Songs of Travel | Page 5

day of the Lord.
Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest,?Soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast.?You that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with rings, You, that came forth through the doors, shall burst the doors of kings.
XIV
BRIGHT is the ring of words?When the right man rings them,?Fair the fall of songs?When the singer sings them.?Still they are carolled and said -?On wings they are carried -?After the singer is dead?And the maker buried.
Low as the singer lies?In the field of heather,?Songs of his fashion bring?The swains together.?And when the west is red?With the sunset embers,?The lover lingers and sings?And the maid remembers.
XV
IN the highlands, in the country places,?Where the old plain men have rosy faces,?And the young fair maidens?Quiet eyes;?Where essential silence cheers and blesses,?And for ever in the hill-recesses?Her more lovely music?Broods and dies.
O to mount again where erst I haunted;?Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,?And the low green meadows?Bright with sward;?And when even dies, the million-tinted,?And the night has come, and planets glinted,?Lo, the valley hollow?Lamp-bestarred!
O to dream, O to awake and wander?There, and with delight to take and render,?Through the trance of silence,?Quiet breath;?Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,?Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;?Only winds and rivers,?Life and death.
XVI (To the tune of Wandering Willie)
HOME no more home to me, whither must I wander??Hunger my driver, I go where I must.?Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;?Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.?Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.?The true word of welcome was spoken in the door -?Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,?Kind folks of old, you come again no more.
Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,?Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.?Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;?Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.?Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,?Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.?Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,?The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.
Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,?Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and?flowers;?Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,?Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;?Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood -?Fair shine the day on the house with open door;?Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney -?But I go for ever and come again no more.
XVII - WINTER
IN rigorous hours, when down the iron lane?The redbreast looks in vain?For hips and haws,?Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane?The silver pencil of the winter draws.
When all the snowy hill?And the bare woods are still;?When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,?And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,?Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs -?More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
Saranac Lake.
XVIII
THE stormy evening closes now in vain,?Loud wails the wind and beats the driving rain,?While here in sheltered house?With fire-ypainted walls,?I hear the wind abroad,?I hark the calling squalls -?'Blow, blow,' I cry, 'you burst your cheeks in vain!?Blow, blow,' I cry, 'my love is home again!'
Yon ship you chase perchance but yesternight?Bore still the precious freight of my delight,?That here in sheltered house?With fire-ypainted walls,?Now hears the wind abroad,?Now harks the calling squalls.?'Blow, blow,' I cry, 'in vain you rouse the sea,?My rescued sailor shares the fire with me!'
XIX - TO DR. HAKE (On receiving a Copy of Verses)
IN the beloved hour that ushers day,?In the pure dew, under the breaking grey,?One bird, ere yet the woodland quires awake,?With brief reveille summons all the brake:?Chirp, chirp, it goes; nor waits an answer long;?And that small signal fills the grove with song.
Thus on my pipe I breathed a strain or two;?It scarce was music, but 'twas all I knew.?It was not music, for I lacked the art,?Yet what but frozen music filled my heart?
Chirp, chirp, I went, nor hoped a nobler strain;?But Heaven decreed I should not pipe in vain,?For, lo! not far from there, in secret dale,?All silent, sat an ancient nightingale.?My sparrow notes he heard; thereat awoke;?And with a tide of song his silence broke.
XX - TO -
I KNEW thee strong and quiet like the hills;?I knew thee apt to pity, brave to endure,?In peace or war a Roman full equipt;?And just I knew thee, like the fabled kings?Who by the loud sea-shore gave judgment forth,?From dawn to eve, bearded and few of words.?What, what, was I to honour thee? A child;?A youth in ardour but a child in strength,?Who after virtue's golden chariot-wheels?Runs ever panting, nor attains the goal.?So thought I, and was sorrowful at heart.
Since then my steps have visited