The Coming of the Princess and Other Poems | Page 6

stalks,

Through all the half-deserted garden walks;
And through long
autumn nights,
The merry dancers scale the northern heights,
And

tiny crystal points of frost-white fire
Make brightly scintillant each
blade and spire,
Still under shade of shelt'ring wall,
Or under
winter's shroud of snows,
Undimmed, the faithful pansy blows,
The
sweetest flower of all!
NOVEMBER METEORS.
Out of the dread eternities,
The vast abyss of night,
A glorious
pageant rose and shone,
And passed from human sight.
We saw the
glittering cavalcade,
And heard inwove through all,
Faint and afar
from star to star,
The sliding music fall.
With banners and with torches,
And hoofs of glancing flame,
With
helm and sword and pennon bright
The long procession came.
And
all the starry spaces,
Height above height outshone,
And the
bickering clang of their armour rang
Down to the farthest zone.
As if some grand cathedral,
With towers of malachite,
And walls of
more than crystal clear,
Rose out of the solid light,
And under its
frowning gateway,
Each morioned warrior stept,
And in radiant
files down the ringing aisles,
The martial pageant swept.
From out the oriel windows,
From vault, and spire, and dome,
And
sparkling up from base to cope,
The light and glory clomb.
They
knelt before the altar,
Each mailed and visored knight,
And the
censers swung as a voice outrung,--
'Now God defend the right'!
On casque, and brand, and corselet
Fell the red light of Mars,
As
forth from the minster gates they passed
To the battle of the stars.

Across moon-lighted depths of space,
And breadths of purple seas,

Their flying squadrons sailed in fleets,
Of fiery argosies:
Down lengths of shining rivers,
Past golded-sanded bars,
And
nebulous isles of amethyst,
They dropt like falling stars:
Till on a
scarped and wrinkled coast,
Washed by dark waves below,
They

came upon the glittering tents--
The city of the foe.
Then rushed they to the battle;
Their bright hair blazed behind,
As
deadlier than the bolt they fell,
And swifter than the wind.
And all
the stellar continents,
With that fierce hail thick sown,
Recoiled
with fear, from sphere to sphere
To Saturn's ancient throne.
The blind old king, in ermine wrapt.
And immemorial cold,
Awoke,
and raised his aged hands,
And shook his rings of gold.
Down
toppled plume and pennon bright,
In endless ruin hurled,
Their
blades of light struck fire from night--
Their splendours lit the world!
And rolling down the hollow spheres,
The mighty chords, the seven,

Clanged on from orb to orb, and smote
Orion in mid-heaven.

Along the ground the white tents lay;
And faint along the fields.

The foe's swart hosts, like glimmering ghosts,
Followed his chariot
wheels.
With banners and with torches,
And armour all aflame,
The victors
and the vanquished went,
Departing as they came;
With here and
there a rocket sent
Up from some lonely barque:
Into the vast
abysm they passed,--
Into the final dark.
PICTURES IN THE FIRE
The wind croons under the icicled eaves--
Croons and mutters a
wordless song,
And the old elm chafes its skeleton leaves
Against
the windows all night long.
Under the spectral garden wall,
The drifts creep steadily high and
higher
And the lamp in the cottage lattice small
Twinkles and
winks like an eye of fire.
But I see a vision of summer skies
Growing out of the embers red,

Under the lids of my half-shut eyes,
With my arms crossed idly under

my head.
I see a stile, and a roadside lime,
With buttercups growing about its
feet,
And a footpath winding a sinuous line
In and out of the
billowy wheat.
For long ago in the summer noons,
Under the shade of that trysting
tree,
My love brought wheat ears and clover blooms,
And vows that
were sweeter than both, to me.
Reading the "Times" in his easy chair,
With his slippered feet on the
fender bright,
Little, I wot, he dreams how fair
Are the pictures I
see in the fire to night.
Still the wind pipes under the serried spears
Of frozen boughs a
desolate rhyme,
But I hear the rustle of golden ears,
And in my
heart it is summer time.
A MADRIGAL
The lily-bells ring underground,
Their music small I hear
When
globes of dew that shine pearl round
Hang in the cowslip's ear
And
all the summer blooms and sprays
Are sheathed from the sun,
And
yet I feel in many ways
Their living pulses run.
The crowning rose of summer time
Lies folded on its stem,
Its
bright urn holds no honey-wine,
Its brow no diadem,
And yet my
soul is inly thrilled,
As if I stood anear
Some legal presence
unrevealed,
The queen of all the year.
Oh Rose, dear Rose! the mist and dew
Uprising from the lake,
And
sunshine glancing warmly through,
Have kissed the flowers awake--

The orchard blooms are dropping balm,
The tulip's gorgeous cup

More slender than a desert palm
It's chalice lifteth up.
The birds are mated in the trees,
The wan stars burn and pale--
Oh

Rose, come forth!--upon the breeze
I hear the nightingale
Unfold
the crimson waves that lie
In darkness rosy dim,
And swing thy
fragrant censer high,
Oh royal Rose for him!
The hyacinths are in the fields
With purple splendours pale
Their
sweet bells ring responsive peals
To every passing gale
And violets
bending in the grass
Do hide their glowing eyes,
When those
enchanting voices pass,
Like airs from Paradise.
We crowned our blushing Queen of May
Long since, with dance and
tune,
But the merry world of yesterday
Is lapsing into June--

Thou art