Various - Poems of To-Day: an Anthology стр 2.

  I gathered with a careless hand,
    There where the waters night and day
    Are languid in the idle bay,
  A little heap of golden sand;
    And, as I saw it, in my sight
    Awoke a vision brief and bright,
  A city in a pleasant land.

  I saw no mound of earth, but fair
    Turrets and domes and citadels,
    With murmuring of many bells;
  The spires were white in the blue air,
    And men by thousands went and came,
    Rapid and restless, and like flame
  Blown by their passions here and there.

  With careless hand I swept away
    The little mound before I knew;
    The visioned city vanished too,
  And fall'n beneath my fingers lay.
    Ah God! how many hast Thou seen,
    Cities that are not and have been,
  By silent hill and idle bay!

  Time, you old gipsy man,
    Will you not stay,
  Put up your caravan
    Just for one day?

  All things I'll give you,
  Will you be my guest,
  Bells for your jennet
  Of silver the best,
  Goldsmiths shall beat you
  A great golden ring,
  Peacocks shall bow to you,
  Little boys sing,
  Oh, and sweet girls will
  Festoon you with may,
  Time, you old gipsy,
  Why hasten away?

  Last week in Babylon,
  Last night in Rome,
  Morning, and in the crush
  Under Paul's dome;
  Under Paul's dial
  You tighten your rein
  Only a moment,
  And off once again;
  Off to some city
  Now blind in the womb,
  Off to another
  Ere that's in the tomb.

  Time, you old gipsy man,
    Will you not stay,
  Put up your caravan
    Just for one day?

    O, a gallant set were they,
    As they charged on us that day,
  A thousand riding like one!
    Their trumpets crying,
    And their white plumes flying,
  And their sabres flashing in the sun.

    O, a sorry lot were we,
    As we stood beside the sea,
  Each man for himself as he stood!
    We were scattered and lonely
    A little force only
  Of the good men fighting for the good.

    But I never loved more
    On sea or on shore
  The ringing of my own true blade,
    Like lightning it quivered,
    And the hard helms shivered,
  As I sang, "None maketh me afraid!"

  This was her table, these her trim outspread
  Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red;
  Here sate she, while her women tired and curled
  The most unhappy head in all the world.

  O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm
    Of green days telling with a quiet beat
  O wave into the sunset flowing calm!
    O tired lark descending on the wheat!
  Lies it all peace beyond that western fold
    Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star
  Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold
    Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease
    Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees,
  To drowse beside her implements of war?

  Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept
    Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham;
  And Evesham's dedicated stones have stepp'd
    Down to the dust with Montfort's oriflamme.
  Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower
    Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain,
  Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour
    By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes.
    E'en so shall man turn back from violent hopes
  To Adam's cheer, and toil with spade again.

  Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap
    Like a repentant child at length he hies,
  Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap
    Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries:
  But when in winter's grave, bereft of light,
    With still, small voice divinelier whispering
  Lifting the green head of the aconite,
    Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot
    She feels God's finger active at the root,
  Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring.

  Sombre and rich, the skies;
  Great glooms, and starry plains.
  Gently the night wind sighs;
  Else a vast silence reigns.

  The splendid silence clings
  Around me: and around
  The saddest of all kings
  Crowned, and again discrowned.

  Comely and calm, he rides
  Hard by his own Whitehall:
  Only the night wind glides:
  No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

  Gone, too, his Court; and yet,
  The stars his courtiers are:
  Stars in their stations set;
  And every wandering star.

  Alone he rides, alone,
  The fair and fatal king:
  Dark night is all his own,
  That strange and solemn thing.

  Which are more full of fate:
  The stars; or those sad eyes?
  Which are more still and great:
  Those brows; or the dark skies?

  Although his whole heart yearn
  In passionate tragedy:
  Never was face so stern
  With sweet austerity.

  Vanquished in life, his death
  By beauty made amends:
  The passing of his breath
  Won his defeated ends.

  Brief life and hapless? Nay:
  Through death, life grew sublime.
  Speak after sentence? Yea:
  And to the end of time.

  Armoured he rides, his head
  Bare to the stars of doom:
  He triumphs now, the dead,
  Beholding London's gloom.

  Our wearier spirit faints,
  Vexed in the world's employ:
  His soul was of the saints;
  And art to him was joy.

  King, tried in fires of woe!
  Men hunger for thy grace:
  And through the night I go,
  Loving thy mournful face.

  Yet when the city sleeps;
  When all the cries are still:
  The stars and heavenly deeps
  Work out a perfect will.

    To the forgotten dead,
  Come, let us drink in silence ere we part.
  To every fervent yet resolvèd heart
  That brought its tameless passion and its tears,
  Renunciation and laborious years,
  To lay the deep foundations of our race,
  To rear its stately fabric overhead
  And light its pinnacles with golden grace.

    To the unhonoured dead.
    To the forgotten dead,
  Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein
  Of Fate and hurl into the void again
  Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind
  Earthward along the courses of the wind.
  Among the stars, along the wind in vain
  Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed,
  And nothing, nothing of them doth remain.
    To the thrice-perished dead.