Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB

Remembering that music had been made | And of the melody whose key is God.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

CHARLES G. LELAND.

And when Siang would teach him more, he said:

"Not yet, my master, I would seize the thought,

The subtle thought which hides within

the tune.

To which the master answered: "It is well. Take five days more!" time was passed

And when the

Unto Siang thus spoke Confucius: "I do begin to see, yet what I see Is very dim. I am as one who looks And nothing sees except a luminous cloud:

Give me but five more days, and at the end

If I have not attained the great idea
Hidden of old within the melody,
I will leave music as beyond my power."
"Do as thou wilt, O pupil!" cried Siang
In deepest admiration; "never yet
Had I a scholar who was like to thee."

And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : "The mist which shadowed me is blown away,

I am as one who stands upon a cliff And gazes far and wide upon the world, For I have mastered every secret thought, Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim Which flitted through the spirit of Wen Wang

When he composed that air. I speak to him,

I hear him clearly answer me again; And more than that, I see his very form: A man of middle stature, with a hue Half blended with the dark and with the fair;

His features long, and large sweet eyes which beam

With great benevolence, -a noble face!
His voice is deep and full, and all his air
Inspires a sense of virtue and of love.
I know that I behold the very man,
The sage of ancient days, Wen Wang the
just."

Then good Siang lay down upon the dust, And said: "Thou art my master. Even thus

The ancient legend, known to none but

me,

Describes our first great sire. And thou hast seen

333

That which I never yet myself beheld, Though I have played the sacred song for years,

Striving with all my soul to penetrate
Its mystery unto the master's form,
Whilst thou hast reached it at a single
bound:

Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee tune."

MINE OWN.

AND O, the longing, burning eyes!
And O, the gleaming hair

Which waves around me, night and day,
O'er chamber, hall, and stair!

And O, the step, half dreamt, half heard!
And memories of merriment
And O, the laughter low!
Which faded long ago!

O, art thou Sylph,

-or truly Self, —
Or either at thy choice?
O, speak in breeze or beating heart,
But let me hear thy voice!

"O, some do call me Laughter, love;
And some do call me Sin":-
"And they may call thee what they will,
So I thy love may win.

"And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play" :"O, they might call thee what they would If thou wert mine alway!"

"And some do call me Sorrow, love,

And some do call me Tears, And some there be who name me Hope, And some that name me Fears.

"And some do call me Gentle Heart, And some Forgetfulness": "And if thou com'st as one or all, Thou comest but to bless!"

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart,
And some do call me Death;
And he to whom the two are one
Has won my heart and faith."

She twined her white arms round his neck:

The tears fell down like rain. "And if I live or if I die,

We'll never part again."

[blocks in formation]

Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven - descended, soon to heaven withdrawn,

Ever dwells the lesser in the greater;

In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter

Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL

UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,

Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,

Fairer than the moon-flower of the Aud under the cliffs the billows were

[blocks in formation]

chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,

Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird,

and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed

men who gathered around the

grave, Where lay the mate who had fought with

them the battle of wind and wave.

How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar, When the sky was black to the eastward

and the breakers white on the Scar! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead,

how his strong hand furled the sail, As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale!

How cheery he kept all the long dark

night; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us,

when at last the morning broke!

So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood;

UNKNOWN.

eyes,

335

That here once looked on glowing skies,
Where summer smiled;

And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone, While he, who knew and loved them all lay lapped in clay alone?

But for long, when to the beetling heights
the snow-tipped billows roll,
When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart
around the herring shoal;
When gear is sorted, and sails are set,
and the merry breezes blow,
And away to the deep sea-harvest the
stalwart reapers go,

A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they
will give to him who lies
Where the clover springs, and the heather
blooms, beneath the northern skies.

UNKNOWN.

ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN-
TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY
YEARS.

LONG years ago I wandered here,
In the midsummer of the year, -
Life's summer too;

A score of horsemen here we rode,
The mountain world its glories showed,
All fair to view.

These scenes in glowing colors drest,
Mirrored the life within my breast,
Its world of hopes;

The whispering woods and fragrant breeze
That stirred the grass in verdant seas
On billowy slopes,

And glistening crag in sunlit sky,
Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high,
Were joys to me;

My path was o'er the prairie wide,
Or here on grander mountain-side,
To choose, all free.

The rose that waved in morning air,
And spread its dewy fragrance there
In careless bloom,

Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue,
O'er my glad life its color threw
And sweet perfume.

These riven trees, this wind-swept plain
Now show the winter's dread domain,
Its fury wild.

The rocks rise black from storm-packed

[blocks in formation]

Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red,

The elder-flower a fairer gray.

And there was silence on the land,
Save when, from out the city's fold,
Stricken by Time's remorseless wand,
A bell across the morning tolled.

The beeches sighed through all their boughs;

The gusty pennons of the pine
Swayed in a melancholy drowse,
But with a motion sternly fine.

One gable, full against the sun,
Flooded the garden-space beneath
With spices, sweet as cinnamon,

From all its honeysuckled breath.

Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke,

The windmill shook its slanted arms,
The sun was up, the country woke!
And voices sounded mid the trees

Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, From fields which promised tented sheaves;

Till the day waxed into excess,

And on the misty, rounding gray,
One vast, fantastic wilderness,
The glowing roofs of London lay.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS.

THE sea is calling, calling.
Wife, is there a log to spare?
Fling it down on the hearth and call
them in,

The boys and girls with their merry din,
I am loth to leave you all just yet,
In the light and the noise I might forget,
The voice in the evening air.

The sea is calling, calling,

Along the hollow shore.

I know each nook in the rocky strand,

And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling,

And the winding caves where the echoes ring.

I shall wake them nevermore.
How it keeps calling, calling,
It is never a night to sail.

I saw the "sea-dog" over the height,
As I strained through the haze my fail-
ing sight,

And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh,

As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by,
In the moan of the rising gale.

Yet it is calling, calling.
It is hard on a soul, I say,

To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark,

Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark;

While the foam flies thick on the bitter

blast,

And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay.

Do you hear it calling, calling?
And yet, I am none so old.
At the herring fishery, but last year,
No boat beat mine for tackle and gear,
And I steered the coble past the reef,
When the broad sail shook like a with-
ered leaf,

And the rudder chafed my hold.

Will it never stop calling, calling?
Can't you sing a song by the hearth?
A heartsome stave of a merry glass,
Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass?
Don't you care for your grand-dad just
so much?

Come near then, give me a hand to touch,
Still warm with the warmth of earth.

You hear it calling, calling?
Ask her why she sits and cries.
She always did when the sea was up,
She would fret, and never take bit or sup
When I and the lads were out at night,
And she saw the breakers cresting white
Beneath the low black skies.

But, then, it is calling, calling,
No summons to soul was sent.
Now-

Well, fetch the parson, find the book,

And the crimson weeds on the golden sand, It is up on the shelf there if you look;

« AnteriorContinua »