Ballads | Page 6

reverential awe.
Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults?Repose the bones of those that once were kings;?Their power has passed, and what remains but clay??While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.
Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,--?Faint shadows they without his plastic art,--?He waves his wand, and lo! they live again,?And in his world perform their mimic part.
Born in the purple, his imperial soul?Sits crowned and sceptred in the realms of mind.?Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay,?Time but confirms his empire o'er mankind.
MRS. BROWNING'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.
FLORENCE wears an added grace,?All her earlier honors crowning;?Dante's birthplace, Art's fair home,?Holds the dust of Barrett Browning.
Guardian of the noble dead?That beneath thy soil lie sleeping,?England, with full heart, commends?This new treasure to thy keeping.
Take her, she is half thine own;?In her verses' rich outpouring,?Breathes the warm Italian heart,?Yearning for the land's restoring.
From thy skies her poet-heart?Caught a fresher inspiration,?And her soul obtained new strength,?With her bodily translation.
Freely take what thou hast given,?Less her verses' rhythmic beauty,?Than the stirring notes that called?Trumpet-like thy sons to duty.
Rarest of exotic flowers?In thy native chaplet twining,?To the temple of thy great?Add her--she is worth enshrining.
MY CASTLE.
I have a beautiful castle,?With towers and battlements fair;?And many a banner, with gay device,?Floats in the outer air.
The walls are of solid silver;?The towers are of massive gold;?And the lights that stream from the windows?A royal scene unfold.
Ah! could you but enter my castle?With its pomp of regal sheen,?You would say that it far surpasses?The palace of Aladeen.
Could you but enter as I do,?And pace through the vaulted hall,?And mark the stately columns,?And the pictures on the wall;
With the costly gems about them,?That send their light afar,?With a chaste and softened splendor?Like the light of a distant star!
And where is this wonderful castle,?With its rich emblazonings,?Whose pomp so far surpasses?The homes of the greatest kings?
Come out with me at morning?And lie in the meadow-grass,?And lift your eyes to the ether blue,?And you will see it pass.
There! can you not see the battlements;?And the turrets stately and high,?Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,?And lost in the arching sky?
Dear friend, you are only dreaming,?Your castle so stately and fair?Is only a fanciful structure,--?A castle in the air.
Perchance you are right. I know not?If a phantom it may be;?But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel?That it lives, and lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me,?And my heart is heavy with care,?I steal me away from the noisy crowd,?To dwell in my castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;?There are servants to heed my call;?And I, with a master's air of pride,?May pace through the vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs?With cities under their sway;?For am I not, in my own right,?A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others?My castle a phantom may be,?Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,?That it is not so to me?
APPLE-BLOSSOMS.
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,?In the fragrant orchard close,?And around me floats the scented air,?With its wave-like tidal flows.?I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,?And call no king my peer;?For is not this the rare, sweet time,?The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass,?With delicate blossoms strewn,?And I feel the throb of Nature's heart?Responsive to my own.?Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,?That maketh life so dear;?For is not this the rare, sweet time,?The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,?The delicate blue of the sky,?And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints?That drift so lazily by.?And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,?And Heaven, it seemeth near;?Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,?The blossoming time of the year?
SUMMER HOURS.
It is the year's high noon,?The earth sweet incense yields,?And o'er the fresh, green fields?Bends the clear sky of June.
I leave the crowded streets,?The hum of busy life,?Its clamor and its strife,?To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
O rare and golden hours!?The bird's melodious song,?Wavelike, is borne along?Upon a strand of flowers.
I wander far away,?Where, through the forest trees,?Sports the cool summer breeze,?In wild and wanton play.
A patriarchal elm?Its stately form uprears,?Which twice a hundred years?Has ruled this woodland realm.
I sit beneath its shade,?And watch, with careless eye,?The brook that babbles by,?And cools the leafy glade.
In truth I wonder not,?That in the ancient days?The temples of God's praise?Were grove and leafy grot.
The noblest ever planned,?With quaint device and rare,?By man, can ill compare?With these from God's own hand.
Pilgrim with way-worn feet,?Who, treading life's dull round,?No true repose hast found,?Come to this green retreat.
For bird, and flower, and tree,?Green fields, and woodland wild,?Shall bear, with voices mild,?Sweet messages to thee.
JUNE.
Throw open wide your golden gates,?O poet-landed month of June,?And waft me, on your spicy breath,?The melody of birds in tune.
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