Part 1 (1/2)

The Poems of Henry Van d.y.k.e.

by Henry Van d.y.k.e.

SONGS OUT OF DOORS

EARLY VERSES

THE AFTER-ECHO

How long the echoes love to play Around the sh.o.r.e of silence, as a wave Retreating circles down the sand!

One after one, with sweet delay, The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, Have lingered in the crescent bay, Until, by lightest breezes fanned, They float far off beyond the dying day And leave it still as death.

But hark,-- Another singing breath Comes from the edge of dark; A note as clear and slow As falls from some enchanted bell, Or spirit, pa.s.sing from the world below, That whispers back, Farewell.

So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,-- The after-echo of departed years,-- And touches all the soul to tears.

1871.

DULCIORA

A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, And grows in silence to an amber dawn Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes, Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.

A joy that falls into the hollow heart From some far-lifted height of love unseen, Unknown, makes a more perfect melody Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.

Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky And the fair ministries of Nature dear, But as they set themselves unto the tune That fills our life; as light mysterious Flows from within and glorifies the world.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched With tender thought, a.s.sumes a grace more sweet Than crowns the royal lily of the South; And so a well-remembered perfume seems The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

1872.

THREE ALPINE SONNETS

I

THE GLACIER

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, The silver-crested waves no murmur make; But far away the avalanches wake The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; Their momentary thunders, dying, seem To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, And leave the hollow air with naught to break The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls Of all the ocean-blue creva.s.ses ring With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; As if a poet's heart had felt the glow Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

Zermatt, 1872.

II