Part 16

All day into the open sky, All night to the eternal stars, For ever both at morn and eve Men mellow distances draw near, And shadows lengthen in the dusk, Athwart the heavens it rolls its glimmering line!

When twilight from the dream-hued West Sighs hush! and all the land is still; When, from the lush empurpling East, The twilight of the crowing cock Peers on the drowsy village roofs, Athwart the heavens that glimmering line is seen.

And now beneath the rising sun, Whose shining chariot overpeers The irradiate ridge, while fetlock deep In the rich soil his coursers plunge— How grand in robes of light it looks! How glorious with rare suggestive grace!

The ploughman mounting up the height Becomes a glowing shape, as though ’Twere young Triptolemus, plough in hand, While Ceres in her amber scarf With gentle love directs him how To wed the willing earth and hope for fruits!

The furrows running up are fraught With meanings; there the goddess walks, While Proserpine is young, and there— ’Mid the late autumn sheaves, her voice Sobbing and choked with dumb despair— The nights will hear her wailing for her child!

Whatever dim tradition tells, Whatever history may reveal, Or fancy, from her starry brows, Of light or dreamful lustre shed, Could not at this sweet time increase The quiet consecration of the spot.

Blest with the sweat of labour, blest With the young sun’s first vigorous beams, Village hope and harvest prayer,— The heart that throbs beneath it holds A bliss so perfect in itself Men’s thoughts must borrow rather than bestow.

III

NOW standing on this hedgeside path, Up which the evening winds are blowing Wildly from the lingering lines Of sunset o’er the hills; Unaided by one motive thought, My spirit with a strange impulsion Rises, like a fledgling, Whose wings are not mature, but still Supported by its strong desire Beats up its native air and leaves The tender mother’s nest.

Great music under heaven is made, And in the track of rushing darkness Comes the solemn shape of night, And broods above the earth. A thing of Nature am I now, Abroad, without a sense or feeling Born not of her bosom; Content with all her truths and fates; Ev’n as yon strip of grass that bows Above the new-born violet bloom, And sings with wood and field.

LO, as a tree, whose wintry twigs Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, And down into its dampest roots Thrills quickened with the draught of life, I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse.

I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: Each draught a future bud of Spring; Each glance of blue a birth of green; I will not mimic yonder oak That dallies with dead leaves ev’n while the primrose peeps.

But full of these warm-whispering beams, Like Memnon in his mother’s eye,— Aurora! when the statue stone Moaned soft to her pathetic touch,— My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day!

And ever in the recurring light, True to the primal joy of dawn, Forget its barren griefs; and aye Like aspens in the faintest breeze Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song.

NOW from the meadow floods the wild duck clamours, Now the wood pigeon wings a rapid flight, Now the homeward rookery follows up its vanguard, And the valley mists are curling up the hills.

Three short songs gives the clear-voiced throstle, Sweetening the twilight ere he fills the nest; While the little bird upon the leafless branches Tweets to its mate a tiny loving note.

Deeper the stillness hangs on every motion; Calmer the silence follows every call; Now all is quiet save the roosting pheasant, The bell-wether’s tinkle and the watch-dog’s bark.

Softly shine the lights from the silent kindling homestead, Stars of the hearth to the shepherd in the fold; Springs of desire to the traveller on the roadway; Ever breathing incense to the ever-blessing sky!

How barren would this valley be, Without the golden orb that gazes On it, broadening to hues Of rose, and spreading wings of amber; Blessing it before it falls asleep.

How barren would this valley be, Without the human lives now beating In it, or the throbbing hearts Far distant, who their flower of childhood Cherish here, and water it with tears!

How barren should I be, were I Without above that loving splendour, Shedding light and warmth! without Some kindred natures of my kind To joy in me, or yearn towards me now!

VII

SUMMER glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and daisies Darken ’mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay-makers Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the mowing, And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the gloaming Wears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield now; Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage, Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, for windless Heaven’s blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy white valleys; Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels, melodious With the invisible joy that wakes dawn o’er the green fields of England. Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro’ them gaily, Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of dark freckles. Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead, Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chance coolness, But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal. Heed him not; come, tho’ he kiss till the soft little upper-lip loses Half its pure whiteness; just speck’d where the curve of the rosy mouth reddens.

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee the sweeter. Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a withering pallor! City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day, Hung upon hedges of eglantine! Thou in the freedom of nature, Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness! Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of noontide; Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border’d by hillside and river, Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of white meadow-sweet, sweetest, Blissfully hovers—O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the tenderest Grasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a posy.

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers are falling! Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the long twilight: Mute with the cares of the nest; only known by a ‘chuck, chuck,’ and dovelike Call of content, but the finch and the linnet and blackcap pipe loudly. Round on the western hill-side warbles the rich-billed ouzel; And the shrill throstle is filling the tangled thickening copses; Singing o’er hyacinths hid, and most honey’d of flowers, white field-rose. Joy thus to revel all day in the grass of our own beloved country; Revel all day, till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet ‘tirra-lirra’: Trilling delightfully. See, on the river the slow-rippled surface Shining; the slow ripple broadens in circles; the bright surface smoothens; Now it is flat as the leaves of the yet unseen water-lily. There dart the lives of a day, ever-varying tactics fantastic. There, by the wet-mirrored osiers, the emerald wing of the kingfisher Flashes, the fish in his beak! there the dab-chick dived, and the motion Lazily undulates all thro’ the tall standing army of rushes.

Joy thus to revel all day, till the twilight turns us homeward! Till all the lingering deep-blooming splendour of sunset is over, And the one star shines mildly in mellowing hues, like a spirit Sent to assure us that light never dieth, tho’ day is now buried. Saying: to-morrow, to-morrow, few hours intervening, that interval Tuned by the woodlark in heaven, to-morrow my semblance, far eastward, Heralds the day ’tis my mission eternal to seal and to prophecy. Come then, and homeward; passing down the close path of the meadows. Home like the bees stored with sweetness; each with a lark in the bosom, Trilling for ever, and oh! will yon lark ever cease to sing up there?

TO A SKYLARK

O SKYLARK! I see thee and call thee joy! Thy wings bear thee up to the breast of the dawn; I see thee no more, but thy song is still The tongue of the heavens to me!