Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise;

OH,

leave thyself to God! and if, indeed,

'Tis

Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days

Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy spirit bright:

Even as to lips, the winds of winter bite,

Some outcast wanderer sets his flute and plays

Till at his feet blossom the icy ways,

And from the snowdrift's bitter wasting white

He hears the uprising carol of the lark,

Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe

While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears. Ah! let us hope that somewhere in thy dark,

Herrick's full note, and Suck

ling's pleasant pipe

given thee to perform so vast a task,

Think not at all-think not, but kneel and ask.

O friend, by thought was never creature freed

[blocks in formation]

Oft

like a sudden pencil of rich light, Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood,

Will shoot, amid our troubles infinite, The spirit's voice; oft, like the balmy flood

Of morn, surprise the universal night Are sounding still their solace With glory, and make all things

in thine ears.

sweet and good.

EVENTIDE.

COMES Something down with eventide

Beside the sunset's golden bars, Beside the floating scents, beside The twinkling shadows of the stars.

Upon the river's rippling face,

Flash after flash the white
Broke up in many a shallow place;

The rest was soft and bright.

By chance my eye fell on the stream;
How many a marvellous power,
Sleeps in us, sleeps, and doth not
dream!

This knew I in that hour.

For then my heart, so full of strife,
No more was in me stirred;
My life was in the river's life,
And I nor saw nor heard.

I and the river, we were one:
The shade beneath the bank,
I felt it cool; the setting sun
Into my spirit sank.

A rushing thing in power serene
I was; the mystery

I felt of having ever been
And being still to be.

Was it a moment or an hour?

I knew not; but I mourned
When from that realm of awful power,
I to these fields returned.

[blocks in formation]

Up! for the time is short; and soon
The morning sun will climb to noon.
Up! ere the herds, with trampling
feet

Outrunning thine, shaH spoil the
wheat.

WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. While the day lingers, do thy best!

THE HARVEST-CALL.

ABIDE not in the land of dreams,
O man, however fair it seems,
Where drowsy airs thy powers repress
In languors of sweet idleness.

Nor linger in the misty past,
Entranced in visions vague and vast;
But with clear eye the present scan,
And hear the call of God to man.

Full soon the night will bring its rest;
And, duty done, that rest shall be
Full of beatitudes to thee.

RAIN.

DASHING in big drops on the narrow pane,

And making mournful music for the mind,

[blocks in formation]

But he ne left nought for no rain nor

thunder,

In sickness and in mischief, to visit The farthest in his parish much and lite,

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff:

This noble 'nsample to his sheep he gaf,

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.

Out of the gospel he the wordès caught,

And this figure he added eke thereto, That, if gold rusté, what should iron do?

For, if a priest be foul on whom we trust,

No wonder is a lewèd man to rust; For shame it is, that if a priest take keep

[ocr errors]

shepherd and

To see a fouled " clean sheep: Well ought a priest ensample for to give

By his cleanness how his sheep should live.

He setté not his benefice to hire, And let his sheep accumbred in the mire,

And ran unto London unto Saint Poule's

To seeken him a chantery for souls, Or with a brotherhood to be withold; But dwelt at home and keptè well his fold,

So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry;

He was a shepherd and no mercenary;

As though he holy were and virtuous, He was to sinful men not dispitous, Ne of his speeché dangerous ne

digne;

But in his teaching discreet and benign.

To drawen folk to heaven with fairéness,

By good ensample, was his business; But it were any person obstinate, What so he were of high or low estate,

Him would he snibben sharply for the nonés:

A better priest I trow that no where none is.

He waited after no pomp or reverence,

Ne makéd him no spicéd conscience; But Christés lore, and his apostles twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

GOOD COUNSEL.

FLY fro the press, and dwell with soothfastnesse.

Suffice unto thy good though it be small,

For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,

Press hath envy, and weal is blent over all.

Savour no more than thee behové shall.

Rede well thyself that other folke canst rede;

And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.

Painè thee not each crooked to redress

In trust of her that turneth as a ball;

Great rest standeth in little businesse,

Beware also to spurne against an awl,

Strive not as doth a crockè with a wall;

Deemè thyself that demest others' deed;

And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.

That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse;

The wrastling of this world asketh a fall.

Here is no home, here is but a wilder

nesse.

Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of thy stall!

Lookè up on high, and thankè God of all!

Waive thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead;

And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.

TO HIS EMPTY PURSE.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere,

Me were as lefe laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie,

Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,

That I of you the blissful sowne may

here,

Or see your color like the sunne bright,

That of yelowness had never pere, Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queene of comfort and good companie,

Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now purse, that art to me my livès light,

And saviour, as downe in this world here,

Out of this towne helpe me by your might,

Sith that you woll not be my treasure,
For I am shave as nere as any frere,
But I pray unto your courtesie,
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

[blocks in formation]

When smell of spring fills all the air, And meadows bloom, and blue-birds pair;

When love first laves her sunny head
Over the brook and lily-bed;
Nothing of sound or sight to grieve
From cheering morn to quiet eve,
My heart will not, for all its ease,
Forget the days to follow these.
This loveliness shall be betrayed,
This happiest of music played
From field to field, by stream and
bough,

Shall silent be, as tuneful now;
The silver launch of thistles sail

Adown the solitary vale;
The blue solicitude of sky
Bent over beauty doomed to die,
With nightly mist shall witness here
The yielded glory of the year.

CLARENCE COOK.

ON ONE WHO DIED IN MAY.
(J. H. E., May 3, 1870).
WHY, Death, what dost thou here,
This time o' year?

Peach-blow and apple-blossom;
Clouds, white as my love's bosom;
Warm wind o' the west
Cradling the robin's nest;
Young meadows hasting their green
laps to fill

With golden dandelion and daffodil;
These are fit sights for spring;
But, oh, thou hateful thing,
What dost thou here?

Why, Death, what dost thou here,
This time o' year?

Fair, at the old oak's knee,
The young anemone;
Fair, the plash places set
With dog-tooth violet;

The first sloop-sail,
The shad-flower pale;
Sweet are all sights,
Sweet are all sounds of spring;
But thou, thou ugly thing,

What dost thou here?

« AnteriorContinuar »