Part 5

‘O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass.

‘Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day.’

EARTH’S ANSWER

Earth raised up her head From the darkness dread and drear, Her light fled, Stony, dread, And her locks covered with grey despair.

‘Prisoned on watery shore, Starry jealousy does keep my den Cold and hoar; Weeping o’er, I hear the father of the ancient men.

‘Selfish father of men! Cruel, jealous, selfish fear! Can delight, Chained in night, The virgins of youth and morning bear.

‘Does spring hide its joy, When buds and blossoms grow? Does the sower Sow by night, Or the ploughman in darkness plough?

‘Break this heavy chain, That does freeze my bones around! Selfish, vain, Eternal bane, That free love with bondage bound.’

THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE

‘Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’

So sung a little clod of clay, Trodden with the cattle’s feet, But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet:

‘Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another’s loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.’

HOLY THURSDAY

Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land,— Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns, It is eternal winter there.

For where’er the sun does shine, And where’er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appal.

THE LITTLE GIRL LOST

In futurity I prophesy That the earth from sleep (Grave the sentence deep)

Shall arise, and seek For her Maker meek; And the desert wild Become a garden mild.

In the southern clime, Where the summer’s prime Never fades away, Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers old Lovely Lyca told. She had wandered long, Hearing wild birds’ song.

‘Sweet sleep, come to me, Underneath this tree; Do father, mother, weep? Where can Lyca sleep?

‘Lost in desert wild Is your little child. How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep?

‘If her heart does ache, Then let Lyca wake; If my mother sleep, Lyca shall not weep.

‘Frowning, frowning night, O’er this desert bright Let thy moon arise, While I close my eyes.’

Sleeping Lyca lay, While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep, Viewed the maid asleep.

The kingly lion stood, And the virgin viewed: Then he gambolled round O’er the hallowed ground.