New Poems | Page 8

and mock his longing. Weary head,
Take
now thy rest; eyes, close; for no more me
Shall hopes untried elate, or
ruined vex.
For thus on love I waited; thus for love
Strained all my senses eagerly
and long;

Thus for her coming ever trimmed my song;
Till in the

far skies coloured as a dove,
A bird gold-coloured flickered far and
fled
Over the pathless waterwaste for me;
And with spread hands I
watched the bright bird flee
And waited, till before me she dropped
dead.
O golden bird in these dove-coloured skies
How long I sought,
how long with wearied eyes
I sought, O bird, the promise of thy flight!

And now the morn has dawned, the morn has died,
The day has
come and gone; and once more night
About my lone life settles, wild
and wide.
VOLUNTARY
HERE in the quiet eve
My thankful eyes receive
The quiet light.
I
see the trees stand fair
Against the faded air,
And star by star
prepare
The perfect night.
And in my bosom, lo!
Content and quiet grow
Toward perfect
peace.
And now when day is done,
Brief day of wind and sun,

The pure stars, one by one,
Their troop increase.
Keen pleasure and keen grief
Give place to great relief:
Farewell
my tears!
Still sounds toward me float;
I hear the bird's small note,

Sheep from the far sheepcote,
And lowing steers.
For lo! the war is done,
Lo, now the battle won,
The trumpets still.

The shepherd's slender strain,
The country sounds again
Awake
in wood and plain,
On haugh and hill.
Loud wars and loud loves cease.
I welcome my release;
And hail
once more
Free foot and way world-wide.
And oft at eventide

Light love to talk beside
The hostel door.
ON NOW, ALTHOUGH THE YEAR BE DONE

ON now, although the year be done,
Now, although the love be dead,

Dead and gone;
Hear me, O loved and cherished one,
Give me

still the hand that led,
Led me on.
IN THE GREEN AND GALLANT SPRING
IN the green and gallant Spring,
Love and the lyre I thought to sing,

And kisses sweet to give and take
By the flowery hawthorn brake.
Now is russet Autumn here,
Death and the grave and winter drear,

And I must ponder here aloof
While the rain is on the roof.
DEATH, TO THE DEAD FOR EVERMORE
DEATH, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of
friends -
Whene'er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host,
comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil
shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the
eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest
for evermore we keep.
For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star
beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit
peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the
sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears

And clamour of man's passion, Death appears,
And we must rise
and go.
Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance,
seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The
all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of
the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired
child, the body, longs for bed.
TO CHARLES BAXTER
ON THE DEATH OF THEIR COMMON FRIEND, MR. JOHN
ADAM, CLERK OF COURT.

OUR Johnie's deid. The mair's the pity!
He's deid, an' deid o'
Aqua-vitae.
O Embro', you're a shrunken city,
Noo Johnie's deid!

Tak hands, an' sing a burial ditty
Ower Johnie's heid.
To see him was baith drink an' meat,
Gaun linkin' glegly up the street.

He but to rin or tak a seat,
The wee bit body!
Bein' aye unsicken
on his feet
Wi' whusky toddy.
To be aye tosh was Johnie's whim,
There's nane was better teut than
him,
Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim'
Ahint his ear,
An'
whiles he'd buttons oot or in
The less ae mair.
His hair a' lang about his bree,
His tap-lip lang by inches three -
A
slockened sort 'mon,' to pree
A' sensuality -
A droutly glint was in
his e'e
An' personality.
An' day an' nicht, frae daw to daw,
Dink an' perjink an' doucely braw,

Wi' a kind o' Gospel ower a',
May or October,
Like Peden,
followin' the Law
An' no that sober.
Whusky an' he were pack thegether.
Whate'er the hour, whate'er the
weather,
John kept himsel' wi' mistened leather
An' kindled spunk.

Wi' him, there was nae askin' whether -
John was aye drunk.
The auncient heroes gash an' bauld
In the uncanny days of auld,

The task ance fo(u)nd to which th'were called,
Stack stenchly to it.

His life sic noble lives recalled,
Little's he knew it.
Single an' straucht, he went his way.
He kept the faith an' played the
play.
Whusky an' he were man an' may
Whate'er betided.
Bonny
in life - in death - this twae
Were no' divided.
An' wow! but John was unco sport.
Whiles he wad smile about the
Court
Malvolio-like - whiles snore an' snort
Was heard afar.
The
idle winter lads' resort
Was aye John's bar.

What's merely humorous or bonny
The Worl' regairds wi' cauld
astony.
Drunk men tak' aye mair place than ony;
An' sae, ye see,

The gate was aye ower thrang for Johnie -
Or you an' me.
John micht