Robert F. Murray: His Poems with a Memoir Part 14

If there live in honour's sway An all-loving breast Whose devotion cannot stray, Never gloom-oppressed-- If this n.o.ble breast still wake For a worthy motive's sake, There a pillow I will make For thy head to rest.

If there be a dream of love, Dream that G.o.d has blest, Yielding daily treasure-trove Of delightful zest, With the scent of roses filled, With the soul's communion thrilled, There, oh! there a nest I'll build For thy heart to rest.

THE FIDDLER

There's a fiddler in the street, And the children all are dancing: Two dozen lightsome feet Springing and prancing.

Pleasure he gives to you, Dance then, and spare not!

For the poor fiddler's due, Know not and care not.

While you are prancing, Let the fiddler play.

When you're tired of dancing He may go away.

THE FIRST MEETING

Last night for the first time, O Heart's Delight, I held your hand a moment in my own, The dearest moment which my soul has known, Since I beheld and loved you at first sight.

I left you, and I wandered in the night, Under the rain, beside the ocean's moan.

All was black dark, but in the north alone There was a glimmer of the Northern Light.

My heart was singing like a happy bird, Glad of the present, and from forethought free, Save for one note amid its music heard: G.o.d grant, whatever end of this may be, That when the tale is told, the final word May be of peace and benison to thee.

A CRITICISM OF CRITICS

How often have the critics, trained To look upon the sky Through telescopes securely chained, Forgot the naked eye.

Within the compa.s.s of their gla.s.s Each smallest star they knew, And not a meteor could pa.s.s But they were looking through.

When a new planet shed its rays Beyond their field of vision, And simple folk ran out to gaze, They laughed in high derision.

They railed upon the senseless throng Who cheered the brave new light.

And yet the learned men were wrong, The simple folk were right.

MY LADY

My Lady of all ladies! Queen by right Of tender beauty; full of gentle moods; With eyes that look divine beat.i.tudes, Large eyes illumined with her spirit's light;

Lips that are lovely both by sound and sight, Breathing such music as the dove, which broods Within the dark and silence of the woods, Croons to the mate that is her heart's delight.

Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill, To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek?

A colour, in the sky of morn or of even, To match that flush? Ah, let me now be still!

If of her spirit I should strive to speak, I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.

PARTNERs.h.i.+P IN FAME

Love, when the present is become the past, And dust has covered all that now is new, When many a fame has faded out of view, And many a later fame is fading fast--

If then these songs of mine might hope to last, Which sing most sweetly when they sing of you, Though queen and empress wore oblivion's hue, Your loveliness would not be overcast.

Now, while the present stays with you and me, In love's copartnery our hearts combine, Life's loss and gain in equal shares to take.

Partners in fame our memories then would be: Your name remembered for my songs; and mine Still unforgotten for your sweetness' sake.

A CHRISTMAS FANCY

Early on Christmas Day, Love, as awake I lay, And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly, My heart stole through the gloom Into your silent room, And whispered to your heart, 'I love you dearly.'

There, in the dark profound, Your heart was sleeping sound, And dreaming some fair dream of summer weather.

At my heart's word it woke, And, ere the morning broke, They sang a Christmas carol both together.

Glory to G.o.d on high!

Stars of the morning sky, Sing as ye sang upon the first creation, When all the Sons of G.o.d Shouted for joy abroad, And earth was laid upon a sure foundation.

Glory to G.o.d again!

Peace and goodwill to men, And kindly feeling all the wide world over, Where friends with joy and mirth Meet round the Christmas hearth, Or dreams of home the solitary rover.

Glory to G.o.d! True hearts, Lo, now the dark departs, And morning on the snow-clad hills grows grey.

Oh, may love's dawning light Kindled from loveless night, s.h.i.+ne more and more unto the perfect day!

THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR