-- But thou passed them by.

Light was thy heart and the pleasures thou scattered Were pure as the flowers on which they fell, Till the red rose sought thee and caught thee and flattered, With promise of love thou hast known too well. All the long hours till the low sun glamoured The bright blushing petals to kiss and to toy, Thou paused in thy flight, for thy heart enamoured Drank deeply of joy.

The blossoms that drooped in the dark and were sighing For tidings of light thou wert bidden to tell Lay down in despair, dreading death, and yet dying And great was the grief in deeps of the dell, For thou hadst forgotten the message of morning And the work of the day thou wast given to do, For the love of the rose and the honey-bee’s scorning For thy love was true.

Poor little butterfly! dying so sadly At the rise of the moon o’er the ripe-gold grain; Dost thou rue of the pleasure thou tasted so madly, Would’st thou take back thy love to take life again? Ah, no! Love is sweeter and meeter than duty, And shall hold thee in joy till thy last breath beats, Till thou liest at rest--a dead marvel of beauty Surrounded by sweets.

COWPER.

A gentle stream purled on its peaceful way Through woodlands fair and meadows wondrous sweet, Chancing at length a cavern dark to meet Within whose depth ne’er fell the light of day; Lo! as it entered, heavenward flew the spray All loth to pass beyond and backward beat, As though the natural course it would defeat That plunged it where the sun cast not a ray. Through that lone cave of blackness on it sped, Its happy music turned to mournful sigh, Until it reached the end, when earth and sky Shone doubly bright that seemed for so long dead;-- Thus didst thou pass, sweet singer, through the gloom Of life’s dark hollow. Light came at the tomb.

RAIN.

Love only laughs when sunshine floods the air, When winds flute summer music through the trees, When nature’s masquers are attired to please And Flora holds gay gala everywhere; But now Heaven’s brow is underknit with care, Low clouds burst forth a-weeping, flowery leas Are drowned with runnels and the ponds grow seas, Leaves droop beneath the dripping loads they bear, And silence reigns in each late lute-filled bough; The cricket chorus and the humming crowd That tell how labour lightens earth’s hard way Are all--all gone. Love hears no music now-- Only an endless falling, sharp and loud, The dreary rhythm of a rainy day.

HYMN.

When the calm of night is falling And the cares of day are o’er, Hear the voice of Jesus calling;-- Go to Him and sin no more.

When the heart is sad and troubled He alone can peace restore, By his love is life ennobled;-- Go to Him and sin no more.

When the soul in grief and anguish Mourns the evil done before, Let your faith no longer languish;-- Go to Him and sin no more.

Go to Him! for He can only Soothe the pain and heal the sore, All who are distressed and lonely;-- Go to Him and sin no more.

Go to Him! lay down your burden, At His feet His love implore, Ask in penitence for pardon;-- Go to Him and sin no more.

Go to Him! He hath invited All to enter Heaven’s door, Sinners by His love united;-- Go to Him and sin no more.

THE GREAT PLAY.

There is a playwright older than the years, Who maketh all men actors in his play, And, though they know not what they do or say, The purpose of the plot in all appears. Each in his turn, beset with inborn fears, Enters unseen, youth’s comedy so gay, Laughs through the hours that glide too soon away Beneath the clouds of soul-consuming tears. Then manhood’s tragedy with perils fraught, Pursues its fickle fortunes to the end, When Fate, the villain of the piece doth send By whom the last exciting scene is wrought; A timely stab from Death’s sure-falling knife Brings down the curtain o’er the play of life.