Fleurs De Lys, and Other Poems Part 9

Quarter never asked nor given, Still we beat them back, Though our slender ranks are riven With each fierce attack.

Long the fearful battle rages, Death his harvest reaps-- He will live in history's pages In the grave who sleeps.

Round us, stronger, ever stronger, Sweeps the hostile horde; If the strife continue longer, We shall lose the ford.

We are scarcely one to seven, But our cause is just; Help us in our trial, heaven!

Keep the ford we _must_!

Hope! The fox, when worn with running, Subtlety must use: Let us strive to win by cunning What by force we lose.

Bugler, seek the forest border Whence our friends should come; For attack, sound loud the order, Beat upon the drum.

So our foes may think in error That our friends are nigh, And, disturbed by sudden terror, From the conflict fly.

Through the wood the bugler dashes, Far beyond the fray-- While the deadly musket flashes Point him on his way,

Faintly o'er the din of battle, On the ear there fall From afar a drum's sharp rattle, And a bugle call.

Through the forest, drawing nearer, Ring the bugle notes, And the drum-beat, quicker, clearer, On the calm air floats.

Cheer! my lads, and cease from firing, Sheathe the blood-stained sword, For our foemen are retiring-- We have kept the ford.

TENNYSON.

The n.o.ble lion groweth old, The weight of years his eyesight dims, And strength deserts his mighty limbs, His once warm blood runs slow and cold.

The sunlight of another day Slants through the jungle's tangled ma.s.s; He marks the shadows, but, alas!

Sees not the sun among them play.

His regal head lies buried deep Between his paws--his reign is o'er-- His great voice stirs the world no more, And round his lair the jackals creep.

They scent their prey, and, with the joy Of meaner natures, far and wide From deep obscurity they glide, The dying monarch to annoy.

With naked fangs they circle round, And fiercely snarl, until once more The thicket quivers at his roar, And all their paltry yelps are drowned.

The woodland with his voice is thrilled, Though hope abandoned mars the strain; But echoes cease, and then again With jackal barks the air is filled.

Though dying, he is royal yet-- Even now, earth doth not hold his peer: Bark, jackals, bark! ere dies the year The world your tumult will forget.

AT RAINBOW LAKE.

There is a spot, far from the world's uproar, Amid great mountains, Where softly sleeps a lake, to whose still sh.o.r.e Steal silvery fountains, That hide beneath the leafy underwood, And blend their voices with the solitude.

Save where the beaver-meadow's olive sheen In sunlight glimmers, On every side, a ma.s.s of waving green, The forest shimmers And oft re-echoes with the black bear's tread, That silences the song birds overhead.

Here thickly droops the moss from patriarch trees, And loons fly wailing.

Here king-birds' screams come hoa.r.s.ely down the breeze And hawks are sailing Above the trees. Here Nature dwells alone, Of man unknowing, and to man unknown.

Smiling, she rises when the morning air, The dawn just breaking, Bids the still woodlands for the day prepare, And Life, awaking, Welcomes the Sun, whose bride, the Morn, is kissed And, blushing, lays aside her veil of mist.

Here Nature with each pa.s.sing hour reveals Peculiar graces: At noonday she grows languid, and then steals To shady places, And revels in their coolness, at her feet A stream, that fills with music her retreat.

At eve she comes, and, blushing like a maid, Unrobes in shadows, Bathes in the lake, and wanders through the glade And o'er the meadows.

From her dank locks, wherever she doth pa.s.s, The diamond dew-drops dripping to the gra.s.s.

And then she sleeps; when o'er the lake's calm tide The Moon comes stealing, And draws from her the veil of night aside, Her charms revealing, While silent stars keep ceaseless watch above, And all the earth breathes peace and rest and love.

THE RACE.

A girlish voice like a silver bell Rang over the sparkling tide, "A race! a race!"

She was under the trees by the river-side, Down from whose boughs dark shadows fell, And hid her face.

Four skiffs are out on the moonlit stream, And their oars like bars of silver gleam, As they dip and flash and kiss the river, As swallows do, till the moonbeams quiver.

Then the ripples die, And the girlish cry Floats gaily again to the summer sky.

"Ready? Go!"

As the arrow springs from the straightened bow, The skiffs dart off for the distant goal: The oars are bent like blades of steel, And the hissing waters, cleft in twain, Curl away astern in a feathery train, While girlish laughter, peal on peal, Rings over the river and over the sh.o.r.e, And from the island the echoes roll.

We hear the mysterious voice again.

"We have won! we have won!

Will you race once more?"

The water drips in golden rain From the blade of the resting oar, Again we take, our place, and again That clear voice wakes the sh.o.r.e: "Go!" And we bend to our oars once more, And banks fly past, till the gleaming meadows Give place to the woods and their gloomy shadows.

Our skiff is steered by skilful hands, Its rowers' arms are strong, But muscles are not iron bands To bear such conflict long.

And hearts beat hard, and breath comes fast, And cheeks too hotly burn, Before the welcome goal is pa.s.sed-- The rest two lengths astern.

The evening air is growing chill, The moon is sinking low: The race is ours--across the wave We call, but nothing answers save The winds that gently blow, "Come race again." But all in vain-- The silvery voice is still.

_MY TREASURE_.

"What do you gather?" the maiden said, Shaking her sunlit curls at me-- "See, these flowers I plucked are dead, Ah! misery."

"What do you gather?" the miser said, Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me-- "I cannot sleep at night for dread Of thieves," said he.

"What do you gather?" the dreamer said, "I dream dreams of what is to be; Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled, Ah! woe is me."