Volume Iv Part 11 (1/2)

Laman Blanchard [1804-1845]

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still: Your chilly stars I can forego, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To s.e.xless souls, ideal choirs, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remembered tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pa.s.s away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and s.p.a.ce decay.

But oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]

CLAY

”We are but clay,” the preacher saith; ”The heart is clay, and clay the brain, And soon or late there cometh death To mingle us with earth again.”

Well, let the preacher have it so, And clay we are, and clay shall be;-- Why iterate?--for this I know, That clay does very well for me.

When clay has such red mouths to kiss, Firm hands to grasp, it is enough: How can I take it aught amiss We are not made of rarer stuff?

And if one tempt you to believe His choice would be immortal gold, Question him, Can you then conceive A warmer heart than clay can hold?

Or richer joys than clay can feel?

And when perforce he falters nay, Bid him renounce his wish and kneel In thanks for this same kindly clay.

Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-

AUCa.s.sIN AND NICOLETE

What magic halo rings thy head, Dream-maiden of a minstrel dead?

What charm of faerie round thee hovers, That all who listen are thy lovers?

What power yet makes our pulses thrill To see thee at thy window-sill, And by that dangerous cord down-sliding, And through the moonlit garden gliding?

True maiden art thou in thy dread; True maiden in thy hardihead; True maiden when, thy fears half-over, Thou lingerest to try thy lover.

And ah! what heart of stone or steel But doth some stir unwonted feel, When to the day new brightness bringing Thou standest at the stair-foot singing!

Thy slender limbs in boyish dress, Thy tones half glee, half tenderness, Thou singest, 'neath the light tale's cover, Of thy true love to thy true lover.

O happy lover, happy maid, Together in sweet story laid; Forgive the hand that here is baring Your old loves for new lovers' staring!

Yet, Nicolete, why fear'st thou fame?