Part 30 (1/2)

Oh! she was fair as are the leaves Of pale white roses, when the light Of sunset, through some trembling bough, Kisses the queen-flower's blus.h.i.+ng brow, Nor leaves it red nor marble white, But rosy-pale, like April eves.

Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, Or on the folded myrtle buds, The azure violet of the woods; Just as the thirsty sun drinks up The dewy diamonds on the plots.

And her sweet breath was like the sighs Breathed by a babe of youth and love; When all the fragrance of the south From the cleft cherry of its mouth, Meets the fond lips that from above Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes.

He took the maiden by the hand, And led her in her simple gown Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, Upraised her standard on the green; And crowned her with a rosy crown The beauteous Queen of all the land.

And happy was the maiden's reign-- For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love Came forth from out men's hearts that day, Their gladsome fealty to pay; And there was music in the grove, And dancing on the plain.

And Labour carolled at his task, Like the blithe bird that sings and builds His happy household 'mid the leaves; And now the fibrous twig he weaves, And now he sings to her who gilds The sole horizon he doth ask.

And Sickness half forgot its pain, And Sorrow half forgot its grief; And Eld forgot that it was old, As if to show the age of gold Was not the poet's fond belief, But every year comes back again.

The Year-King pa.s.sed along his way: Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; He pa.s.sed to distant lands and new; For other tasks he had to do; But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, He ne'er forgot his darling May.

He sent her stems of living gold From the rich plains of western lands, And purple-gus.h.i.+ng grapes from vines Born of the amorous sun that s.h.i.+nes Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, Or Guadalete old.

And citrons from Firenze's fields, And golden apples from the isles That gladden the bright southern seas, True home of the Hesperides: Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, The bounteous mother, as she yields.

And then the king grew old like Lear-- His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; He changed his sceptre for a staff: And as the thoughtless children laugh To see him totter on his way, He knew his destined hour was near.

And soon it came; and here he strives, Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, To reconcile the dread account-- How stands the balance, what the amount; As we shall do with trembling fear When our last hour arrives.

Come, let us kneel around his bed, And pray unto his G.o.d and ours For mercy on his servant here: Oh, G.o.d be with the dying year!

And G.o.d be with the happy hours That died before their sire lay dead!

And as the bells commingling ring The New Year in, the Old Year out, m.u.f.fled and sad, and now in peals With which the quivering belfry reels, Grateful and hopeful be the shout, The King is dead!--Long live the King!

THE AWAKING.

A lady came to a snow-white bier, Where a youth lay pale and dead: She took the veil from her widowed head, And, bending low, in his ear she said: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

She pa.s.s'd with a smile to a wild wood near, Where the boughs were barren and bare; She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

The birds beheld her without a fear, As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; She breathed on their downy citadels, And whisper'd the young in their ivory sh.e.l.ls: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, But with hope and with joy, like us; And even as the Lord to Lazarus, She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, To the reeds by the golden pond; To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, From under its own gravestone; For the blessed tidings around had flown, And before she spoke the impulse was known: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

The pale gra.s.s lay with its long looks sere On the breast of the open plain; She loosened the matted hair of the slain, And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

The rush rose up with its pointed spear The flag, with its falchion broad; The dock uplifted its s.h.i.+eld unawed, As her voice rung over the quickening sod: ”Awaken! for I am here.”

The red blood ran through the clover near, And the heath on the hills o'erhead; The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, As she started to life, when the lady said: ”Awaken! for I am here.”