shore,
Starry Jealousy does keep my den:
Cold and hoar,
Weeping o’er,
I hear the father of the ancient men.
“Selfish father of men!
Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
Can delight,
Chain’d in night,
The virgins of youth and morning bear?
“Does spring hide its joy
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the plowman in darkness plow?
“Break this heavy chain
That does freeze my bones around.
Selfish! vain!
Eternal bane!
That free Love with bondage bound.”
THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE
“Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”
So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle’s feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
“Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.”
HOLY THURSDAY
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduc’d to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine,
And their fields are bleak & bare,
And their ways are fill’d with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e‘er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
THE LITTLE GIRL LOST
In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek;
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summer’s prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told;
She had wander’d long
Hearing wild birds’ song.
“Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother weep,
Where can Lyca sleep?
“Lost in desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
“If her heart does ake
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
“Frowning, frowning night,
O’er this desart bright
Let thy moon arise
While I close my eyes.”
Sleeping Lyca lay
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
View’d the maid asleep.
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view‘d,
Then he gamboll’d round
O’er the hallow’d ground.
Leopards, tygers, play
Round her as she lay,
While the lion old
Bow’d his mane of gold
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck
From his eyes of flame
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loos’d her slender dress,
And naked they convey’d
To caves the sleeping maid.
THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND
All the night in woe
Lyca’s parents go
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan,
Arm in arm seven days
They trac’d the desart ways.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
Pale, thro’ pathless ways
The fancied image strays
Famish’d, weeping, weak,
With hollow piteous shriek.
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest
With feet of weary woe:
She could no further go.
In his arms he bore
Her, arm’d with sorrow sore;
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain:
Soon his heavy mane
Bore them to the ground.
Then he stalk’d around,
Smelling to his prey;
But their fears allay
When he licks their hands,
And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep surprise,
And wondering behold
A spirit arm’d in gold.
On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flow’d his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
“Follow me,” he said;
“Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep
Lyca lies asleep.”
Then they followed
Where the vision led,
And saw their sleeping child
Among tygers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell;
Nor
Starry Jealousy does keep my den:
Cold and hoar,
Weeping o’er,
I hear the father of the ancient men.
“Selfish father of men!
Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
Can delight,
Chain’d in night,
The virgins of youth and morning bear?
“Does spring hide its joy
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the plowman in darkness plow?
“Break this heavy chain
That does freeze my bones around.
Selfish! vain!
Eternal bane!
That free Love with bondage bound.”
THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE
“Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”
So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle’s feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
“Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.”
HOLY THURSDAY
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduc’d to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine,
And their fields are bleak & bare,
And their ways are fill’d with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e‘er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
THE LITTLE GIRL LOST
In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek;
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summer’s prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told;
She had wander’d long
Hearing wild birds’ song.
“Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother weep,
Where can Lyca sleep?
“Lost in desart wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
“If her heart does ake
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
“Frowning, frowning night,
O’er this desart bright
Let thy moon arise
While I close my eyes.”
Sleeping Lyca lay
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
View’d the maid asleep.
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view‘d,
Then he gamboll’d round
O’er the hallow’d ground.
Leopards, tygers, play
Round her as she lay,
While the lion old
Bow’d his mane of gold
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck
From his eyes of flame
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loos’d her slender dress,
And naked they convey’d
To caves the sleeping maid.
THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND
All the night in woe
Lyca’s parents go
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan,
Arm in arm seven days
They trac’d the desart ways.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
Pale, thro’ pathless ways
The fancied image strays
Famish’d, weeping, weak,
With hollow piteous shriek.
Rising from unrest,
The trembling woman prest
With feet of weary woe:
She could no further go.
In his arms he bore
Her, arm’d with sorrow sore;
Till before their way
A couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain:
Soon his heavy mane
Bore them to the ground.
Then he stalk’d around,
Smelling to his prey;
But their fears allay
When he licks their hands,
And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes
Fill’d with deep surprise,
And wondering behold
A spirit arm’d in gold.
On his head a crown,
On his shoulders down
Flow’d his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
“Follow me,” he said;
“Weep not for the maid;
In my palace deep
Lyca lies asleep.”
Then they followed
Where the vision led,
And saw their sleeping child
Among tygers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell;
Nor
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