Poems by Walter Richard Cassels Part 8

My heart is true as steel, Steady still in woe and weal, Strong to bear, though quick to feel-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

Only my own ease seek I, I am deaf to Pity's cry, If men hunger, let them die-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

I've a kiss for maiden fair, I've a blow for who may dare, I've a song to banish care-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

I'm your servant whilst you're great, As you sink, my cares abate, When you're poor you have my hate,-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

If you trust me, I'll be true, If you slight me, I'll slight you, If you wrong me, you shall rue-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

I can work with any tools-- Clothe myself by stripping fools-- Bend the knee whoever rules-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

I've a heart that hates all wrong, Aids the weak against the strong, Loves the Truth, and seeks it long-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe?

Stand! stand!

I forgive no woman's sin, Hunt her with self-righteous mien, Never take her, mourning, in From the desert of her sin-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe!

Stand! stand!

I've a heart that melts at sorrow, I've a store the poor may borrow I'm the same to-day, to-morrow-- Take my hand!

AT PARTING.

Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late; Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead; Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed; Leave me unmock'd, unpitied to my fate-- Peace! Let me go.

Think you that words can smooth my rugged track?

Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made, Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid?

Winds shook not Earth from Atlas' bended back-- Peace! Let me go.

What though it be the last time we shall meet-- Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair, And fill with music sweet the summer air; Not this again shall draw me to your feet-- Peace! Let me go.

No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall wave Round your triumphant beauty as you go, Not thus adorn'd work out some other's woe-- Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave!

Peace! Let me go.

A WITHERED ROSE-BUD.

Time sets his footprints on our little Earth, And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing Falls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth, Tracking the course of Life's short wandering, With fallen remnants of its mortal part, Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.

Thou flower of Love! thou little treasury Of gentleness, and purity, and grace!

What hidden virtue hath Death reft from thee-- What unseen essence melted into s.p.a.ce?

For now thou liest like a sinless child, Whom G.o.d hath homeward to his bosom smiled.

The dew-shower fell on thee, the sunbeam play'd, As Life is ever made of smiles and tears; And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway'd, And with its mellow music mock'd thy fears; But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan, And there's a beauty and a fragrance gone!

Thus fade we--thus our hopes and joys, rose-bright, Yield up their sweetness ere they reach their prime, And their poor fabrics lie within our sight, Stript of their radiance e'en in summer-time-- Their spirit hath gone from them, and they wither, But wherefore hath the spirit gone, and whither?

Our knowledge is like dreams amid a sleep-- Faint-pinion'd thoughts that beat the vault of Night, And flutter earthward--so we smile or weep At what we know not, cannot see aright; Life is death, and death is life, perchance, In the dim twilight of our waking trance.

Thou art a leaf from the great Book of G.o.d, Whose lightest word is wiser than the wise; And, meekly resting there upon the sod, Thou breathest upward holy mysteries, In simple tones that steal upon the sense, Like Childhood's prattling truth and innocence.

Then, O sweet flower, that in thy low estate Hast in thee emblems of the life of Man, Read to our beings whispers of the fate That waits us at the end of Time's short span; How short we know not--e'en the bud may be Gather'd in harvest to eternity.

DE PROFUNDIS.

Turn thine eyes from me, Angel of Heaven-- Read not my soul, Angel of Heaven-- Sorrow is steeping my pale cheeks with weeping, Evermore keeping her wand on my heart, On my cold stony heart, while the tear-fountains start To purge it from leaven too sinful for Heaven-- Read not my soul, yet, Angel of Heaven!

Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven?

Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?

Yearning to gain her, hast thou thus slain her Ere sin could stain her--borne her away, Borne her far, far away, into eternal day, Left me alone to stay--left me to weep and pray?

Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven?

Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?

Shines the place brighter, Angel of Heaven?

Brighter for her, Angel of Heaven?

Comes there not streaming into my dreaming, At morning's beaming, rays more divine, Rays from her soul divine, rays giving strength to mine?

Shines she not radiantly over the skies, Over the morning skies, ere the Earth-vapours rise, 'Twixt me and Paradise, Angel of Heaven?

_Her_ blessed Paradise, Angel of Heaven?

Turn thine eyes to me, Angel of Heaven-- Search through and through me, Angel of Heaven; Read my soul's yearning, wild, endlessly burning, Tumultuously spurning Fate's bitter decree, Fate's tyrannic decree, that tore her from me, Bore her from me to Eternity.

Merciless Reaper, no more shalt thou keep her From fond eyes that weep her for ever and ever, Vain thine endeavour our spirits to sever, Take my soul with thee, Angel of Heaven, Bear me unto her, Angel of Heaven.