ECHO
Dweller in hollow places, hills and rocks,
Daughter of Silence and old Solitude,
Tip-toe she stands within her cave or wood,
Her only life the noises that she mocks.
ADVENTURERS
Seemingly over the hill-tops,
Possibly under the hills,
A tireless wing that never drops,
And a song that never stills.
Epics heard on the stars' lips?
Lyrics read in the dew?—
To sing the song at our finger-tips,
And live the world anew!
Cavaliers of the Cortés kind,
Bold and stern and strong,—
And, oh, for a fine and muscular mind
To sing a new-world's song!
Sailing seas of the silver morn,
Winds of the balm and spice,
To put the old-world art to scorn
At the price of any price!
Danger, death, but the hope high!
God's, if the purpose fail!
Into the deeds of a vaster sky
Sailing a dauntless sail.
EPILOGUE
I
O Life! O Death! O God!
Have we not striven?
Have we not known Thee, God
As Thy stars know Heaven?
Have we not held Thee true,
True as thy deepest,
Sweet and immaculate blue
Heaven that feels Thy dew!
Have we not known Thee true,
O God who keepest.
II
O God, our Father, God!—
Who gav'st us fire,
To soar beyond the sod,
To rise, aspire—
What though we strive and strive,
And all our soul says 'live'?
The empty scorn of men
Will sneer it down again.
And, O sun-centred high,
Who, too, art Poet,
Beneath Thy tender sky
Each day new Keatses die,
Calling all life a lie;
Can this be so—and why?—
And canst Thou know it?
III
We know Thee beautiful,
We know Thee bitter!
Help Thou!—Men's eyes are dull,
O God most beautiful!
Make thou their souls less full
Of things mere glitter.
Dost Thou not see our tears?
Dost Thou not hear the years
Treading our hearts to shards,
O Lord of all the Lords?—
Arouse Thee, God of Hosts,
There 'mid Thy glorious ghosts,
So high and holy!
Have mercy on our tears!
Have mercy on our years!
Our strivings and our fears,
O Lord of lordly peers,
On us, so lowly!
IV
On us, so fondly fain
To tell what mother-pain
Of Nature makes the rain.
On us, so glad to show
The sorrow of her snow,
And all her winds that blow.
Us, who interpret right
Her mystic rose of light,
Her moony rune of night.
Us, who have utterance for
Each warm, flame-hearted star
That stammers from afar.
Who hear the tears and sighs
Of every bud that dies
While heav'n's dew on it lies.
Who see the power that dowers
The wildwood bosks and bowers
With musk of sap and flowers.
Who see what no man sees
In water, earth, and breeze,
And in the hearts of trees.
Turn not away Thy light,
O God!—Our strength is slight!
Help us who breast the height!
Have mercy, Infinite!
Have mercy!
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, (late) Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press