Hesperus Part 8

In my heart thy words are shrined, as in a sanctuary fair; Echoes of thy voice of sweetness, rousing all my better life, Ever haunt my wildest visions of the jubilant Chaudiere.

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A ROYAL WELCOME.

By England's side we stand, We grasp her royal hand, And pay her rightful homage through her Son; Thank G.o.d for England's care!

Thank G.o.d for Britain's heir!

Our hearts go forth to meet him--we are one.

A loyal Province pours Her thousands to her sh.o.r.es, From iron-girt Superior to the sea; We feel our youthful blood Surge through us like a flood, There's not a slave amongst us--we are free.

For none but Freemen know The truly loyal throe That gives heroic impulse to the Man-- The pa.s.sion and the fire, The chivalrous desire: Our Fathers all were heroes--in the van.

And we, their ardent sons, Through whom, triumphant, runs The old intrepid attribute serene, Would leave our chosen land, Our homes, our forests grand, To strike for England's honour and her Queen.

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No soulless welcome we Dare give to such as thee: Be thou a bright example to the world; Great in thy well-earned fame, Beloved in heart and name, Wherever Britain's banner is unfurled.

Through all our leafy glades, Through all our green arcades, The living torrents, sweeping in, evince That from their manly hearts The Yeoman chorus starts: 'Honour to England's Heir!--long live the Prince!'

Oh, England! in this hour We own thy sov'reign pow'r; To thee and thine our best affections cling, And when thy crown is laid On Royal Albert's head, With heart and soul we'll shout--G.o.d SAVE THE KING!

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MALCOLM.

Boy! this world has ever been A bright, glad world to me; Through each dark and checkered scene G.o.d's sun shone lovingly.

But Content I've never known; Hoping, trusting that the years, With their April smiles and tears, Would yet bring me one like thee That I could call my own.

With thy soft and heavenly eyes In deep and pensive calm, I seem looking at the skies, And wonder where I am!

Something more than princely blood Courses in thy tranquil face: When she lent thee such a grace, Nature lit life's earnest flame In her most queenly mood.

Such a sweet intelligence Is stamped on every line, Banqueting our craving sense With minist'rings divine.

If thy Boyhood be so great, What will be the coming Man, Could we overleap the span?

Are there treasures in the mine, To pay us, if we wait?

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Doth the voice of Music live In that majestic brain, Waiting for the Hand to give Expression to the strain?

Are there wells of Truth--pure, deep, Where the patient diver, Thought, Finds the pearl that has been sought Many a weary age in vain, Entrusted to thy keep.

Doth the fire of Genius burn Within that ample brow?

Or some patient spirit yearn For things that are not now?

Hidden in the over-soul Of the Future, to be born When the world has ceased its scorn, When the sceptic's heart will bow To the divine control.

Patiently we'll watch and hope, And wait, alternately; Trusting that, when time shall ope The casket's mystery, We will be made rich indeed With the wonders it contains; Rich beyond all previous gains; Richer for thy thought and thee, Beyond our greatest meed.

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THE COMET--OCTOBER, 1858.

Erratic Soul of some great Purpose, doomed To track the wild illimitable s.p.a.ce, Till sure propitiation has been made For the divine commission unperformed!

What was thy crime? Ahasuerus' curse Were not more stern on earth than thine in Heaven!

Art thou the Spirit of some Angel World, For grave rebellion banished from thy peers, Compelled to watch the calm, immortal stars, Circling in rapture the celestial void, While the avenger follows in thy train To spur thee on to wretchedness eterne?

Or one of nature's wildest fantasies, From which she flies in terror so profound, And with such whirl of torment in her breast, That mighty earthquakes yearn where'er she treads; While War makes red its terrible right hand, And Famine stalks abroad all lean and wan?

To us thou art as exquisitely fair As the ideal visions of the seer, Or gentlest fancy that e'er floated down Imagination's bright, unruffled stream, Wedding the thought that was too deep for words To the low breathings of inspired song.

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When the stars sang together o'er the birth Of the poor Babe at Bethlehem, that lay In the coa.r.s.e manger at the crowded Inn, Didst thou, perhaps a bright exalted star, Refuse to swell the grand, harmonious lay, Jealous as Herod of the birth divine?

Or when the crown of thorns on Calvary Pierced the Redeemer's brow, didst thou disdain To weep, when all the planetary worlds Were blinded by the fulness of their tears?

E'en to the flaming sun, that hid his face At the loud cry, "Lama Sabachthani!"

No rest! No rest! the very d.a.m.ned have that In the dark councils of remotest h.e.l.l, Where the dread scheme was perfected that sealed Thy disobedience and accruing doom.

Like Adam's sons, hast thou, too, forfeited The blest repose that never pillowed Sin?

No! none can tell thy fate, thou wandering Sphinx!

Pale Science, searching by the midnight lamp Through the vexed mazes of the human brain, Still fails to read the secret of its soul As the superb enigma flashes by, A loosed Prometheus burning with disdain.

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AUTUMN.

If seasons, like the human race, had souls, Then two artistic spirits live within The Chameleon mind of Autumn--these, The Poet's mentor and the Painter's guide.

The myriad-thoughted phases of the mind Are truly represented by the hues That thrill the forests with prophetic fire.

And what could painter's skill compared to these?

What palette ever held the flaming tints That on these leafy hieroglyphs foretell How set the ebbing currents of the year?

What poet's page was ever like to this, Or told the lesson of life's waning days More forcibly, with more of natural truth, Than yon red maples, or these poplars, white As the pale shroud that wraps some human corse?

And then, again, the spirit of a King, Clothed with that majesty most monarchs lack, Might fit old Autumn for his royal rule: For here is kingly ermine, cloth of gold, And purple robes well worthy to be worn By the best monarch that e'er donned a crown.

Proclaim him Royal Autumn! Poet King!

The Laureate of the Seasons, whose rare songs Are such as lyrist never hoped to fling On the fine ear of an admiring world.