The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 72

THE CUP

The cup I sing is a cup of gold Many and many a century old, Sculptured fair, and over-filled With wine of a generous vintage, spilled In crystal currents and foaming tides All round its luminous, pictured sides.

Old Time enameled and embossed This ancient cup at an infinite cost.

Its frame he wrought of metal that run Red from the furnace of the sun.

Ages on ages slowly rolled Before the glowing ma.s.s was cold, And still he toiled at the antique mold,-- Turning it fast in his fas.h.i.+oning hand, Tracing circle, layer, and band, Carving figures quaint and strange, Pursuing, through many a wondrous change, The symmetry of a plan divine.

At last he poured the l.u.s.trous wine, Crowned high the radiant wave with light, And held aloft the goblet bright, Half in shadow, and wreathed in mist Of purple, amber, and amethyst.

This is the goblet from whose brink All creatures that have life must drink: Foemen and lovers, haughty lord, And sallow beggar with lips abhorred.

The new-born infant, ere it gain The mother's breast, this wine must drain.

The oak with its subtle juice is fed, The rose drinks till her cheeks are red, And the dimpled, dainty violet sips The limpid stream with loving lips.

It holds the blood of sun and star, And all pure essences that are: No fruit so high on the heavenly vine, Whose golden hanging cl.u.s.ters s.h.i.+ne On the far-off shadowy midnight hills, But some sweet influence it distils That slideth down the silvery rills.

Here Wisdom drowned her dangerous thought, The early G.o.ds their secrets brought; Beauty, in quivering lines of light, Ripples before the ravished sight: And the unseen mystic spheres combine To charm the cup and drug the wine.

All day I drink of the wine, and deep In its stainless waves my senses steep; All night my peaceful soul lies drowned In hollows of the cup profound; Again each morn I clamber up The emerald crater of the cup, On ma.s.sive k.n.o.bs of jasper stand And view the azure ring expand: I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim In the wine that o'erruns the jeweled rim:-- Edges of chrysolite emerge, Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge: My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, My eager senses kiss the wave, And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore That kindles the bosom's secret core, And the fire that maddens the poet's brain With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A STRIP OF BLUE

I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine,-- The orchards and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine.

The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me t.i.thes divine,-- Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity,-- A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every s.h.i.+p Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And n.o.bler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew,-- My s.h.i.+ps that sail into the East Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, The people of the sky,-- Guests in white raiment coming down From Heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh, So white, so light, so spirit-like, From violet mists they bloom!

The aching wastes of the unknown Are half reclaimed from gloom, Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn to night; We miss the warm, caressing sh.o.r.e, Its brooding shade and light.

A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told.

The fringes of eternity,-- G.o.d's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glittering sea, I reach out for, and hold.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones,-- Sapphire and amethyst, Washed from celestial bas.e.m.e.nt walls By suns unsetting kissed.

Out through the utmost gates of s.p.a.ce, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift; Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of G.o.d's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before: Thy universe, O G.o.d, is home, In height or depth, to me; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be; Glad, when is opened unto my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD To Hasten Him Into The Country

Come, spur away!

I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war-- 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; Or to make sport For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.

Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the day?

With what delights Shorten the nights?

When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?

There from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show: Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon Some other pleasures: these to me are none.

Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate!

I never mean to wed That torture to my bed: My Muse is she My love shall be.

Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more!

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.

No fruit shall 'scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape.

Then, full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the choir; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes; We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they'll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all.

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to n.o.ble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears, Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain: Then I another pipe will take And Done music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]

"THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN"

The midges dance aboon the burn; The dews begin to fa'; The paitricks doun the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day; While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell.-- Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

THE PLOW

Above yon somber swell of land Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy.