Blithe is the lark when first the morning breaks,
And from his nest up-circling through the air
He leaves below a world of shadowy care,
And off his wings the dew of darkness shakes;
For those high lakes of blue he gladly makes,
With song that overfloweth everywhere
Like the sweet grace that falleth after prayer
To one who from sin’s sleep at last awakes.
Poets have sung thy praises;—but thy song
Is far above all sound of poet’s voice,
Though listening to thy notes he may rejoice,
And wonder if some raptured angel-throng
Pause in their service as thou soarest near,
And to thy music lend entrancèd ear.
CONSTANCY.
I did not ask thy love nor tell mine own
When others sought thee in thy sovereign days,
For my sad heart, beholding the bright blaze
Of thy great beauty, seemed to turn to stone,
And on my lips that now have bolder grown,
No word would form to utter thy high praise;
So stricken was I in love’s conquering ways
That my poor soul consumed its love alone.
Vindictive time now veils thy queen-like charms
To thy old champions, and they quickly leave,
As grim misfortune comes to cross their arms
And pluck thy colours from each coward sleeve,
All fly the tilt-yard. Now to Fate’s alarms
I fling my gage at last. Wilt thou believe?
A BALLADE OF THE STREET.
High clamour of rooks o’er a meadow of clover
That make for their haunts at the break of the day;
Low babble of brooks where the rain-spotted plover
Paddles at noon through the sand-banks grey;
Gold-banded bees on their murmuring way
To the honey-filled blossoms that yield their sweet—
These are the visions that round us play
As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street.
Slow pacing of herds and the song of the drover;
A score of clean sails in a Kentish bay,
With a glimpse of the castle and cliffs of Dover,
And the girdle of sea that shall gleam alway;
Far off in the fields where they make the hay
Darby and Dorothy manage to meet,
And kiss for a moment—alack-a-day!
As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street.
Across the wide world Love is ever a rover,
In palace or cot not content to stay.
Soon the pastoral play of our youth is over
With its spangles of hope and its fine array.
June stifles the flowers that are born in May,
And their beauties the autumn shall not repeat;
Our fancies the Fates try to strangle and slay—
As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street.