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Robert Falconer
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‘No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don’t know if it’s fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and lines here and there that I am sure he would alter if he cared for them ae hair.’
‘Then if he doesn’t care for them, he won’t mind my hearing them. There!’ she said, seating herself on the stump. ‘You sit down on the grass and read me—one at least.’
‘You’ll remember they were never intended to be read?’ urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny.
‘I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,’ answered Miss St. John gaily.
Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read:—
MY TWO GENIUSES
One is a slow and melancholy maid:
I know not if she cometh from the skies,
Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise
Often before me in the twilight shade
Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade
Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies
Before her on the turf, the while she ties
A fillet of the weed about my head;
And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear
A gentle rustle like the stir of corn,
And words like odours thronging to my ear:
‘Lie still, beloved, still until the morn;
Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere,
Still till the judgment—thou art faint and worn.’
The other meets me in the public throng:
Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;
She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;
She points me downward steadily and long—
‘There is thy grave—arise, my son, be strong!
Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire
To immortality; heed not the lyre
Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song;
But in the stillness of the summer calm,
Tremble for what is godlike in thy being.
Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm
Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;
And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing
Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.’
Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?
Alas! I may not; thou art likewise dear;
I am but human, and thou hast a tear,
When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow
Of a wild energy that mocks the flow
Of the poor sympathies which keep us here.
Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near,
And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;
And thou shalt walk with me in open day
Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;
And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way,
Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace,
As her great orbs turn ever on thy face,
Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.
Miss St. John did not speak.
‘War ye able to follow him?’ asked Robert.
‘Quite, I assure you,’ she answered, with a tremulousness in her voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend’s success.
‘But they’re nae a’ so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just hearken to this,’ he said, with some excitement.
When the storm was proudest,
And the wind was loudest,
I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;
When the stars were bright,
And the ground was white,
I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.
Many voices spake—
The river to the lake,
The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;
And every starry spark
Made music with the dark,
And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.
‘That line, mem,’ remarked Robert, ‘’s only jist scrattit in, as gin he had no intention o’ leavin’ ‘t, an’ only set it there to keep room for anither. But we’ll jist gang on wi’ the lave o’ ‘t. I ouchtna to hae interruppit it.’
When the sun was setting,
All the clouds were getting
Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;
Beneath the leafless trees
Wrangling in the breeze,
I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.
When the day had ended,
And the night descended,
I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day
And every peak afar,
Was ready for a star,
And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.
Then slumber soft and holy
Came down upon me slowly;
And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;
My glory had been banished,
For when I woke it vanished,
‘Then if he doesn’t care for them, he won’t mind my hearing them. There!’ she said, seating herself on the stump. ‘You sit down on the grass and read me—one at least.’
‘You’ll remember they were never intended to be read?’ urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny.
‘I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,’ answered Miss St. John gaily.
Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read:—
MY TWO GENIUSES
One is a slow and melancholy maid:
I know not if she cometh from the skies,
Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise
Often before me in the twilight shade
Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade
Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies
Before her on the turf, the while she ties
A fillet of the weed about my head;
And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear
A gentle rustle like the stir of corn,
And words like odours thronging to my ear:
‘Lie still, beloved, still until the morn;
Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere,
Still till the judgment—thou art faint and worn.’
The other meets me in the public throng:
Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;
She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;
She points me downward steadily and long—
‘There is thy grave—arise, my son, be strong!
Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire
To immortality; heed not the lyre
Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song;
But in the stillness of the summer calm,
Tremble for what is godlike in thy being.
Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm
Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;
And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing
Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.’
Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?
Alas! I may not; thou art likewise dear;
I am but human, and thou hast a tear,
When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow
Of a wild energy that mocks the flow
Of the poor sympathies which keep us here.
Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near,
And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;
And thou shalt walk with me in open day
Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;
And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way,
Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace,
As her great orbs turn ever on thy face,
Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.
Miss St. John did not speak.
‘War ye able to follow him?’ asked Robert.
‘Quite, I assure you,’ she answered, with a tremulousness in her voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend’s success.
‘But they’re nae a’ so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just hearken to this,’ he said, with some excitement.
When the storm was proudest,
And the wind was loudest,
I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;
When the stars were bright,
And the ground was white,
I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.
Many voices spake—
The river to the lake,
The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;
And every starry spark
Made music with the dark,
And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.
‘That line, mem,’ remarked Robert, ‘’s only jist scrattit in, as gin he had no intention o’ leavin’ ‘t, an’ only set it there to keep room for anither. But we’ll jist gang on wi’ the lave o’ ‘t. I ouchtna to hae interruppit it.’
When the sun was setting,
All the clouds were getting
Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;
Beneath the leafless trees
Wrangling in the breeze,
I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.
When the day had ended,
And the night descended,
I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day
And every peak afar,
Was ready for a star,
And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.
Then slumber soft and holy
Came down upon me slowly;
And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;
My glory had been banished,
For when I woke it vanished,
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