The sun across the meads glows bright;
The river shines a silver sheet,
And mirrors back the pearly light.
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet,
Earth seems in joy the heaven to greet;
Heaven's love illumes the deep blue skies,
And birds and flowers and streams repeat,
'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'
Beneath the hedge with May-bloom white
An old man and a child, whose feet
In cadence move to love's fond might;
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Like op'ning flowers in morn's soft heat.
A youth and maid whose beaming eyes
Flash forth the thought their hearts secrete,
'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'
Within the minster's fane the rite
Is breathed; down-pours His own to meet
The glory of the Infinite:
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Faith falls before the mercy-seat,
And knows, though veiled to mortal eyes,
There, there in loveliness complete,
Where True Love dwells is Paradise.
Past sounding brass are love's tones sweet,
Than gold or gems more rare its price;
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Where true love dwells is Paradise.
W. H. Jewitt.
BALLADE DES PENDUS. (GRINGOIRE.)
Where wide the forest boughs are spread,
When Flora wakes with sylph and fay,
Are crowns and garlands of men dead,
All golden in the morning gay;
Within this ancient garden grey
Are clusters such as no man knows,
Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway:
This is King Louis' orchard close.
These wretched folk wave overhead,
With such strange thoughts as none may say;
A moment still, then sudden sped,
They swing in a ring and waste away.
The morning smites them with her ray;
They toss with every breeze that blows,
They dance where fires of dawning play:
This is King Louis' orchard close.
All hanged and dead, they've summoned
(With Hell to aid that hears them pray)
New legions of an army dread,
Now down the blue sky flames the day;
The dew dries off; the foul array
Of obscene ravens gathers and goes,
With wings that flaps and beaks that flay:
This is King Louis' orchard close.