Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our work is wrought;
Not a cloud, the summer air to choke,
But banner of our craft, the floating smoke
Ensigns our labour, with bright meanings fraught.
WHEREFORE HORRIBLE SPRING?
From Béranger.
When winter was here, from my window on high
I saw her sweet face up at hers where she sat.
We never had met, but ’twas plain she and I
From falling in love were not hinder’d by that.
Between the bare boughs of these lindens how oft
Kind kisses we blew I’ve no patience to sing,
For there are the leaves now all quiv’ring aloft—
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
Yes, there are the leaves, and no more I behold
My kind little neighbour put forth her dear head
To scatter the bread-crumbs, when, tamed by the cold,
The robins, her pensioners, wait to be fed.
The minute her casement she open would throw,
The Loves with our errands were all on the wing.
What is there for beauty to equal the snow?
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
And ’twere not for you I should still with the dawn
Behold her new-risen in simplest array;
So, radiant and lovely, great painters have drawn
Aurora enclosing the curtains of day.
At eve, in the heavens though stars might be bright,
I watched for her taper my planet to bring;
How lonely I felt when she put out her light;
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
Ever dear to my heart must the winter remain;
How glad I should be if I only could hear
The sharp little tinkling of sleet on the pane,
Than whispering of zephyrs more dulcet and dear.
Your fruits and your flowers are odious and vile,
Your long sunny days only sadness can bring;
More sunny by far was the light of her smile.
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?
VOICES.
Through hoary centuries, through History’s page,
Like tongues of fire unquench’d, undimm’d by age,
Whisper the voices, living, clear and true,
The crust of Time and changes piercing through;
Sometimes like trumpets’ martial tones they ring—
Anon, scarce heard, in trembling accents sing,
Yet there is life in what they tell and say,
A life nor years nor days can sweep away:
From out the Past, from out the silent grave,
From the lone deep where beats the ceaseless wave,
They yearn, they rise, they plead with deathless tone:
From hill, from field, from cot, from kingly throne
They bring their witness;—if we list or learn,
The days shall tell of each one in his turn:—
Oh, who shall say a voice, however weak,
Its message doth not bear—its lesson speak!
THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOW.
THREE VOICES.
The Child speaks.