Keats to Morris

AT EVEN-TIDE

C. N.-Died, April, 1857.

WHAT spirit is it that doth pervade The silence of this empty room? And as I lift my eyes, what shade Glides off and vanishes in gloom?

I could believe this moment gone,
A known form filled that vacant chair,
That those kind eyes upon me shone

I never shall see anywhere!

The living are so far away:

But thou-thou seemest strangely near; Knowest all my silent heart would say, Its peace, its pain, its hope, its fear. And from thy calm supernal height, And wondrous wisdom newly won, Smilest on all our poor delight,

And petty woe beneath the sun.

From all this coil thou hast slipped away,
As softly as a cloud departs
Along the hill-side purple gray-

Into the heaven of patient hearts.

Nothing here suffered, nothing missed,
Will ever stir from its repose

The death-smile on her lips unkissed,

Who all things loves and all things knows.

And I, who, ignorant and weak,

Of love so helpless-quick to pain, With restless longing ever seek

The unattainable in vain,

Find it strange comfort thus to sit While the loud world unheeded rolls, And clasp, ere yet the fancy flit,

A friend's hand from the land of souls.

TOO LATE.

"Douglas, Douglas, tendir and tru."

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve you,
I'd smile on you sweet as the angels do;-
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few:
Do you know the truth now up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you:

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

THE DYING VIKING.

585

Then every Viking cried, "To sea!"
Hearing that song of pride and glee.

“Give us a battle-cry!" they shout.

And he blew them a trumpet-blast, Like the shrill night shriek from a burning town,

That makes the wolf aghast.

FACES IN THE FIRE.

I SIT and brood beside my fire,
Watching the red coals change their shape:
Through moving flames rise gates and towers,
Black eyeballs stare and hot mouths gape;
While dreaming I spin rhyme on rhyme

Then they cried, "Away!" and the galleys Of dew-fall and the summer-time.

"Ye are my raven-feeders, Ye are my warrior-brood, Be yours to give the falcons

The cravens for their food.
But, Oscar, thou my youngest,
Thou hast thy mother's face,
Be thine to guard the peasants,
And found a peaceful race.

"Thou shalt bring home some maiden,
With eyes like violet flowers
When they spring up sweeter, fresher,
After the sunny showers.
You'll let the pine-woods dwindle
Around our fortress hill,
And corn in golden billows
Gird many a freeman's will.

"But quick, my heart beats slower,
Life's sand is running fast;
Out with a thousand galleys-
I hear the quickening blast-
One hour, and in Luffoden

Our walrus-horns shall ring,

For I'll meet this death they talk of,
As a king should meet a king."

The red flames stir like dragon-stings,

Or devil's arrows barbed with red;

I stab the fire's heart-hot the rain

That falls from veins that branch and spread; And then I doze, or spin a rhyme

Of dew-fall and green summer-time.

So pass my midnights: shadows dance
Upon the wainscot silently;
They shape the future-bow and point-
I let the sable creatures be;
And careless sit and spin my rhyme
Of dew-fall and the summer-time.

Sometimes from dark nooks in the room
Glides forth my oldest skeleton-
Comes silent and sits by the fire,

His hands upon his knees of bone;
While shuddering still I weave my rhyme
Of dew-fall and hot summer-time.

I and that dreadful friend of mine
Sit staring at the crimson fire:
Whate'er I do, he moveth not,

Watching the midnight's funeral pyre
As through long, lonely hours I rhyme
Of dew-fall and sweet summer-time.

UNDER THE CLIFFS.

THE sails, now white as a swan's breast,
Turned in a moment golden,

The red-brown canvas fluttering out,
Was presently all folden,

The tide came rolling to our feet
With spreading frills of snow,
As on the sand so brown and soft
We sat, amid the glow.

The breakers rolled in ten abreast,
Charging in stormy anger:

But one soft voice close to my ear
O'erpowered their raging clangor.
The boats might pass, the boats might tack,
Coquetting with the land;

I heed but that one soft voice,

And the clasp of that wee hand.

True! all the hour-glass sands that Time

Had spilt, lay there around us,
Yet still forgetful of day's flight

The mystic twilight found us.

As the large moon a smouldering globe
Of orange fire rose slow,

And home we wandered to the town,
Love's ebb had turned to flow.

« Zurück Weiter »

Books