A
REVERIE.
|
|
My
thoughts poor plummet deep I sink,
But never bottom find,
And, rudder gone and compass lost,
The sport of every wind,
Survey the veiled-up heavens in vain;
|
5 |
No
sun-gleam in the day,
And in the night never a star,
E’en could I shape
my way.
Like wild sea gulls my mind wheels on—
A weary worthless chase,
|
10 |
And
sometimes folds her jaded wing,
And rests a little space.
No glimpse of blue the clouds glints through,
Yet comes a sunny dream;
A boy bends o’er an old oak bridge
|
15 |
And
babbles to the stream.
At dusk the garden walls he scales,
Himself and pockets fills,
Or holds a tryst with Mary Bate
Beside old Lambert’s
Mills;
|
20 |
Or in the play ground ’mid a ring
He fights with Charlie Brown,
One dreadful moment there they stand,
The next and Brown is down.
[Page 66]
The big boys lift them up and cry:
|
25 |
“Now
for another round!”
They wildly strike, then close again;
This time he meets the ground.
A third time front to front they stand,
Brown takes him ’neath
the chin,
|
30 |
But
soon gets into chancery,
And so must e’en give
in.
With claret, so we called it then,
My sleeve shows many a stain,
But victor never prouder felt
|
35 |
Upon
the foughten plain.
The river fouls in flowing on.
To taste its waves we shrink,
But at its source the stream is pure,
And angels there might drink;
|
40 |
And pure that stream to which I fly
From present thoughts appalling,
And liquid clear it strikes the ear,
Like founts on Pindus falling.
Ah! then whate’er the world’s time,
|
45 |
However
dark the sky,
Refulgent suns of youth sublime
Light up the inner eye:
Sweet tender memories full of sounds
Of home, and fragrant days
|
50 |
All
glad, and dewy lawns, and hounds
And games, and wholesome
praise. [Page 67]
Bright morning trips with rosy smiles
Across those ancient pine,
And in her glance the white rose glows,
|
55 |
Two
garden lakelets shine.
My dogs bound round with eager bark,
And fain would force the
will,
They wag their tails and gripe the hand,
And look towards yonder
hill,
|
60 |
Where well they know a hundred hares
Through dewy brambles peep;
The hill is gained; old Gip gives cry;
And puss flies up the steep.
A vigorous run, the quarry’s won,
|
65 |
I
rest upon the ridge,
And watch the river roll below,
The wain toil o’er
the bridge,
The village white, the curling smoke,
The old stone spire, the
school,
|
70 |
The
listening horse, the grazing kine,
The fat geese in the pool.
And then across the fields for home,
By hedges fresh and green,
Where berries oft invite to pause,
|
75 |
And
wild flowers bloom between.
Soon in that ancient antler’d hall
My dogs jump and rejoice;
I hear the maids sing at their work,
I hear my mother’s
voice; [Page 68]
|
80 |
She comes to know how fortune fared;
I see her look so bright;
Her golden hair, her sweet blue eye,
Her tiny figure slight.
The game I show, receive a kiss;
|
85 |
Ah!
who could dream the years
Would roll and roll, until one day
That kiss would cause but
tears?
Above dark woods of oak and elm,
The placid moon shines clear;
|
90 |
A
young man in a garden bower—
He holds his breath to hear.
His eyes on fire, as tho’ enraged,
Survey the twinkling stars;
His heart beats like some wild thing caged
|
95 |
Against
its prison bars.
A glimpse of muslin—flash of feet,
And eyes—red lips
apart
In smiles. He springs his love to greet;
She’s folded to his
heart.
|
100 |
He kisses her; he pats her hair;
One long perfervid kiss:
His life he’d wreak in kisses there,
For life has naught like
this.
But she must go—O yes she must—
|
105 |
Another
kiss and then—
Yes—she must go—to-morrow night,
To-morrow in the glen. [Page
69]
Thus Fancy flying through the past
Flits now from that to this,
|
110 |
And
present woe is all forgot
In unforgotten bliss.
On magic waves I’m borne away
To happier shores serene,
Where founts of joy forever play
|
115 |
’Mid
fields for ever green.
And here at times a stronger spell
Upon my spirit falls,
I lie on banks of Asphodel
And tread Elysian halls,
|
120 |
While thronging round come shapes of light.
With eyes of temper’d
fire;
The Muses nine, the Graces three,
Apollo with his lyre;
And fairer forms than e’er were feigned
|
125 |
On
poets powerful scroll
And sweeter strains of rarer song,
Than e’er touch’d
human soul.
The world is enter’d—comes the prose;
Man’s falsehood, woman’s
wiles,
|
130 |
The
plot of scoundrels o’er the wine,
The treachery masked in
smiles.
The dream is gone—the river fades,
Those wooded heights are
lost,
Once more upon a lonely sea
|
135 |
| A
lonely bark is tost. [Page 70] |
|
|
