A WASTED LAND.
ALAS, for a sound is heard
Of a bitterly broken song;
Grievous is every word;
And the burden is weary and long
Like the waves between ebb and flow;
And it comes when the winds are low,
Or whenever the night is nigh,
And the world hath space for a sigh.
It was in the time of fruit;
When the peach began to pout,
And the purple grape to shine,
And the leaves were a threadbare suit
For the blushing blood of the vine,
And the spoilers were about
And the viper glode at the root:
—She came, and with her hand,
With her mouth, yea, and her eyes
She hath ravaged all the land;
Its beauty shall no more rise:
She hath drawn the wine to her lip.
For a mere wanton sip:
Lo, where the vine-branch lies;
Lo, where the drained grapes drip.
Her feet left many a stain;
And her lips left many a sting;
She will never come again,
And the fruit of everything
Is a canker or a pain:
And a memory doth crouch
Like an asp,—yea, in each part
Where she hath left her touch,—
Lying in wait for the heart.
CHARMED MOMENTS.
Chopin’s Nocturne, Op. 37, no. 1.
THE sky is a brilliant enamel;
The sea is a beautiful gem;
The hours are beautiful flowers
That pass, and we keep none of them;
They bear not the thing we would cherish,
Those beautiful fruitless flowers;
Each comes up to blossom and perish;
We wait, and another is ours:
We wait till the heavens above us,
The flowering earth, or the seas
Shall bring us the soul meant to love us,
And hours much sweeter than these.
How thrill we, when heavenly hushes
Come over the sea and the land!—
Soft kissings of waves among rushes,
Footfalls of a bird on the sand,
Or least little stirs in the bushes
Take hold on the heart like a hand
Arresting—we know not for what—
But little we care to withstand:
How thrill we!—We think that some Spirit
Is speaking each moment like that;—
O faint not, strained ear, till you hear it,—
Heart, break not till you understand!