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Poems. Volume 3
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Год написания книги: 2018
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TO A FRIEND LOST
(TOM TAYLOR)When I remember, friend, whom lost I call,Because a man beloved is taken hence,The tender humour and the fire of senseIn your good eyes; how full of heart for all,And chiefly for the weaker by the wall,You bore that lamp of sane benevolence;Then see I round you Death his shadows denseDivide, and at your feet his emblems fall.For surely are you one with the white host,Spirits, whose memory is our vital air,Through the great love of Earth they had: lo, these,Like beams that throw the path on tossing seas,Can bid us feel we keep them in the ghost,Partakers of a strife they joyed to share.M. M
Who call her Mother and who calls her WifeLook on her grave and see not Death but Life.THE LADY C. M
To them that knew her, there is vital flameIn these the simple letters of her name.To them that knew her not, be it but said,So strong a spirit is not of the dead.ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON
(d. APRIL 11, 1884)IN HEADLEY CHURCHYARD, SURREYThou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossedThe sea of darkness to the yonder shore.There dost thou shine a light transferred, not lost,Through love to kindle in our souls the more.GORDON OF KHARTOUM
Of men he would have raised to light he fell:In soul he conquered with those nerveless hands.His country’s pride and her abasement knellThe Man of England circled by the sands.J. C. M
A fountain of our sweetest, quick to springIn fellowship abounding, here subsides:And never passage of a cloud on wingTo gladden blue forgets him; near he hides.THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME
With Alfred and St. Louis he doth winGrander than crowned head’s mortuary dome:His gentle heroic manhood enters inThe ever-flowering common heart for home.ISLET THE DACHS
Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissedFrom his quaint tenement, quits hates and loves.There lived with us a wagging humouristIn that hound’s arch dwarf-legged on boxing-gloves.ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE
(THE DEATH OF ROBERT BROWNING)Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,And voiceless hangs the world beside his bier.Our words are sobs, our cry of praise a tear:We are the smitten mortal, we the weak.We see a spirit on Earth’s loftiest peakShine, and wing hence the way he makes more clear:See a great Tree of Life that never sereDropped leaf for aught that age or storms might wreak.Such ending is not Death: such living showsWhat wide illumination brightness shedsFrom one big heart, to conquer man’s old foes:The coward, and the tyrant, and the forceOf all those weedy monsters raising headsWhen Song is murk from springs of turbid source. December 13, 1889.HAWARDEN
When comes the lighted day for men to readLife’s meaning, with the work before their handsTill this good gift of breath from debt is freed,Earth will not hear her children’s wailful bandsDeplore the chieftain fall’n in sob and dirge;Nor they look where is darkness, but on high.The sun that dropped down our horizon’s vergeIllumes his labours through the travelled sky,Now seen in sum, most glorious; and ’tis knownBy what our warrior wrought we hold him fast.A splendid image built of man has flown;His deeds inspired of God outstep a Past.Ours the great privilege to have had oneAmong us who celestial tasks has done.AT THE FUNERAL
FEBRUARY 2, 1901Her sacred body bear: the tenement Of that strong soul now ranked with God’s ElectHer heart upon her people’s heart she spent; Hence is she Royalty’s lodestar to direct.The peace is hers, of whom all lands have praised Majestic virtues ere her day unseen.Aloft the name of Womanhood she raised, And gave new readings to the Title, Queen.ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS
Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest Beneath our sacred sod:A woman vowed to Good, whom all attest, The daylight gift of God.THE YEAR’S SHEDDINGS
The varied colours are a fitful heap:They pass in constant service though they sleep;The self gone out of them, therewith the pain:Read that, who still to spell our earth remain.1
Written in December 1870, printed in the ‘Fortnightly Review,’ and published in the volume ‘Ballads and Poems.’
