Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 6

Now morning in the meads is green, And, Mary, look at Life's demesne:

How infinitely sweet it seems, From the forests and the streams

To roofs that cl.u.s.ter like an isle; And, Mary, see Your cities smile

Happy as any child at play, While from spires and steeples they

Proclaim the simple Gospel peace With their showering melodies

From the gold dawn to the sunset sky, Greeted, Mary of Houses, by

The men of Flanders loving still The brown, centennial earth they till.

And sing now, all ye merry men Who plough the glebe, sing once again

Your Flanders sweet to larks that sing With gladsome voices concerting,

And sail afar, ye ships that gla.s.s Your flags in billows green as gra.s.s,

For Jesus holds His hands above, Mary, this festival of love

Made by the sky for summer's birth, With silk and velvet covering earth.

AND MARY READS A GOSPEL-PAGE.

And Mary reads a Gospel-page, With folded hands in the silent hours, And Mary reads a Gospel-page, Where the meadow sings with flowers,

And all the flowers that star the ground In the far emerald of the gra.s.s, Tell her how sweet a life they pa.s.s, With simple words of dulcet sound.

And now the angels in the cloud, And the birds too in chorus sing, While the beasts graze, with foreheads bowed, The plants of scented blossoming;

And Mary reads a Gospel-page, The pealing hours she overhears, Forgets the time, and all the years, For Mary reads a Gospel-page;

And masons building cities go Homeward in the evening hours, And, c.o.c.ks of gold on belfry towers, Clouds and breezes pa.s.s and blow.

AND WHETHER IN GRAY OR IN BLACK COPE.

And whether in gray or in black cope,-- Spider of the eve, good hope,--

Smoke ye roofs, and tables swell With meats to mouths delectable;

And while the kitchen smoke upcurls, Kiss and kiss, you boys and girls!

Night, the women, where they sit, Can no longer see to knit;

Now, like loving fingers linking, Work is done and sleep is blinking,

As balm on pious spirits drips, All tearful eyes, all praying lips,

And straw to beasts, to mankind beds Of solace for their weary heads.

Good-night! and men and women cross Arms on your souls, or hearts that toss.

And in your dreams of white or blue, Servants near the children you;

And peace now all your life, you trees, Mills, and roofs, and brooks, and leas,

And rest you toilers all, between The woollen soft, the linen clean,

And Christs forgotten in the cold, And Magdalenes within the fold,

And Heaven far as sees the eye, At the four corners of the sky.

ANDRe FONTAINAS.

1865--.

HER VOICE.

O voice vibrating like the song of birds, O frail, sonorous voice wherein upwells Laughter more bright than ring of wedding bells, I listen to her voice more than her words.

Soul of old rebecs, spirit of harpsichords, Within her voice your soft inflection dwells; Blisses of love some ancient viol tells, Kiss s.n.a.t.c.hed by lips that swift lips turn towards.

Her voice is sweetness of chaste dreams, the scent Of iris, cinnamon, and incense blent, A music drunk, a folded mountain's calm;

It is within me made of living sun, Of luminous pride and rhythms vermilion; It is the purest, the most dazzling psalm.

COPHETUA.

With right arm on the open cas.e.m.e.nt rim, The negro King Cophetua, with sad mien, And eyes that do not see, looks at the green Autumnal ocean rolling under him.

His listless dream goes wandering without goal; He is not one who would be pa.s.sion's slave; And no remorse, nor memory from its grave May haunt the leisure of his empty soul.

He does not hear the melancholy chaunt Of girls who beg before him, hollow, gaunt With fasting, coughing in the mellow sun,

And unawares, he knows not how it came, he feels within his hardened heart a flame, And burns his eyes at the eyes of the youngest one.