Part 18 (1/2)

I placed it, one summer evening, On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast; But it faded in golden splendour, And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning, And I watched it soar and soar; But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more.

To the heart of a Rose I told it; And the perfume, sweet and rare, Growing faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air.

I laid it upon a Censer, And I saw the incense rise; But its clouds of rolling silver Could not reach the far blue skies.

I cried, in my pa.s.sionate longing:-- ”Has the earth no Angel-friend Who will carry my love the message That my heart desires to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so clear, That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear.

And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning, At last the sure answer stir:-- ”The music will go up to Heaven, And carry my thought to her.”

It rose in harmonious rus.h.i.+ng Of mingled voices and strings, And I tenderly laid my message On the Music's outspread wings.

I heard it float farther and farther, In sound more perfect than speech; Farther than sight can follow, Farther than soul can reach.

And I know that at last my message Has pa.s.sed through the golden gate: So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait.

[Decoration]

B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

1787-1874.

_THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE._

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

How many Summers, love, Have I been thine?

How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine?

Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,--a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget;-- All else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring!

With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!

[Decoration]

_A PEt.i.tION TO TIME._

1831.

Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!

We 've not proud nor soaring wings: _Our_ ambition, _our_ content Lies in simple things.