Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous affection THE BELEAGUERED CITY I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, But when the old cathedral bell Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR YES, the Year is growing old, YES, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing, "Pray for this poor soul, Pray, pray!" And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild-flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain! |