Читать книгу Songs at the Start - Louise Imogen Guiney - Страница 3
ОглавлениеI.
Now that the wind is tamed and broken,
And day gleams over the lea,
Row, row, for the one you love
Was out on the raging sea:
Row, row, row,
Sturdy and brave o’er the treacherous wave,
Hope like a beacon before,
Row, sailor, row
Out to the sea from the shore!
II.
O, the oar that was once so merry,
O, but the mournful oar!
Row, row; God steady your arm
To the dark and desolate shore:
Row, row, row,
With your own love dead, and her wet gold head
Laid there at last on your knee,
Row, sailor, row,
Back to the shore from the sea!
HEMLOCK RIVER.
On that river, where their will is,
Grow the tranquil-hearted lilies;
In and out, with summer cadence,
Brown o’erbrimming waters slide;
Shade is there and mossy quiet,—
O but go thou never nigh it!
Ghosts of three unhappy maidens
Float upon its bosom wide.
ON ONE POET REFUSING HOMAGE TO ANOTHER.
A name all read and many rue
Chanced on the idle talk of two;
I saw the listener doubt and falter
Till came the rash reproof anew.
Then on his breath arose a sigh,
And in the flashes of reply
I saw the great indignant shower
Surcharge the azure of his eye.
Said he: “’Neath our accord intense
At mutual shrines of soul and sense,
Flows, like a subterraneous river,
This last and only difference.
“Behold, I am with anguish torn
That you should name his name in scorn,
And use it as an April flower
Plucked from his grave and falsely worn:
“Thrice better his renown were not!
And he in silence lay forgot,
Than to exhale a strife unending
Should be his gentle memory’s lot.
“How can you, freedom in your reach,
Nurse your high thought on others’ speech,
And follow after brawling critics
Reiterating blame with each?
“The world’s ill judgments roll and roll
Nor touch that shy, evasive soul,
Whose every tangled hour of living
God draws to issues fair and whole.
“It grieves me less that, purely good,
His aims are darkly understood,
Than that your spirit jars unkindly
Against its golden brotherhood.
“Et tu, Brute! Where he hath flown
On kindred wing you cross the zone,
And yet for hate, thro’ lack of knowing,
Austerely misconstrue your own.
“No closer wave and wave at sea
Than he and you for grace should be;
I would endure the chains of bondage
That you might share this truth with me!
“A leaf’s light strength should break the wind,
Ere my desire, your wilful mind;
If I should waste my lips in pleading,
Or drain my heart, you still were blind,
“Still warring on the citadels
Of Truth remotely, till her bells
Rouse me, your friend, to old defiance,—
Tho’ dear you be in all things else,—
“And tho’ my hope the day-star is
Of broadening eternities,
Wherein, the shadows cleared forever,
Your cordial hand shall rest in his.”
BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW.
Brother Bartholomew, working-time,
Would fall into musing and drop his tools;
Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme
More than for theses of the schools;
And sighed, and took up his burden so,
Vowed to the Muses, for weal or woe.
At matins he sat, the book on his knees,
But his thoughts were wandering far away;
And chanted the evening litanies
Watching the roseate skies grow gray,
Watching the brightening starry host
Flame like the tongues at Pentecost.
“A foolish dreamer, and nothing more;
The idlest fellow a cell could hold;”
So murmured the worthy Isidor,
Prior of ancient Nithiswold;
Yet pitiful, with dispraise content,
Signed never the culprit’s banishment.
Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way
And patiently wrote in his sunny cell;
His pen fast travelled from day to day;
His books were covered, the walls as well.
“But O for the monk that I miss, instead
Of this listless rhymer!” the Prior said.
Bartholomew dying, as mortals must,
Not unbelov’d of the cowlèd throng,
Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust
Of shelves and of corners, many a song
That cried loud, loud to the farthest day,
How a bard had arisen,—and passed away.
Wonderful verses! fair and fine,
Rich in the old Greek loveliness;
The seer-like vision, half divine;
Pathos and merriment in excess.
And every perfect stanza told
Of love and of labor manifold.
The King came out and stood beside
Bartholomew’s taper-lighted bier,
And turning to his lords, he sighed:
“How worn and wearied doth he appear,—
Our noble poet,—now he is dead!”
“O tireless worker!” the Prior said.
RESERVE.
You that are dear, O you above the rest!
Forgive him his evasive moods and cold;
The absence that belied him oft of old,
The war upon sad speech, the desperate jest,
And pity’s wildest gush but half-confessed,
Forgive him! Let your gentle memories hold
Some written word once tender and once bold,
Or service done shamefacedly at best,
Whereby to judge him. All his days he spent,
Like one who with an angel wrestled well,
O’ermastering Love with show of light disdain;
And whatsoe’er your spirits underwent,
He, wounded for you, worked no miracle
To make his heart’s allegiance wholly plain.
PATRIOT CHORUS ON THE EVE OF WAR.
In thy holy need, our country,
Shatter other idols straightway;
Quench our household fires before us,
Reap the pomp of harvests low;
Strike aside each glad ambition
Born of youth and golden leisure,
Leave us only to remember
Faith we swore thee long ago!
All the passionate sweep of heart-strings,
Thirst and famine, din of battle,
All the wild despair and sorrow
That were ever or shall be,
Are too little, are too worthless,
Laid along thine upward pathway
As with our souls’ strength we lay them,
Stepping-stones, O Love! for thee.
If we be thy burden-bearers,
Let us ease thee of thy sorrow;
If our hands be thine avengers,
Life or death, they shall not fail;
If thy heart be just and tender,
Wrong us not with hesitation:
Take us, trust us, lead us, love us,
Till the eternal Truth prevail!
