Oh, then what agony and bitter woe,
Regret and noise of desolation, vast
As when all that one loves is torn away
Forever with “farewell forevermore”!
Oh, strife and panic of impending doom!
Wherein rush by pale brows with tresses torn;
Pale faces browed with raven, rended hair,
That cringe or fly before the wrath of God,
Or stand white-lifted to the bolts of Heaven,
Ploughing the tempest, chasmed with torrent flame
As ’twere with rocking earthquake. All around
Ruin and terror, moans and awful eyes,
Fierce, moveless eyes that seem to curse their God:
Then sounds, as ’twere, of burning tears that fall
Through blinding blackness: then—long thunder strokes
As of a bell that tolls “’Tis Judgment Day!”
Sonorous bell-beats heard through night and storm,
O’er hands high lifted as it were in prayer
Or battling with their doom: still tolling on,
The knell of dying Earth and of the Dawn;
The Dawn that will not break, that comes no more;
Never again; the beautiful, wild Dawn,
The young, the holy, radiant and wonderful,
First born of Heaven’s children, daughters of Light:
The Rose of God, the dream and youth of Day,
Whom Night hath slain and Darkness laid away,
Crying, “No more shall she awake the world!
No more! no more!—The Dawn, aurora-wreathed,
Lies dead with all her flow’rs! and Death and I,
Darkness and Death, Lords of Oblivion,
Heart-shaking monarchs of the universe,
Throned on the ruins of the world, shall rule
From everlasting unto everlasting now!—
Look on our faces, Nations, and despair!”
A SONG FOR OLD AGE
Now nights grow cold and colder,
And north the wild vane swings,
And round each tree and boulder
The driving snow-storm sings—
Come, make my old heart older,
O memory of lost things!
Of Hope, when promise sung her
Brave songs, and I was young,
That banquets now on hunger
Since all youth’s songs are sung;
Of Love, who walks with younger
Sweethearts the flowers among.
Ah, well! while Life holds levee,
Death’s ceaseless dance goes on.
So let the curtains, heavy
About my couch, be drawn—
The curtains, dark and heavy,
Where all shall sleep anon.
“WHEN THE WINE-CUP AT THE LIP”
When the wine-cup at the lip
Slants its ruby fire,
O’er its level, while you sip,
Have you marked the finger-tip
Of the god Desire slip,
Of the god Desire?
Saying—“Lo, the hours run!
Live your day before ’tis done!”
When the empty goblet lies
At the ended revel,
In the glass, the wine-stain dyes,
Have you marked the hollow eyes
Of a mocking Devil rise,
Of a mocking Devil?
Saying—“Lo, the pleasure’s done!
Look on me whose hour’s begun!”
THE BETTER LOT
Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent,
But smiling ever, she would go and come:
For of her soul God made an instrument
Of strength and comfort to an humble home.