Volume Iii Part 9 (1/2)

I

He leaped. With none to hinder, Of Aetna's fiery scoriae In the next vomit-shower, made he A more peculiar cinder.

And this great Doctor, can it be, He left no saner recipe For men at issue with despair?

Admiring, even his poet owns, While noting his fine lyric tones, The last of him was heels in air!

II

Comes Reverence, her features Amazed to see high Wisdom hear, With glimmer of a faunish leer, One mock her pride of creatures.

Shall such sad incident degrade A stature casting sunniest shade?

O Reverence! let Reason swim; Each life its critic deed reveals; And him reads Reason at his heels, If heels in air the last of him!

ENGLAND BEFORE THE STORM

I

The day that is the night of days, With cannon-fire for sun ablaze We spy from any billow's lift; And England still this tidal drift!

Would she to sainted forethought vow A s.p.a.ce before the thunders flood, That martyr of its hour might now Spare her the tears of blood.

II

Asleep upon her ancient deeds, She hugs the vision plethora breeds, And counts her manifold increase Of treasure in the fruits of peace.

What curse on earth's improvident, When the dread trumpet shatters rest, Is wreaked, she knows, yet smiles content As cradle rocked from breast.

III

She, impious to the Lord of Hosts, The valour of her offspring boasts, Mindless that now on land and main His heeded prayer is active brain.

No more great heart may guard the home, Save eyed and armed and skilled to cleave Yon swallower wave with shroud of foam, We see not distant heave.

IV

They stand to be her sacrifice, The sons this mother flings like dice, To face the odds and brave the Fates; As in those days of starry dates, When cannon cannon's counterblast Awakened, muzzle muzzle bowled, And high in swathe of smoke the mast Its fighting rag outrolled.

1891.

TARDY SPRING

Now the North wind ceases, The warm South-west awakes; Swift fly the fleeces, Thick the blossom-flakes.

Now hill to hill has made the stride, And distance waves the without end: Now in the breast a door flings wide; Our farthest smiles, our next is friend.

And song of England's rush of flowers Is this full breeze with mellow stops, That spins the lark for s.h.i.+ne, for showers; He drinks his hurried flight, and drops.

The stir in memory seem these things, Which out of moistened turf and clay Astrain for light push patient rings, Or leap to find the waterway.

'Tis equal to a wonder done, Whatever simple lives renew Their tricks beneath the father sun, As though they caught a broken clue; So hard was earth an eyewink back: But now the common life has come, The blotting cloud a dappled pack, The gra.s.ses one vast underhum.