Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 18

XII.

O fair and fond young mother of the boy Who wrought all this--O Mary!--in thy joy Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest, He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best Of all men's chanting since the world began?

XIII.

Did'st thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, And all the pride therein that should be won By toilsome men, content to be his slaves?

XIV.

Did'st thou, good mother! in the tender ways That women find to fill the fleeting days, Behold afar the Giant who should rise With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies, To write his name, and thine, among the stars?

XV.

I love to think it; and, in dreams at night I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, As if to draw him back from out the storm,-- A child again, and thine to nurse withal.

XVI.

I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, And big, bright eyes, far-searching in the air For thy sweet babe, and, in a trice of time, I see the child advance to thee, and climb, And call thee "Mother!" in ecstatic tones.

XVII.

Yet, if my thought be vain--if, by a touch Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch-- Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit! and endow My heart with fervour while to thee I bow Athwart the threshold of my fading dream.

XVIII.

For, though so seeming-bold in this my song, I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar, The famed effulgence of that eastern star Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens.

XIX.

In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pa.s.s Along the banks of Avon, by the gra.s.s, As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son Endow'd with life, but with the look of one Who knows the nearest way to some new grave.

XX.

And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush Of thy full beauty, while the mother's "Hus.h.!.+"

Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith!

XXI.

Oh! by the June-tide splendour of thy face When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace Did leap and laugh, O Mary! by the same, I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, And call thee England's Pride for evermore!

SACHAL.

A WAIF OF BATTLE.

I.

Lo! at my feet, A something pale of hue; A something sad to view; Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet.

II.

Not white as snow; Not transient as a tear!

A warrior left it here, It was his pa.s.sport ere he met the foe.

III.

Here is a name, A word upon the book; If ye but kneel to look, Ye'll find the letters "Sachal" on the same.

IV.

His Land to cherish, He died at twenty-seven.

There are no wars in Heaven, But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish.

V.

Where was he born?

In France, at Puy le Dome.

A wanderer from his home, He found a Fatherland beyond the morn.

VI.

'Twas France's plan; The cause he did not ask.

His life was but a mask, And he upraised it, martyr'd at Sedan.

VII.

And p.r.o.ne in death, Beyond the name of France, Beyond his hero-glance,-- He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath.

VIII.