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Legends and Lyrics. Part 1
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Год написания книги: 2017
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VERSE: LIFE AND DEATH
“What is Life, Father?”“A Battle, my child,Where the strongest lance may fail,Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,And the stoutest heart may quail.Where the foes are gathered on every hand,And rest not day or night,And the feeble little ones must standIn the thickest of the fight.”“What is Death, Father?”“The rest, my child,When the strife and the toil are o’er;The Angel of God, who, calm and mild,Says we need fight no more;Who, driving away the demon band,Bids the din of the battle cease;Takes banner and spear from our failing hand,And proclaims an eternal Peace.”“Let me die, Father! I tremble and fearTo yield in that terrible strife!”“The crown must be won for Heaven, dear,In the battle-field of life:My child, though thy foes are strong and tried,He loveth the weak and small;The Angels of Heaven are on thy side,And God is over all!”VERSE: NOW
Rise! for the day is passing,And you lie dreaming on;The others have buckled their armour,And forth to the fight are gone:A place in the ranks awaits you,Each man has some part to play;The Past and the Future are nothing,In the face of the stern To-day.Rise from your dreams of the Future —Of gaining some hard-fought field;Of storming some airy fortress,Or bidding some giant yield;Your Future has deeds of glory,Of honour (God grant it may!)But your arm will never be stronger,Or the need so great as To-day.Rise! if the Past detains you,Her sunshine and storms forget;No chains so unworthy to hold youAs those of a vain regret:Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever,Cast her phantom arms away,Nor look back, save to learn the lessonOf a nobler strife To-day.Rise! for the day is passing:The sound that you scarcely hearIs the enemy marching to battle —Arise! for the foe is here!Stay not to sharpen your weapons,Or the hour will strike at last,When, from dreams of a coming battle,You may wake to find it past!VERSE: CLEANSING FIRES
Let thy gold be cast in the furnace,Thy red gold, precious and bright,Do not fear the hungry fire,With its caverns of burning light:And thy gold shall return more precious,Free from every spot and stain;For gold must be tried by fire,As a heart must be tried by pain!In the cruel fire of SorrowCast thy heart, do not faint or wail;Let thy hand be firm and steady,Do not let thy spirit quail:But wait till the trial is over,And take thy heart again;For as gold is tried by fire,So a heart must be tried by pain!I shall know by the gleam and glitterOf the golden chain you wear,By your heart’s calm strength in loving,Of the fire they have had to bear.Beat on, true heart, for ever;Shine bright, strong golden chain;And bless the cleansing fire,And the furnace of living pain!VERSE: THE VOICE OF THE WIND
Let us throw more logs on the fire!We have need of a cheerful light,And close round the hearth to gather,For the wind has risen to-night.With the mournful sound of its wailingIt has checked the children’s glee,And it calls with a louder clamourThan the clamour of the sea.Hark to the voice of the wind!Let us listen to what it is saying,Let us hearken to where it has been;For it tells, in its terrible crying,The fearful sights it has seen.It clatters loud at the casements,Round the house it hurries on,And shrieks with redoubled fury,When we say “The blast is gone!”Hark to the voice of the wind!It has been on the field of battle,Where the dying and wounded lie;And it brings the last groan they uttered,And the ravenous vulture’s cry.It has been where the icebergs were meeting,And closed with a fearful crash;On shores where no foot has wandered,It has heard the waters dash.Hark to the voice of the wind!It has been on the desolate ocean,When the lightning struck the mast;It has heard the cry of the drowning,Who sank as it hurried past;The words of despair and anguish,That were heard by no living ear;The gun that no signal answered:It brings them all to us here.Hark to the voice of the wind!It has been on the lonely moorland,Where the treacherous snow-drift lies,Where the traveller, spent and weary,Gasped fainter and fainter cries;It has heard the bay of the bloodhounds,On the track of the hunted slave,The lash and the curse of the master,And the groan that the captive gave.Hark to the voice of the wind!It has swept through the gloomy forest,Where the sledge was urged to its speed,Where the howling wolves were rushingOn the track of the panting steed.Where the pool was black and lonely,It caught up a splash and a cry —Only the bleak sky heard it,And the wind as it hurried by.Hark to the voice of the wind!Then throw more logs on the fire,Since the air is bleak and cold,And the children are drawing nigher,For the tales that the wind has told.So closer and closer gatherRound the red and crackling light;And rejoice (while the wind is blowing)We are safe and warm to-night.Hark to the voice of the wind!VERSE: TREASURES
Let me count my treasures,All my soul holds dear,Given me by dark spiritsWhom I used to fear.Through long days of anguish,And sad nights, did PainForge my shield, Endurance,Bright and free from stain!Doubt, in misty caverns,’Mid dark horrors sought,Till my peerless jewel,Faith to me she brought.Sorrow, that I weariedShould remain so long,Wreathed my starry glory,The bright Crown of Song.Strife, that racked my spirit,Without hope or rest,Left the blooming flower,Patience, on my breast.Suffering, that I dreaded,Ignorant of her charms,Laid the fair child, Pity,Smiling, in my arms.So I count my treasures,Stored in days long past —And I thank the givers,Whom I know at last!VERSE: SHINING STARS
Shine, ye stars of heaven,On a world of pain!See old Time destroyingAll our hoarded gain;All our sweetest flowers,Every stately shrine,All our hard-earned glory,Every dream divine!Shine, ye stars of heaven,On the rolling years!See how Time, consoling,Dries the saddest tears,Bids the darkest storm-cloudsPass in gentle rain;While upspring in glory,Flowers and dreams again!Shine, ye stars of heaven,On a world of fear!See how Time, avenging,Bringeth judgment here;Weaving ill-won honoursTo a fiery crown;Bidding hard hearts perish;Casting proud hearts down.Shine, ye stars of heaven,On the hours’ slow flight!See how Time, rewarding,Gilds good deeds with light;Pays with kingly measure;Brings earth’s dearest prize;Or, crowned with rays diviner,Bids the end arise!VERSE: WAITING
“Wherefore dwell so sad and lonely,By the desolate sea-shore,With the melancholy surgesBeating at your cottage door?“You shall dwell beside the castleShadowed by our ancient trees;And your life shall pass on gently,Cared for, and in rest and ease.”“Lady, one who loved me dearlySailed for distant lands away;And I wait here his returningHopefully from day to day.“To my door I bring my spinning,Watching every ship I see;Waiting, hoping, till the sunsetFades into the western sea.“After sunset, at my casement,Still I place a signal light;He will see its well-known shiningShould his ship return at night.“Lady, see your infant smiling,With its flaxen curling hair —I remember when your motherWas a baby just as fair.“I was watching then, and hoping:Years have brought great change to all;To my neighbours in their cottage,To you nobles at the hall.“Not to me – for I am waiting,And the years have fled so fast,I must look at you to tell meThat a weary time has past!“When I hear a footstep comingOn the shingle – years have fled —Yet amid a thousand others,I shall know his quick, light tread.“When I hear (to-night it may be)Some one pausing at my door,I shall know the gay soft accents,Heard and welcomed oft before!“So each day I am more hopeful,He may come before the night:Every sunset I feel surerHe must come ere morning light.“Then I thank you, noble lady,But I cannot do your will:Where he left me, he must find me.Waiting, watching, hoping, still!”VERSE: THE CRADLE SONG OF THE POOR
Hush! I cannot bear to see theeStretch thy tiny hands in vain;Dear, I have no bread to give thee,Nothing, child, to ease thy pain!When God sent thee first to bless me,Proud, and thankful too, was I;Now, my darling I, thy mother,Almost long to see thee die.Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;God is good, but life is dreary.I have watched thy beauty fading,And thy strength sink day by day;Soon, I know, will Want and FeverTake thy little life away.Famine makes thy father reckless,Hope has left both him and me;We could suffer all, my baby,Had we but a crust for thee.Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;God is good, but life is dreary.Better thou shouldst perish early,Starve so soon, my darling one,Than in helpless sin and sorrowVainly live, as I have done.Better that thy angel spiritWith my joy, my peace, were flown,Than thy heart grew cold and careless,Reckless, hopeless, like my own.Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;God is good, but life is dreary.I am wasted, dear, with hunger,And my brain is all opprest,I have scarcely strength to press thee,Wan and feeble, to my breast.Patience, baby, God will help us,Death will come to thee and me,He will take us to his Heaven,Where no want or pain can be.Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;God is good, but life is dreary.Such the plaint that, late and early,Did we listen, we might hearClose beside us, – but the thunderOf a city dulls our ear.Every heart, as God’s bright Angel,Can bid one such sorrow cease;God has glory when his childrenBring his poor ones joy and peace!Listen, nearer while she singsSounds the fluttering of wings!VERSE: BE STRONG
Be strong to hope, oh Heart!Though day is bright,The stars can only shineIn the dark night.Be strong, oh Heart of mine,Look towards the light!Be strong to bear, oh Heart!Nothing is vain:Strive not, for life is care,And God sends pain,Heaven is above, and thereRest will remain!Be strong to love, oh Heart!Love knows not wrong,Didst thou love – creatures even,Life were not long;Didst thou love God in Heaven,Thou wouldst be strong!VERSE: GOD’S GIFTS
God gave a gift to Earth: – a child,Weak, innocent, and undefiled,Opened its ignorant eyes and smiled.It lay so helpless, so forlorn,Earth took it coldly and in scorn,Cursing the day when it was born.She gave it first a tarnished name,For heritage, a tainted fame,Then cradled it in want and shame.All influence of Good or Right,All ray of God’s most holy light,She curtained closely from its sight.Then turned her heart, her eyes away,Ready to look again, the dayIts little feet began to stray.In dens of guilt the baby played,Where sin, and sin alone, was madeThe law that all around obeyed.With ready and obedient care,He learnt the tasks they taught him there;Black sin for lesson – oaths for prayer.Then Earth arose, and, in her might,To vindicate her injured right,Thrust him in deeper depths of night.Branding him with a deeper brandOf shame, he could not understand,The felon outcast of the land.* * *God gave a gift to Earth: – a child,Weak, innocent, and undefiled,Opened its ignorant eyes and smiled.And Earth received the gift, and criedHer joy and triumph far and wide,Till echo answered to her pride.She blest the hour when first he cameTo take the crown of pride and fame,Wreathed through long ages for his name.Then bent her utmost art and skillTo train the supple mind and will,And guard it from a breath of ill.She strewed his morning path with flowers,And Love, in tender dropping showers,Nourished the blue and dawning hours.She shed, in rainbow hues of light,A halo round the Good and Right,To tempt and charm the baby’s sight.And every step, of work or play.Was lit by some such dazzling ray,Till morning brightened into day.And then the World arose, and said —Let added honours now be shedOn such a noble heart and head!O World, both gifts were pure and bright,Holy and sacred in God’s sight: -God will judge them and thee aright!VERSE: A TOMB IN GHENT
A smiling look she had, a figure slight,With cheerful air, and step both quick and light;A strange and foreign look the maiden bore,That suited the quaint Belgian dress she woreYet the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,And her soft voice told her of English race;And ever, as she flitted to and fro,She sang, (or murmured, rather,) soft and low,Snatches of song, as if she did not knowThat she was singing, but the happy loadOf dream and thought thus from her heart o’erflowed:And while on household cares she passed along,The air would bear me fragments of her song;Not such as village maidens sing, and fewThe framers of her changing music knew;Chants such as heaven and earth first heard of whenThe master Palestrina held the pen.But I with awe had often turned the page,Yellow with time, and half defaced by age,And listened, with an ear not quite unskilled,While heart and soul to the grand echo thrilled;And much I marvelled, as her cadence fellFrom the Laudate, that I knew so well,Into Scarlatti’s minor fugue, how sheHad learned such deep and solemn harmony.But what she told I set in rhyme, as meetTo chronicle the influence, dim and sweet,’Neath which her young and innocent life had grown:Would that my words were simple as her own.Many years since, an English workman wentOver the seas, to seek a home in Ghent,Where English skill was prized; nor toiled in vain;Small, yet enough, his hard-earned daily gain.He dwelt alone – in sorrow, or in pride.He mixed not with the workers by his side;He seemed to care but for one present joy —To tend, to watch, to teach his sickly boy.Severe to all beside, yet for the childHe softened his rough speech to soothings mild;For him he smiled, with him each day he walkedThrough the dark gloomy streets; to him he talkedOf home, of England, and strange stories toldOf English heroes in the days of old;And, (when the sunset gilded roof and spire,)The marvellous tale which never seemed to tire:How the gilt dragon, glaring fiercely downFrom the great belfry, watching all the town,Was brought, a trophy of the wars divine,By a Crusader from far Palestine,And given to Bruges; and how Ghent arose,And how they struggled long as deadly foes,Till Ghent, one night, by a brave soldier’s skill,Stole the great dragon; and she keeps it still.One day the dragon – so ’tis said – will rise,Spread his bright wines, and glitter in the skies.And over desert lands and azure seas,Will seek his home ’mid palm and cedar trees.So, as he passed the belfry every day,The boy would look if it were flown away;Each day surprised to find it watching there,Above him, as he crossed the ancient square,To seek the great cathedral, that had grownA home for him – mysterious and his own.Dim with dark shadows of the ages past,St. Bavon stands, solemn and rich and vast;The slender pillars, in long vistas spread,Like forest arches meet and close o’erhead;So high that, like a weak and doubting prayer,Ere it can float to the carved angels there,The silver clouded incense faints in air:Only the organ’s voice, with peal on peal,Can mount to where those far-off angels kneel.Here the pale boy, beneath a low side-arch,Would listen to its solemn chant or march;Folding his little hands, his simple prayerMelted in childish dreams, and both in air:While the great organ over all would roll,Speaking strange secrets to his innocent soul,Bearing on eagle-wings the great desireOf all the kneeling throng, and piercing higherThan aught but love and prayer can reach, untilOnly the silence seemed to listen still;Or gathering like a sea still more and more,Break in melodious waves at heaven’s door,And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain,Upon the pleading longing hearts again.Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow,That crept along the marble floor below,Passing, as life does, with the passing hours,Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers,Now on the brazen letters of a tomb,Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom,And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint,The kneeling figure of some marble saint:Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare,That told of patient toil, and reverent care;Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears,Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears,And all the thousand tangled weeds that growIn summer, where the silver rivers flow;And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glareIn impotent wrath on all the beauty there:Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb,And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time.And deeper silence, darker shadows flowedOn all around, only the windows glowedWith blazoned glory, like the shields of lightArchangels bear, who, armed with love and might,Watch upon heaven’s battlements at night.Then all was shade; the silver lamps that gleamed,Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemedLike sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine,Or trembling stars before each separate shrine.Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there,And come out, blinded by the noisy glareThat burst upon him from the busy square.The church was thus his home for rest or play,And as he came and went again each day,The pictured faces that he knew so well,Seemed to smile on him welcome and farewell.But holier, and dearer far than all,One sacred spot his own he loved to call;Save at mid-day, half-hidden by the gloom;The people call it The White Maiden’s Tomb:For there she stands; her folded hands are pressedTogether, and laid softly on her breast,As if she waited but a word to riseFrom the dull earth, and pass to the blue skies;Her lips expectant part, she holds her breath,As listening for the angel voice of death.None know how many years have seen her so,Or what the name of her who sleeps below.And here the child would come, and strive to trace,Through the dim twilight, the pure gentle faceHe loved so well, and here he oft would bringSome violet blossom of the early spring;And climbing softly by the fretted stand,Not to disturb her, lay it in her hand;Or, whispering a soft loving message sweet,Would stoop and kiss the little marble feet.So, when the organ’s pealing music rang,He thought amid the gloom the Maiden sang;With reverent simple faith by her he knelt,And fancied what she thought, and what she felt.“Glory to God,” re-echoed from her voice,And then his little spirit would rejoice;Or when the Requiem sobbed upon the air,His baby tears dropped with her mournful prayer.So years fled on, while childish fancies past,The childish love and simple faith could last.The artist-soul awoke in him, the flameOf genius, like the light of Heaven, cameUpon his brain, and (as it will, if true)It touched his heart and lit his spirit, tooHis father saw, and with a proud contentLet him forsake the toil where he had spentHis youth’s first years, and on one happy dayOf pride, before the old man passed away,He stood with quivering lips, and the big tearsUpon his cheek, and heard the dream of yearsLiving and speaking to his very heart —The low hushed murmur at the wondrous artOf him, who with young trembling fingers madeThe great church-organ answer as he played;And, as the uncertain sound grew full and strong,Rush with harmonious spirit-wings along,And thrill with master-power the breathless throng.The old man died, and years passed on, and stillThe young musician bent his heart and willTo his dear toil. St. Bavon now had grownMore dear to him, and even more his own;And as he left it every night he prayedA moment by the archway in the shade,Kneeling once more within the sacred gloomWhere the White Maiden watched upon her tomb.His hopes of travel and a world-wide fame,Cold Time had sobered, and his fragile frame;Content at last only in dreams to roam,Away from the tranquillity of home;Content that the poor dwellers by his sideSaw in him but the gentle friend and guide,The patient counsellor in the poor strifeAnd petty details of their common life,Who comforted where woe and grief might fall,Nor slighted any pain or want as small,But whose great heart took in and felt for all.Still he grew famous – many came to beHis pupils in the art of harmony.One day a voice floated so pure and freeAbove his music, that he turned to seeWhat angel sang, and saw before his eyes,What made his heart leap with a strange surprise,His own White Maiden, calm, and pure, and mild,As in his childish dreams she sang and smiled;Her eyes raised up to Heaven, her lips apart,And music overflowing from her heart.But the faint blush that tinged her cheek betrayedNo marble statue, but a living maid;Perplexed and startled at his wondering look,Her rustling score of Mozart’s Sanctus shook;The uncertain notes, like birds within a snare,Fluttered and died upon the trembling air.Days passed; each morning saw the maiden stand,Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand,Eager to study, never weary, whileRepaid by the approving word or smileOf her kind master; days and months fled on;One day the pupil from the choir was gone;Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more,Within the poor musician’s humble door;And to repay, with gentle happy art,The debt so many owed his generous heart.And now, indeed, was one who knew and feltThat a great gift of God within him dwelt;One who could listen, who could understand,Whose idle work dropped from her slackened hand,While with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knewHow the melodious wingèd hours flew;Who loved his art as none had loved before,Yet prized the noble tender spirit more.While the great organ brought from far and nearLovers of harmony to praise and hear,Unmarked by aught save what filled every day,Duty, and toil, and rest, years passed away:And now by the low archway in the shadeBeside her mother knelt a little maid,Who, through the great cathedral learned to roam,Climb to the choir, and bring her father home;And stand, demure and solemn by his side,Patient till the last echo softly died;Then place her little hand in his, and goDown the dark winding stair to where belowThe mother knelt, within the gathering gloomWaiting and praying by the Maiden’s Tomb.So their life went, until, one winter’s day,Father and child came there alone to pray —The mother, gentle soul, had fled away!Their life was altered now, and yet the childForgot her passionate grief in time, and smiled,Half wondering why, when spring’s fresh breezes came,To see her father was no more the same.Half guessing at the shadow of his pain,And then contented if he smiled again,A sad cold smile, that passed in tears away,As re-assured she ran once more to play.And now each year that added grace to grace,Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl’s face,Brought a strange light in the musician’s eyes,As if he saw some starry hope arise,Breaking upon the midnight of sad skies.It might be so: more feeble year by year,The wanderer to his resting-place drew near.One day the Gloria he could play no more,Echoed its grand rejoicing as of yore;His hands were clasped, his weary head was laid,Upon the tomb where the White Maiden prayed:Where the child’s love first dawned, his soul first spoke,The old man’s heart there throbbed its last and broke.The grave cathedral that had nursed his youth,Had helped his dreaming, and had taught him truth,Had seen his boyish grief and baby tears,And watched the sorrows and the joys of years,Had lit his fame and hope with sacred rays,And consecrated sad and happy days —Had blessed his happiness, and soothed his pain,Now took her faithful servant home again.He rests in peace: some travellers mention yetAn organist whose name they all forget.He has a holier and a nobler fameBy poor men’s hearths, who love and bless the nameOf a kind friend; and in low tones to-day,Speak tenderly of him who passed away.Too poor to help the daughter of their friend,They grieved to see the little pittance end;To see her toil and strive with cheerful heart,To bear the lonely orphan’s struggling part;They grieved to see her go at last aloneTo English kinsmen she had never known:And here she came; the foreign girl soon foundWelcome, and love, and plenty all around,And here she pays it back with earnest will,By well-taught housewife watchfulness and skill;Deep in her heart she holds her father’s name,And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame;And while she works with thrifty Belgian care,Past dreams of childhood float upon the air;Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn,That echoed through the old cathedral dim,When as a little child each day she wentTo kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent.VERSE: THE ANGEL OF DEATH
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,Who waits thee at the portals of the skies,Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?How many a tranquil soul has passed away,Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim,To the eternal splendour of the day;And many a troubled heart still calls for him.Spirits too tender for the battle hereHave turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms;And children, shuddering at a world so drear,Have smiling passed away into his arms.He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain,Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart:Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain,And bid the shadow of earth’s grief depart.He will give back what neither time, nor might,Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore.(Dear as to long blind eyes recovered sight,)He will give back those who are gone before.Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyesAre blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst seeThy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.