Astrophel and Other Poems Part 11

A DIRGE

A bell tolls on in my heart As though in my ears a knell Had ceased for awhile to swell, But the sense of it would not part From the spirit that bears its part In the chime of the soundless bell.

Ah dear dead singer of sorrow, The burden is now not thine That grief bade sound for a sign Through the songs of the night whose morrow Has risen, and I may not borrow A beam from its radiant shrine.

The burden has dropped from thee That grief on thy life bound fast; The winter is over and past Whose end thou wast fain to see.

Shall sorrow not comfort me That is thine no longer--at last?

Good day, good night, and good morrow, Men living and mourning say.

For thee we could only pray That night of the day might borrow Such comfort as dreams lend sorrow: Death gives thee at last good day.

A REMINISCENCE

The rose to the wind has yielded: all its leaves Lie strewn on the graveyard gra.s.s, and all their light And colour and fragrance leave our sense and sight Bereft as a man whom bitter time bereaves Of blossom at once and hope of garnered sheaves, Of April at once and August. Day to night Calls wailing, and life to death, and depth to height, And soul upon soul of man that hears and grieves.

Who knows, though he see the snow-cold blossom shed, If haply the heart that burned within the rose, The spirit in sense, the life of life be dead?

If haply the wind that slays with storming snows Be one with the wind that quickens? Bow thine head, O Sorrow, and commune with thine heart: who knows?

VIA DOLOROSA

The days of a man are threescore years and ten.

The days of his life were half a man's, whom we Lament, and would yet not bid him back, to be Partaker of all the woes and ways of men.

Life sent him enough of sorrow: not again Would anguish of love, beholding him set free, Bring back the beloved to suffer life and see No light but the fire of grief that scathed him then.

We know not at all: we hope, and do not fear.

We shall not again behold him, late so near, Who now from afar above, with eyes alight And spirit enkindled, haply toward us here Looks down unforgetful yet of days like night And love that has yet his sightless face in sight.

_February 15, 1887._

I

TRANSFIGURATION

But half a man's days--and his days were nights.

What hearts were ours who loved him, should we pray That night would yield him back to darkling day, Sweet death that soothes, to life that spoils and smites?

For now, perchance, life lovelier than the light's That shed no comfort on his weary way Shows him what none may dream to see or say Ere yet the soul may scale those topless heights Where death lies dead, and triumph. Haply there Already may his kindling eyesight find Faces of friends--no face than his more fair-- And first among them found of all his kind Milton, with crowns from Eden on his hair, And eyes that meet a brother's now not blind.

II

DELIVERANCE

O Death, fair Death, sole comforter and sweet, Nor Love nor Hope can give such gifts as thine.

Sleep hardly shows us round thy shadowy shrine What roses hang, what music floats, what feet Pa.s.s and what wings of angels. We repeat Wild words or mild, disastrous or divine, Blind prayer, blind imprecation, seeing no sign Nor hearing aught of thee not faint and fleet As words of men or snowflakes on the wind.

But if we chide thee, saying "Thou hast sinned, thou hast sinned, Dark Death, to take so sweet a light away As shone but late, though shadowed, in our skies,"

We hear thine answer--"Night has given what day Denied him: darkness hath unsealed his eyes."

III

THANKSGIVING

Could love give strength to thank thee! Love can give Strong sorrow heart to suffer: what we bear We would not put away, albeit this were A burden love might cast aside and live.

Love chooses rather pain than palliative, Sharp thought than soft oblivion. May we dare So trample down our pa.s.sion and our prayer That fain would cling round feet now fugitive And stay them--so remember, so forget, What joy we had who had his presence yet, What griefs were his while joy in him was ours And grief made weary music of his breath, As even to hail his best and last of hours With love grown strong enough to thank thee, Death?

IV

LIBITINA VERTICORDIA

Sister of sleep, healer of life, divine As rest and strong as very love may be, To set the soul that love could set not free, To bid the skies that day could bid not s.h.i.+ne, To give the gift that life withheld was thine.

With all my heart I loved one borne from me: And all my heart bows down and praises thee, Death, that hast now made grief not his but mine.

O Changer of men's hearts, we would not bid thee Turn back our hearts from sorrow: this alone We bid, we pray thee, from thy sovereign throne And sanctuary sublime where heaven has hid thee, Give: grace to know of those for whom we weep That if they wake their life is sweet as sleep.

V

THE ORDER OF RELEASE

Thou canst not give it. Grace enough is ours To know that pain for him has fallen on rest.

The worst we know was his on earth: the best, We fain would think,--a thought no fear deflowers-- Is his, released from bonds of rayless hours.

Ah, turn our hearts from longing; bid our quest Cease, as content with failure. This thy guest Sleeps, vexed no more of time's imperious powers, The spirit of hope, the spirit of change and loss, The spirit of love bowed down beneath his cross, Nor now needs comfort from the strength of song.

Love, should he wake, bears now no cross for him: Dead hope, whose living eyes like his were dim, Has brought forth better comfort, strength more strong.

VI

PSYCHAGOGOS

As Greece of old acclaimed thee G.o.d and man, So, Death, our tongue acclaims thee: yet wast thou Hailed of old Rome as Romans hail thee now, G.o.ddess and woman. Since the sands first ran That told when first man's life and death began, The shadows round thy blind ambiguous brow Have mocked the votive plea, the pleading vow That sought thee sorrowing, fain to bless or ban.

But stronger than a father's love is thine, And gentler than a mother's. Lord and G.o.d, Thy staff is surer than the wizard rod That Hermes bare as priest before thy shrine And herald of thy mercies. We could give Nought, when we would have given: thou bidst him live.

VII

THE LAST WORD