I loose my chains, and then with awful jar
And presage of disaster and dire woe,
Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war
'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow.
I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight
Toward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light
Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray,
They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay.
They turn green meadows to a desert wold,
And naught for rulers of the earth care they;—
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,
In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow,
When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar
The peace of nature, when the rivers flow
Is soft and musical, and when the sprite
Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight
With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,
And seize upon whate'er I will for prey.
I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,
And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I am in league with Death. When I unbar
My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow
Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar
The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row,
They breathe on every bower a deadly blight,
And all is sere and withered in their sight.
Unheeded now, Apollo's warming ray
Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play
Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,
And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,—
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
Envoy.
O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say!—
"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye;
His might hath empire only of the mold,"
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
Clinton Scollard.
THE NEW EPIPHANY.
(Chant Royal.)
Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep!
Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night,
From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep
Of formless being, comes a gracious light,
Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round
A golden glory on the enchanted ground;—
Awake, O souls of harmony, and ye
That greet the dayspring with your jubilee
Of lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bring
Your well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep
Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight
Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep;
Hasting the while his summoning notes invite
Where riper grasses and green herbs abound:—
But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound!
He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he!
Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly flee
To him who makes once more new growths upspring;
Oh, quit your ancient glebes,—oh, joyfully
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.