And on the terrace stand the shrine of Love,
And white-robed priests with praises musical
As spring-time birds within the neighbouring grove,
While Venus and her boy bend lovingly above.
Oh, for that ear to hear, that eye to see
The spirits, moving in the summer air,
To know that gladness such as theirs can be,
And sift the sadness from our landscape fair,
And in all lovely things to have our share;
With ear attuned unto a wakeful eye
To hear the music of the evening star
And all earth's glad and various minstrelsy;
Young lives were always ours, and summer ever by.
IL TEMPORALE DEL POUSSINO.
POUSSIN, thy art has filled the summer air
With ruthless spirits, such as Claude ne'er drew;
The sweet, compassionate and loving care
Of Nature unannoyed he only knew,
And on all things a robe of sunlight threw.
But thou hast summoned from their restless sleep
On seas and arid wastes, a reckless crew
Of unseen monsters; thou hast bid them keep
Fast revels as they list, on field and rocky steep.
Some fill the trees with frenzy uncontrolled
And impulse passionate for their own ill;
Awhile, a furious carnival they hold,
And then exhausted, passionless and still,
They sink into a stupor, without thrill,
Of shame and self-wrought ruin. Some, more free,
Run riot upon mead and stream and hill,
Or touch with winged fire, in playful glee,
The hoar castel, and laugh the leaping flames to see.
And man is naught amid such awful powers,
His own he learns with every blast anew ;
And, like a slave, he only fears and cowers
To hide in insignificance from view.
The steadfast mountains, they alone are true,
And bare their bosoms to the threatening skies,
Assume defiantly the tempest's hue,
And frown upon the storm that round them flies,
Till from its lowering wrath, all proudly calm, they
THE day is dark; with frowns I bear
The rude, unseasonable air;
I shrink, I sigh, "Who would not fly
Το sunny fields and summer sky?”
And, glancing on the cheerless noon,
I mourn for autumn dead too soon.
Poor waifs of summer wreckage, borne
On surly winter's crest forlorn ;
Whence came ye? from the darkening north?
And why so late ye sallied forth?
A nameless terror all behind,
And Death upon the assisting wind.
Your summer home, perchance it grew
In sacred shadows that I knew ;
And ye have seen the scenes that moved
My boyish fancy till I loved;
And ye have heard the sounds that stole
In music to my waking soul.
Like spirits, free to go and come
'Twixt heaven and their once earthly home,
*The autumn of 1885 was exceptionally stormy and inclement, and many belated house-martins perished. Some were seen as late as December 3rd, in East Suffolk, and during the afternoon of October 27th two were noticed flying about the stable. Next morning they were found dead together on the floor beneath a beam in the barn, and my little boy of four years carried them with tears in his eyes to every one about the house to kiss before he consigned them to their grave in his ittle garden.
Your fairy shadows, did they pass
And pass last summer o'er the grass,
Where rests in God all I revered
In human form or ever feared?
Whose pity bred my deepest shame,
Whose sorrow was my worst of blame;
And ye, frail sprites, have hither sped
To tell how rests the sacred dead.
Ye have my ruth, my silent tears,
Faint, wayworn, homeless travellers;
The shores ye seek are warm and bright;
I fain would follow you in flight.
My little boy, what have we here?
Thy hands the tiny wanderers' bier?
Thy questioning eye, I see, would speak
And ask if they again will wake.
Yes, yes, somewhere—I may not tell,
In sunny lands, and it is well.
No, no, thy innocent sweet kiss
Shall not restore them unto this.
Go, lay them down, and do not weep;
'Tis but a new and deeper sleep,
A sweeter sleep than e'er they thought
The longest summer day had brought;
It comes to all that creep or fly
Upon the earth or in the sky;
It comes to all-I cannot tell
Why, whence, or how, but it is well.
Go, plant thy flowers, and let them have
Thy favourite primrose on their grave;
'Twill bloom again and be more dear
For blooming there another year;
And bloom, perchance, my little boy,
With something of the sleepers' joy;
And thou may'st read through its disguise The mysteries of Paradise.
Still are ye here? Oh, tempest-tost,
Faint wanderers, forlorn and lost?
No, no, not here, frail travellers;
For ye have slept away your fears.
And nothing know of past annoy,
And nothing have but rest and joy.
Ye now are in a sweeter light
Than e'er ye dreamed of in your flight.
Ye will not leave that blissful shore
To pass the seas for evermore;
There, ceaseless on the dreaming river,
The placid sunlight sleeps for ever;
Nor ever wake the slumb'rous trees
To wanton in the listless breeze ;
But all is sweetly still and fair,
Though pleasant murmurs throng the air;
Melodious murmurs, faintly heard
When sleepful ears by dreams are stirred;
And pleasant odours languish round
In amorous dalliance with the sound,
Odours as full of joy and rest
As syrens' song from islands blest;
And pleasant lights all things endue
With joy of life for ever new.
There pleasant too is all endeavour,
And effortless as thought for ever ;
And ye have but to will and have
All gladness your full senses crave.
Oh, happy birds, ye now have ceased
From toil and care, and ye are blest.
Oh, happy birds, that sunny shore
Ye will not leave for evermore.
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