Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 30

I.

A little mound of earth Is all the land I own: Death gave it me,--five feet by three, And mark'd it with a stone.

II.

My home, my garden-grave, Where most I long to go!

The ground is mine by right divine, And Heaven will have it so.

 

III.

For here my darling sleeps, Unseen,--arrayed in white,-- And o'er the gra.s.s the breezes pa.s.s, And stars look down at night.

IV.

Here Beauty, Love, and Joy, With her in silence dwell, As Eastern slaves are thrown in graves Of kings remember'd well.

V.

But here let no man come, My mourning rights to sever.

Who lieth here is cold and dumb.

Her dust is mine for ever!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A DIRGE.

I.

Art thou lonely in thy tomb?

Art thou cold in such a gloom?

Rouse thee, then, and make me room,-- Miserere Domine!

II.

Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep, Nameless things around thee creep, Yet be patient, do not weep,-- Miserere Domine!

III.

O be faithful! O be brave!

Naught shall harm thee in thy grave; Let the restless spirits rave,-- Miserere Domine!

IV.

When my pilgrimage is done, When the grace of G.o.d is won, I will come to thee, my nun,-- Miserere Domine!

V.

Like a priest in flowing vest, Like a pale, unbidden guest, I will come to thee and rest,-- Miserere Domine!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

DAISIES OUT AT SEA.

I.

These are the buds we bear beyond the surf,-- Enshrined in mould and turf,-- To take to fields far off, a land's salute Of high and vast repute,-- The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire, Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire, But s.h.i.+ne in all men's thoughts as s.h.i.+nes a beacon-fire.

II.

O bright and gracious things that seem to glow With frills of winter snow, And little golden heads that know the sun, And seasons half begun, How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair, In this their prison on the seaward air, On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer.

III.

Have they no memory of the inland gra.s.s,-- The fields where breezes pa.s.s, And where the full-eyed children, out at play, Make all the land so gay?

Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear, Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier, In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here?

IV.

O gems of earth! O trinkets of the spring!

The sun, your gentle king, Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace, In many a sacred place, The G.o.dlike summer sun will miss ye all, For he has foster'd all things, great and small, Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball.

V.

But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene The kirtles, tender-green, And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers, How will he throb for hours, And wish the lark, the laureate of the light, Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight, And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write.

VI.