Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 157

837. On a Dead Child

PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!

Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride:--ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance att.i.tude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, whither hath he taken thee?

To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?

The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

838. Pater Filio

SENSE with keenest edge unused, Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; Lovely feet as yet unbruised On the ways of dark desire; Sweetest hope that lookest smiling O'er the wilderness defiling!

Why such beauty, to be blighted By the swarm of foul destruction?

Why such innocence delighted, When sin stalks to thy seduction?

All the litanies e'er chaunted Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.

I have pray'd the sainted Morning To unclasp her hands to hold thee; From resignful Eve's adorning Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee; With all charms of man's contriving Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving.

Me too once unthinking Nature, --Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,-- Fas.h.i.+on'd so divine a creature, Yea, and like a beast forsook me.

I forgave, but tell the measure Of her crime in thee, my treasure.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

839. Winter Nightfall

THE day begins to droop,-- Its course is done: But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun.

The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain.

An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky.

The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue.

A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air:

His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick:

He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

840. When Death to Either shall come

WHEN Death to either shall come,-- I pray it be first to me,-- Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to the child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.

Andrew Lang. 1844-1912

841. The Odyssey

AS one that for a weary s.p.a.ce has lain Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine-- As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again-- So gladly from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours They hear like Ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

842. Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever G.o.ds may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circ.u.mstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is b.l.o.o.d.y, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

843. Margaritae Sorori

A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A s.h.i.+ning peace.

The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires s.h.i.+ne and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

So be my pa.s.sing!

My task accomplish'd and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gather'd to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903