Read Ebook: Poems by Cassels Walter Richard

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Ebook has 217 lines and 16139 words, and 5 pages

Pshaw! ... Cold the air slow stealing through the trees, Scarce rustling the moist leaves beneath its tread-- A fearful breast thus holds its breath for dread! There is no healthful music in this breeze, It sounds ... ha! ha! ... like sighs above the dead!

What frights yon raven 'mid the pines so dark, The pines so silent and so dark around, With ne'er accomplish'd circlings to the ground Ruffling his wings so ragged and so stark? Some half-dead victim haply hath he found.

Ho! raven, now with thee I'll share the spoil! This way, methinks, the dying game hath trod-- Ay! broken twigs, and blood upon the sod-- These thorns are sharp! well! soon will end the toil-- This bough aside, and then the prize ... My God!...

SONNETS

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

The Land stood still to listen all that day, And 'mid the hush of many a wrangling tongue, Forth from the cannon's mouth the signal rung, That from the earth a man had pass'd away-- A mighty Man, that over many a field Roll'd back the tide of Battle on the foe,-- Thus far, no further, shall thy billows go. Who Freedom's falchion did right nobly wield, Like potter's vessel smiting Tyrants down, And from Earth's strongest snatching Victory's crown; Upon the anvil of each Battle-plain, Still beating swords to ploughshares. All is past,-- The glory, and the labour, and the pain-- The Conqueror is conquer'd here at last.

Yet other men have wrought, and fought, and won, Cutting with crimson sword Fame's Gordian knot, And, dying, nations wonder'd--and forgot,-- But this Man's name shall circle with the sun; And when our children's children feel the glow, That ripens them unconsciously to men, Asking, with upturn'd face, "What did he then?" One answer from each quicken'd heart shall flow-- "This Man submerg'd the Doer in the Deed, Toil'd on for Duty, nor of Fame took heed; Hew'd out his name upon the great world's sides. In sure-aim'd strokes of nobleness and worth, And never more Time's devastating tides Shall wear the steadfast record from the Earth."

This Duty, known and done, which all men praise, Is it a thing for heroes utterly? Or claims it aught, O Man! from thee and me, Amid the sweat and grime of working days? Stand forth, thou Conqueror, before God's throne, Thou ruler, thou Earth-leader, great and strong, Behold thy work, thy doing, labour'd long, Before that mighty Presence little grown. Stand forth, thou Man, low toiling 'mid the lees, That measurest Duty out in poor degrees; Are not all deeds, beside the deeds of Heaven, But as the sands upon the ocean shore, Which, softly breath'd on by God's winds, are driven Into dim deserts, thenceforth seen no more!

Then make thou Life heroic, O! thou Man, Though not in Earth's eyes, still in Heaven's, which see Each task accomplish'd not in poor degree, But as fain workings out of Duty's plan,-- The hewers and the drawers of the land, No whit behind the mighty and the great, Bearing unmoved the burden of the State,-- Alike each duty challenged at man's hand. Life is built up of smallest atomics, Pile upon pile the ramparts still increase, And as those, Roman walls, o'er which in scorn The scoffer leapt, soon held the world at bay, So shall thy deeds of duty, lowly born, Be thy strong tower and glory ere the set of day.

THE PASSAGE-BIRDS.

Far, far away, over land and sea, When Winter comes with his cold, cold breath, And chills the flowers to the sleep of death, Far, far away over land and sea, Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee.

Round the old grey spire in the evening calm, No more they circle in sportive glee, Hearing the hum of the vesper psalm, And the swell of the organ so far below; But far, far away, over land and sea, In the still mid-air the swift Passage-birds go.

Over the earth that is scarcely seen Through the curtain of vapour that waves between, O'er city and hamlet, o'er hill and plain, O'er forest green, and o'er mountain hoar, They flit like shadows, and pass the shore, And wing their way o'er the pathless main.

There is no rest for the weary wing, No quivering bough where the feet can cling; To the North, to the South, to the East, to the West, The ocean lies with its heaving breast, Within it, without it there is no rest.

The tempest gathers beneath them far, The Wind-god rides on his battle-car, And the roar of the thunder, the lightning-flash, Break on the waves with a sullen crash; But Silence reigns where the Passage-birds fly, And o'er them stretches the clear blue sky.

The day wears out, and the starry night Hushes the world to sleep, to sleep; The dew-shower falls in the still moonlight, And none wake now, save those who weep; But rustling on through the starry night, Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee, Cleaving the darkness above the sea, Swift and straight as an arrow's flight. Is the wind their guide through the trackless sky? For here there's no landmark to travel by.

The first faint streak of the morning glows, Like the feeble blush on the budding rose; And in long grey lines the clouds divide, And march away with retreating Night, Whilst the bright gleams of victorious Light, Follow them goldenly far and wide: And when the mists have all pass'd away, And left the heavens serene and clear, As an eye that has never shed a tear And the universe basks in the smile of Day, Dreamy and still, and the sleepy breeze, Lazily moves o'er the glassy seas, The Passage-birds flit o'er the disc of noon, Like shadows across a mirror's face, For now their journey wanes apace, And the realms of Summer they'll enter soon.

The land looms far through the waters blue, The Land of Promise, the Land of Rest; Through cloud and storm they have travell'd true, And joy thrills now in each throbbing breast Down they sink, with a wheeling flight, Whilst the song of birds comes floating high, And they pass the lark in the sunny sky; But down, without pausing, down they fly; Their travel is over, their Summer shines bright.

MEMNON.

Hot blows the wild simoom across the waste, The desert waste, amid the dreary sand, With fiery breath swift burning up the land, O'er the scared pilgrim, speeding on in haste, Hurling fierce death-drifts with broad-scorching hand.

O weary Wilderness! No shady tree To spread its arms around the fainting soul; No spring to sparkle in the parch?d bowl; No refuge in the drear immensity, Where lies the Past, wreck'd 'neath a sandy sea, Where o'er its glories blighting billows roll.

Ho! Sea, yield up thy buried dead again; Heave back thy waves, and let the Past arise; Restore Time's relics to the startled skies, Till giant shadows tremble on the plain, And awe the heart with old-world mysteries!

Old Menmon! Once again thy Poet-voice May sing sweet paeans to the golden Morn, Again may hail the saviour Light sun-born, And bid the wild and desert waste rejoice,-- Again with sighs the looming darkness mourn.

Thou Watchman, waiting weary for the dawn, Breathing low longings for its golden light, Through the dim silence of the drowsy night, What wistful sighs with thine are softly drawn, Till day-beams on the darken'd spirit smite!

The dawning light of Knowledge smites thee now, And forth from the dim Past come voices clear, Falling in solemn music on the ear, Which, as the haloes brighten on thy brow, Shall still in richer harmonies draw near.

The Past comes back in music soft and sweet, And lo! the Present like a strung harp stands Waiting the sweeping of prophetic hands, To send its living music, loud and fleet, Careering calmly through unnumber'd lands.

Then swift uprise, thou Sun, thou Music-Maker! Smiting the chords of Life with gladsome rays, Till from each Memnon burst the song of praise, From lips which thou hast freed, O silence-breaker! That over Earth the sound may swell always.

NOTE--It will of course be remembered that the celebrated statue of Memnon was believed to utter lugubrious and mournful sounds at sunset, and during the hours of darkness, which changed to sounds of joy as the first rays of morning fell upon it.

A CONCEIT.

The Grey-beard Winter sat alone and still, Locking his treasures in the flinty earth; And like a miser comfortless and chill, Frown'd upon pleasure and rejected mirth;

But Spring came, gentle Spring, the young, the fair, And with her smiles subdued his frosty heart, So that for very joy to see her there, His soul, relenting, play'd the lover's part;

And nought could bring too lovely or too sweet, To lavish on the bright Evangel's head; No flowers too radiant for her tender feet; No joys too blissful o'er her life to shed.

And thus the land became a Paradise, A new-made Eden, redolent of joy, Where beauty blossom'd under sunny skies, And peaceful pleasure reign'd without alloy.

THE LAND'S END.

I stood on the Land's End, alone and still. Man might have been unmade, for no frail trace Of mortal labour startled the wild place, And only sea-mews with their wailing shrill, Circled beneath me over the dark sea, Flashing the waves with pinions snowy white, That glimmer'd faintly in the gloomy light Betwixt the foaming furrows constantly. It was a mighty cape, that proudly rose Above the world of waters, high and steep, With many a scar and fissure fathoms deep, Upon whose ledges lodged the endless snows; A noble brow to a firm-founded world, That at the limits of its empire stood, Fronting the ocean in its roughest mood, And all its fury calmly backward hurl'd. The Midnight Sun rose like an angry god, Girt round with clouds, through which a lurid glow Fev'rously trembled to the waves below, And smote the waters with a fiery rod; Above, the glory circled up the sky, Fainter and fainter to the sullen grey, Till the black under-drift of clouds away Went with the gathering wind, and let it die. A moaning sound swept o'er the heaving ocean, Toss'd hoarsely on from angry crest to crest, Like groans from a great soul in its unrest, Stirring the ranks of men to fierce commotion. My longing vision measured the wide waste, "This cannot be the end of things; that man Should see his path lead on so short a span, And then the unstable ocean mock his haste! Better have stay'd where I could still look on, And see a sturdy world to bear my feet, Than thus outstrip the multitude to cheat Earth of its knowledge, and here find it gone." A Shadow rose betwixt me and the sky, Out of the Ocean, as it seem'd, that set A perfect shape before mine eyes, and yet Hid not the sky that did behind it lie; But, through its misty substance, all things grew Faint, pale, and ghostly, and the risen sun Gleam'd like a fiery globe half quench'd and dun, Through the sere shadow which the spectre threw: It answer'd me, "Man! this is not the end; Progression ceaseth not until the goal Of all perfection stop the running soul, Whither through life its aspirations tend. Spring from thy height, then, for till thou art free From earth, thy course is narrow and restrain'd!" I said, "No! Spirit, nought were thus attain'd; Better pause here than perish in the sea; Man can but do his utmost--there's a length He cannot overleap." The spectre smiled, "Then trust to me; for though the sea be wild, It cannot shake the sinews of my strength,-- Within my breast the fearful fall asleep, And wake out of their terrors, calm and still, Having outstripp'd the speed of time and ill, And pass'd unconsciously the stormy deep." Quicker and quicker drew I in my breath, "If there be land beyond, receive me now; I'll trust in thee--but, Spirit, who art thou?" The winds bore on a murmur, "I am Death!"

THE OLDEN TIME.

O! well I mind the olden time, The sweet, sweet olden time; When I did long for eve all day, And watch'd upon the new-mown grass The shadows slowly eastward pass, And o'er the meadows glide away, Till I could steal, with heart elate, Unto the little cottage-gate, In the sweet, sweet olden time.

O! well I mind the olden time, The sweet, sweet olden time; How all the night I long'd for morn, And bless'd the thrush whose early note The silver chords of silence smote With greetings to the day new-born; For then again, with heart elate, I hoped to meet her at the gate, In the sweet, sweet olden time.

But now hath pass'd the olden time, That sweet, sweet olden time; And there is neither morn nor night That bears a freight of hopes and fears, To bless my soul in coming years With any harvest of delight; For never more, with heart elate, Can I behold her at the gate, As in the sweet, sweet olden time.

FATHER AND SON.

The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand, "Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:

A bold and stalwart nation, dauntless in the fight, Strong as an iron buckler to guard their monarch's right."

Then the trumpets sounded, and his vassals came, Gather'd round his banner, loudly rang his name;

Clash'd their burnish'd targets, waved their flashing steel A goodly gath'ring look'd they, arm'd from head to heel.

"Child! my heart beats proudly, now I feel a king, As I look around me on this martial ring;

There I see the sinews that support a state, There I see the strength that makes a monarch great.

Men whose life is glory--men whose death is fame, Living still in story past the reach of shame."

Many years pass'd over--the old King was dead, And his child, his first-born, reign?d in his stead.

Many years he reign?d, and upon his brow Now the frost of age lay like the winter's snow.

So he took his son forth, as his father had, "Come! and see thy people," said he to the lad.

And they rode together through the busy town: Many a peaceful merchant passing up and down;

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