Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, But, when the old cathedral bell Down the broad valley fast and far The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning-star, MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain-passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather. Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy his last! Oh, the old man grey To the crimson woods he saith,- - Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,"Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, Like the voice of one who crieth "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest |