Читать книгу Saga of the oak, and other poems - William Henry Venable - Страница 3
ОглавлениеHOARSELY to the midnight moon
Voiced the oak his rugged rune:
“Harken, sibyl Moon, to me;
Hear the saga of the Tree.
“Thou, O queen of splendor, must
Pale and crumble back to dust;
Through slow eons diest thou,—
Doomsday craves my vitals now.
“I am scion of a line
Old, imperial, divine;
Earth produced my ancestor
Ere great Odin was, or Thor.
“From the hursts of holy oak
Fateful gods of Asgard spoke;
In the consecrated shade
Bard and Druid sang and prayed.
“Fostered in an oaken womb
Slept Trifingus, sword of doom;
Therewith woaded Caratak
Drave the steel-sarked Roman back.
“Where, profaned by legioned foes,
In the shuddering forest rose
Mona’s altars flaming rud,
Britain drowned her woe in blood.
“Then the dread decree of Norn
Sounded in the groves forlorn;
Vikings swooping from the North
Harried every scaur and forth.
“Forests fell with crash and roar,
Masted galiots spurned the shore,
Dragon-breasted,—swum the meer,
Daring danger, scouting fear.
“Hengist’s brood and Horsa’s kin,
Seed of Garmund, sons of Finn,
Dane and Saxon sail and sweep
Battling o’er the wrathful deep;
“Hearts of oak! their valor gave
Right of might to rule the wave,
Gave to Nelson’s ocean war
Copenhagen, Trafalgar!
“Bray of trumpet! roll of drum!
When shall Balder’s kingdom come?
Bitter sap shall when grow sweet
In the acorn at my feet?
“Centuries do I stand here
Thinking thoughts profound and drear,
Dreaming solemn dreams sublime
Of the mysteries of Time.
“Roots of mine do feed on graves;
I have eaten bones of braves;
In the ground the learnéd gnomes
Read to me their cryptic tomes.
“Annals treasured in the air
All the past to me declare;
Every wind of heaven brings
Tribute for me on its wings.
“Through my silence proud and lone
Whispers waft from the Unknown:
Musing eld hath second ken—
Moon! the dead shall live again.
“Sun-scorch have I borne, and pangs
From the gnaw of winter’s fangs;
Fought tornadoes, nor forsook
Roothold when the mountains shook.
“Oft the zig-zag thunder hath
Struck me with his fiery scath,—
To my core the havoc sped,
Yet I never bowed my head.
“I am weary of the years;
Overthrown are all my peers,
Slain by steel or storm or flame,—
I would perish too—the same.
“Yet shall I a little space
Linger still in life’s embrace
Ere metempsychosing time
Drag me down to Niflheim.
“Wherefore shun or summon fate?
Wisest they who sanely wait;
In my fiber nature saith,
Life is good and good is death.
“Mated birds of procreant Spring
In my branches build and sing;
Grass is green and flowers bloom
Where I spread my golden gloom;
“Happy children round me play;
Plighted lovers near me stray;
Insects chirping in the night
Thrill me with obscure delight;
“Circling seasons as they run,
Couriers of the lavish sun,
Dower me with treasure lent
By each potent element;
“Ministers to me the whole
Zonéd globe from pole to pole;
In my buds and blossoms beat
Pulses from the central heat;—
“Everything is part of me,
Firmament and moving sea;
I of all that is am part,
Stone and star and human heart.
“Primal Cause etern, self-wrought,
Majesty transcending thought,
This my substance and my soul,
Origin, desire, and goal.
“Through creation’s vasty range
Blows the winter blast of change;
Leaf-like from the Life-Tree whirled
World shall rot on ruined world.
“Hail, inexorable hour
Fraught with clysmian wrack and stour
Welcome, transmutation’s course
And the cosmic rage of Force.
“Yond the atomed universe
Now we gather, now disperse,—
Unto darkling chaos tost,
Back from the chaos—nothing lost.
“Forth abysmal voids of death
Resurrection issueth:—
Flaming ether, quickened clod,
Bodying new forms of God.
“Harken, Moon!—When I am gone,
I, re-born, shall burgeon on;
Out thine ashes shall arise
Other Thou, to ride the skies.”
Spake no more the hoary oak;
No response the wan moon spoke;
But the poet who had heard
Pondered the Dodonian word.
A DIAMOND.
UPON the breast of senseless earth
This precious sparkling stone,
A jewel of Golconda’s worth,
In sovran beauty shone.
My lady for a moment bore
The gem upon her brow,
A moment on her bosom wore:—
’Tis worth the Orient now.
MY CATBIRD.
A CAPRICCIO.
NIGHTINGALE I never heard,
Nor the skylark, poet’s bird;
But there is an æther-winger
So surpasses every singer,
(Though unknown to lyric fame,)
That at morning, or at nooning,
When I hear his pipe a-tuning,
Down I fling Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,—
What are all their songs of birds worth?
All their soaring
Souls’ outpouring?
When my Mimus Carolinensis,
(That’s his Latin name,)
When my warbler wild commences
Song’s hilarious rhapsody,
Just to please himself and me!
Primo Cantante!
Scherzo! Andante!
Piano, pianissimo!
Presto, prestissimo!
Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine?
And now a miraculous gurgling gushes
Like nectar from Hebe’s Olympian bottle,
The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle!
Such melody must be a hermit-thrush’s!
But that other caroler, nearer,
Outrivaling rivalry with clearer
Sweetness incredibly fine!
Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird,
Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird?
All one, sir, both this bird and that bird,
The whole flight are all the same catbird!
The whole visible and invisible choir you see
On one lithe twig of yon green tree.
Flitting, feathery Blondel!
Listen to his rondel!
To his lay romantical!
To his sacred canticle!
Hear him lilting,
See him tilting
His saucy head and tail, and fluttering
While uttering
All the difficult operas under the sun
Just for fun;
Or in tipsy revelry,
Or at love devilry,
Or, disdaining his divine gift and art,
Like an inimitable poet
Who captivates the world’s heart
And don’t know it.
Hear him lilt!
See him tilt!
Then suddenly he stops,
Peers about, flirts, hops,
As if looking where he might gather up
The wasted ecstasy just spilt
From the quivering cup
Of his bliss overrun.
Then, as in mockery of all
The tuneful spells that e’er did fall
From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise,
He snarls, and mews, and flies.
THE TUNES DAN HARRISON USED TO PLAY.
OFTTIMES when recollections throng
Serenely back from childhood years,
Awaking thoughts that slumbered long,
Compelling smiles or starting tears,
The music of a violin
Seems through my window floating in,—
I think I hear from far away
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
Dan Harrison! I see him there
Beside the roaring winter hearth,
Fiddling away all mundane care,
His genial face aglow with mirth;
And when he laid his bow aside,
“Well done! well done!” he cheerly cried;
Well done, well done, indeed were they,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
I do not know what tunes he played,
I cannot name one melody;
His instrument was never made
In old Cremona, o’er the sea;
Yet from its chords his raptured skill
Drew magic strains my soul to thrill,
Some ah so mournful, some so gay,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
I have been witness to the art
Of many a master of the bow,
But none have power to charm the heart
Like him I listened long ago;
Love stole on tiptoe through my trance
To welcome dream-eyed young Romance,
Responsive to the passioned sway
Of tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
Now with the music, as it floats,
Seraphic harping faintly blends;
I catch amid the mingling notes
Familiar voices of old friends;
While choral echoes sweetly fall,
Of yearning love angelical,
And melt, like trembling tears, away,
In tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
FAIRYLAND.
A SECRET glen engirt by hills serene
Sleeps in rich gloom of summer boscage green;
Its dreamy dells, in solemn twilight hush,
Echo dulce warblings of the hermit-thrush;
Kist by young May, the windflower trembles there,
And frail dicentra breathes the dainty air;
The haunt beseems for elfin revels planned,
And so the children call it Fairyland.
A silvern rill, loved by the watercress,
Winds purling through this drowsy wilderness,
Suckling the willow, snowy-corymbed haw,
Vain-flaunting redbud, indolent pawpaw,
Suave linden, and gay buckeye brimming free
His nectar cups to lure the drunken bee;
Aloof, in coats of pearl-green armor, stand
Three sycamores, to guard the Fairyland.
The busy grapevine o’er the coppice weaves
A cunning mesh of interlacing leaves,
Whereon adventurous urchins clamber high,
With giddy shout saluting the blue sky;
Or loll in golden sunshine baptismal,
Inhaling balm of buds ambrosial,
And, by hilarious breezes rocked and fanned,
Through loops of verdure gaze from Fairyland.
Ere dies on heaven’s breast the morning star,
All unsubstantial, visionary, far,
In opalescent vapor loom the glades,
Dawn-rosy domes, dim grottoes and arcades,
Of yon enchanted dingles of the fay;
Behold! transmuted in the sheen of day,
By aureolar rays of Iris spanned,
A bower of dewdrops, glitters Fairyland!
When dusk descends, the eerie host delight
As twinkling fireflies to bestar the night;
Then melancholy tree-toads shrill the throat,
And chirring crickets chime an irksome note;
Flits the lean bat the timorous wren to fray;
The muffled screech-owl hurtles on his prey;
For evil wings a gruesome hour command,
Though holy stars keep watch o’er Fairyland.
All demonkind, or wicked, null, or good,
Lurk in the hollows of the sprightful wood;
There murk fogs drop distillings of the sea;
The weird moon plies her midnight witchery;
Time slumbers there; there Love and Beauty sport;
And Death holds there his grim, fantastic court;
No ghost may blab, no mortal understand
The mystic wonders of our Fairyland.
SUMMER LOVE.
I KNOW ’tis late, but let me stay,
For night is tenderer than day;
Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
The birds in leafy hiding sleep;
Shrill katydids their vigil keep;
The woodbine breathes a fragrance rare
Upon the dewy languid air;
The fireflies twinkle in the vale,
The river looms in moonshine pale,
And look! a meteor’s dreamy light
Streams mystic down the solemn night!
Ah, life glides swift, like that still fire—
How soon our throbbing joys expire;
Who can be sure the present kiss
Is not his last? Make all of this.
I know ’tis late, sweet love, I know,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
Fantastic mist obscurely fills
The hollows of Kentucky hills;
Heardst thou? I heard or fear I heard
Vague twitters of some wakeful bird;
The wingéd hours are swift indeed!
Why makes the jealous morn such speed?
This rose thou wearst may I not take
For passionate remembrance’ sake?
Press with thy lips its crimson heart;
Yes, blushing rose, we must depart;
A rose cannot return a kiss—
I pay its due with this, and this;
The stars grow faint, they soon will die,
But love faints not nor fails.—Good-bye!
Unhappy joy—delicious pain—
We part in love, we meet again!
Good-bye!—the morning dawns—I go,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
CLOVER HILL.
ON the brow of Clover Hill
Stands a maiden gazing out
Through the purple twilight still,
Half in rapture, half in doubt;
In the heavens Venus glistens,
While the maiden looks and listens.
On the brow of Clover Hill
Deeper gloaming shadows fall;
Moans the plaintive whippowill;
Lonesome is the cricket’s call;
In the heavens Venus glistens,
Far the maiden looks and listens.
On the brow of Clover Hill
Lingering she fondly sighs;
Anxious fears her bosom fill,
Tears bedew her mournful eyes;
In the heavens Venus glistens,
Still the maiden looks and listens.
Footsteps! hark! On Clover Hill!
Faring nearer and more near!
Hearts ecstatic throb and thrill!
“War is over! He is here!”
In the zenith Venus glistens,
Lovers kiss and Heaven listens.
