'HANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for.
That is light grieving! lighter none befell Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,
The mother singing; at her marriage-bell
The bride weeps, and before the oracle
Of high-faned hills the poet has forgot
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,
Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place
And touch but tombs,-look up! those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
WHEN some beloved voice that was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence, against which you dare not cry, Aches round you like a strong disease and new- What hope? what help? what music will undo That silence to your sense? Not friendship's sigh, Not reason's subtle count; not melody
Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew ; Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales
Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress-trees To the clear moon; nor yet the spheric laws Self-chanted, nor the angels' sweet All hails, Met in the smile of God: nay, none of these. Speak THOU, availing Christ !-and fill this pause.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
PEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet! And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber while I go In reach of Thy divinest voice complete In humanest affection-thus, in sooth, To lose the sense of losing. As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth. Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, He sleeps the faster that he wept before.
EXPERIENCE, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand,
Whence harmonies we cannot understand, Of God's will in his worlds, the strain unfolds In sad, perplexèd minors: deathly colds Fall on us while we hear, and countermand Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land With nightingales in visionary wolds. We murmur, 'Where is any certain tune Or measured music in such notes as these?'
But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded; their fine ear hath won
The issue of completed cadences,
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper-SWEET.
HAT are we set on earth for? Say, to toil; Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines For all the heat o' the day, till it declines, And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with his odorous oil To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, For younger fellow-workers of the soil To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand, From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer, And God's grace fructify through thee to all. The least flower, with a brimming cup may stand, And share its dew-drop with another near.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
AND, O beloved voices, upon which
Ours passionately call because erelong
Ye brake off in the middle of that song
We sang together softly, to enrich
The poor world with the sense of love, and witch The heart out of things evil,-I am strong, Knowing ye are not lost for aye among
The hills, with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche In Heaven to hold our idols: and albeit
He brake them to our faces and denied That our close kisses should impair their white, I know we shall behold them raised, complete, The dust swept from their beauty,-glorified New Memnons singing in the great God-light.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 1809-1861
WORK AND CONTEMPLATION.
THE woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole; She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian church-that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk, Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong; While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work The better for the sweetness of our song.
FLUSH OR FAUNUS.
YOU see this dog; it was but yesterday
I mused forgetful of his presence here
Till thought on thought drew downward tear on tear: When from the pillow where wet-cheeked I lay,
A head as hairy as Faunus thrust its way Right sudden against my face, two golden-clear Great eyes astonished mine, a drooping ear Did flap me on either cheek to dry the spray! I started first as some Arcadian
Amazed by goatly god in twilight grove; But as the bearded vision closelier ran My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose above Surprise and sadness,-thanking the true PAN Who by low creatures leads to heights of love.
CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON.
THINK we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope Of yon grey blank of sky, we might grow faint To muse upon eternity's constraint Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope Must widen early, is it well to droop,
For a few days consumed in loss and taint? O pusillanimous heart, be comforted And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints? At least it may be said, 'Because the way is short, I thank thee, God.'
NOW, by the verdure on thy thousand hills, Beloved England, doth the earth appear
Quite good enough for men to overbear The will of God in, with rebellious wills! We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils Ingloriously its course, nor that the clear Strong stars without significance insphere Our habitation : we, meantime, our ills Heap up against this good and lift a cry Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast, As if ourselves were better certainly
Maker and High Priest,
I ask thee not my joys to multiply,- Only to make me worthier of the least.
« ElőzőTovább » |