Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

Terror and beauty, fear and wondering Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see:

All men do praise thee, ay, and everything; Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

V.

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold
The sheer sun burning in the orbed blue,
What while the noontide over hill and wold

Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view
Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight
Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.
Thy visage haunts me in the wavering
Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening,
I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.

Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
Envoy.

God above Gods, High and Eternal King,
To whom the spheral symphonies do sing.

I find no whither from thy power to flee,
Save in thy pinions vast o'ershadowing.
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.
JOHN PAYNE.

THE CHANT OF THE CHILDREN OF

THE MIST.

(Chant Royal.)

I waited on a mountain's midmost side,

The lifting of a cloud, and standing there, Keeping my soul in patience far and wide

Beheld faint shadows wandering, felt the air

Stirred as with voices which in passing by
Still dulled its weary weight with many a sigh.

No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they-
These children of the mist--who took their way,
Each one aloof, perplexed and pondering
With steps untimed to music grave or gay ;-
This was a people that had lost its king.

In happier days of old it was their pride

To serve him on their knee and some were 'ware F'en of his voice or presence as they plied

Their daily task, or ate their simple fare. Now in new glory shrouded, far and nigh He had withdrawn himself from ear and eye; Scorning such service as they knew to pay, His ministers were as the golden ray [spring,Shot from the sun when he would wake the Swift to perform and pliant to obey

This was a people that had lost its king.

Single as beasts, or if allied, allied

But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair To hound for common need, which scarce supplied, He lone returns with his disputed share,

Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,

Each man of these pursued his way on high,

Still high and higher, seeking through the grey
Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.

Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowing
Shadows continuing never in one stay ;-

This was a people that had lost its king.

Then as the day wore on, and none descried

The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare, As strength declined, and hope within them died

A sad new birth,-the fruit of their despair,Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry

Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play
Broke up the hard cold barriers of their clay,
Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to
cling

In fealty that was only joined to pray;

This was a people that had lost its king. So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,

With gathering power and ever lessening care, The veiled beguilements of the way defied [fair; They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain Till lo upon its crown at last they vie In songs of rapture as they hail the sky,

And trace their lost one through the vast array Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay Their questing love, but help to waft and wing; And over all a voice which seems to say,

This is a people that has found its king!

Envoy.

Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that day
When at thy feet a scattered host we lay.
Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring,
Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway.
This was the people that had lost its king!
EMILY PFEiffer.

KING BOREAS.

(Chant Royal.)

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar,

Beyond the level land of endless snow, For months I see the brilliant polar star

Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know.

Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,

My realms are boundless as the realms of Night.

Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey My many minions from the isles of Day; And when my heralds sound aloud, behold

My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway! I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am the god of the winds that are!

I blow where'er I list,-I come, I go.
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car

I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright
To hear my clarion on the mountain height.

The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray, "Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?" I am as aged as the earth is o'd,

Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I loose my chains, and then with awful jar
And presage of disaster and dire woe,
Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war

'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow. I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight Toward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light

Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray, They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay. They turn green meadows to a desert wold,

And naught for rulers of the earth care they ;I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,

In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow, When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar The peace of nature, when the rivers flow Is soft and musical, and when the sprite Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight

With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,
And seize upon whate'er I will for prey.
I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,"

And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am in league with Death. When I unbar

My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar

The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row, They breathe on every bower a deadly blight, And all is sere and withered in their sight.

Unheeded now, Apollo's warming ray Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,

And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

Envoy.

O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say !—
"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye;
His might hath empire only of the mold."
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE NEW EPIPHANY.

(Chant Royal.)

Awake, awake, nay, slumber not. nor sleep!
Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night,
From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep
Of formless being, comes a gracious light,
Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round
A golden glory on the enchanted ground ;-

« AnkstesnisTęsti »