The Coming of the Princess, and Other Poems Part 2

While still the hyacinth sleeps on securely, And every lily leaf is folded purely, Nor any purple crocus hath arisen; Nor any tulip raised its slender stem, And burst the earth-walls of its winter prison, And donned its gold and jewelled diadem; Nor by the brookside in the mossy hollow, That calls to every truant foot to follow, The cowslip yet hath hung its golden ball,-- In the wild and treacherous March weather, The pansy and the sunshine come together, The sweetest flower of all!

The sweetest flower that blows; Sweeter than any rose, Or that shy blossom opening in the night, Its waxen vase of aromatic light-- A sleepy incense to the winking stars; Nor yet in summer heats, That crisp the city streets,-- Where the spiked mullein grows beside the bars In country places, and the ox-eyed daisy Blooms in the meadow gra.s.s, and brooks are lazy, And scarcely murmur in the twinkling heat; When sound of babbling water is so sweet, Blue asters, and the purple orchis tall, Bend o'er the wimpling wave together;-- The pansy blooms through all the summer weather, The sweetest flower of all!

The sweetest flower that blows!

When all the rest are scattered and departed, The symbol of the brave and faithful-hearted, Her bright corolla glows.

When leaves hang pendant on their withered stalks, Through all the half-deserted garden walks; And through long autumn nights, The merry dancers scale the northern heights, And tiny crystal points of frost-white fire Make brightly scintillant each blade and spire, Still under shade of shelt'ring wall, Or under winter's shroud of snows, Undimmed, the faithful pansy blows, The sweetest flower of all!

NOVEMBER METEORS.

Out of the dread eternities, The vast abyss of night, A glorious pageant rose and shone, And pa.s.sed from human sight.

We saw the glittering cavalcade, And heard inwove through all, Faint and afar from star to star, The sliding music fall.

With banners and with torches, And hoofs of glancing flame, With helm and sword and pennon bright The long procession came.

And all the starry s.p.a.ces, Height above height outshone, And the bickering clang of their armour rang Down to the farthest zone.

As if some grand cathedral, With towers of malachite, And walls of more than crystal clear, Rose out of the solid light, And under its frowning gateway, Each morioned warrior stept, And in radiant files down the ringing aisles, The martial pageant swept.

From out the oriel windows, From vault, and spire, and dome, And sparkling up from base to cope, The light and glory clomb.

They knelt before the altar, Each mailed and visored knight, And the censers swung as a voice outrung,-- 'Now G.o.d defend the right'!

On casque, and brand, and corselet Fell the red light of Mars, As forth from the minster gates they pa.s.sed To the battle of the stars.

Across moon-lighted depths of s.p.a.ce, And breadths of purple seas, Their flying squadrons sailed in fleets, Of fiery argosies:

Down lengths of shining rivers, Past golded-sanded bars, And nebulous isles of amethyst, They dropt like falling stars: Till on a scarped and wrinkled coast, Washed by dark waves below, They came upon the glittering tents-- The city of the foe.

Then rushed they to the battle; Their bright hair blazed behind, As deadlier than the bolt they fell, And swifter than the wind.

And all the stellar continents, With that fierce hail thick sown, Recoiled with fear, from sphere to sphere To Saturn's ancient throne.

The blind old king, in ermine wrapt.

And immemorial cold, Awoke, and raised his aged hands, And shook his rings of gold.

Down toppled plume and pennon bright, In endless ruin hurled, Their blades of light struck fire from night-- Their splendours lit the world!

And rolling down the hollow spheres, The mighty chords, the seven, Clanged on from orb to orb, and smote Orion in mid-heaven.

Along the ground the white tents lay; And faint along the fields.

The foe's swart hosts, like glimmering ghosts, Followed his chariot wheels.

With banners and with torches, And armour all aflame, The victors and the vanquished went, Departing as they came; With here and there a rocket sent Up from some lonely barque: Into the vast abysm they pa.s.sed,-- Into the final dark.

PICTURES IN THE FIRE

The wind croons under the icicled eaves-- Croons and mutters a wordless song, And the old elm chafes its skeleton leaves Against the windows all night long.

Under the spectral garden wall, The drifts creep steadily high and higher And the lamp in the cottage lattice small Twinkles and winks like an eye of fire.

But I see a vision of summer skies Growing out of the embers red, Under the lids of my half-shut eyes, With my arms crossed idly under my head.

I see a stile, and a roadside lime, With b.u.t.tercups growing about its feet, And a footpath winding a sinuous line In and out of the billowy wheat.

For long ago in the summer noons, Under the shade of that trysting tree, My love brought wheat ears and clover blooms, And vows that were sweeter than both, to me.

Reading the "Times" in his easy chair, With his slippered feet on the fender bright, Little, I wot, he dreams how fair Are the pictures I see in the fire to night.

Still the wind pipes under the serried spears Of frozen boughs a desolate rhyme, But I hear the rustle of golden ears, And in my heart it is summer time.

A MADRIGAL

The lily-bells ring underground, Their music small I hear When globes of dew that shine pearl round Hang in the cowslip's ear And all the summer blooms and sprays Are sheathed from the sun, And yet I feel in many ways Their living pulses run.

The crowning rose of summer time Lies folded on its stem, Its bright urn holds no honey-wine, Its brow no diadem, And yet my soul is inly thrilled, As if I stood anear Some legal presence unrevealed, The queen of all the year.

Oh Rose, dear Rose! the mist and dew Uprising from the lake, And sunshine glancing warmly through, Have kissed the flowers awake-- The orchard blooms are dropping balm, The tulip's gorgeous cup More slender than a desert palm It's chalice lifteth up.

The birds are mated in the trees, The wan stars burn and pale-- Oh Rose, come forth!--upon the breeze I hear the nightingale Unfold the crimson waves that lie In darkness rosy dim, And swing thy fragrant censer high, Oh royal Rose for him!

The hyacinths are in the fields With purple splendours pale Their sweet bells ring responsive peals To every pa.s.sing gale And violets bending in the gra.s.s Do hide their glowing eyes, When those enchanting voices pa.s.s, Like airs from Paradise.

We crowned our blushing Queen of May Long since, with dance and tune, But the merry world of yesterday Is lapsing into June-- Thou art not here,--we look in vain-- Oh Rose arise, appear!-- Resume thine emerald throne, and reign The queen of all the year!

THE PLOUGHBOY.

I wonder what he is thinking In the ploughing field all day.

He watches the heads of his oxen, And never looks this way.

And the furrows grow longer and longer, Around the base of the hill, And the valley is bright with the sunset, Yet he ploughs and whistles still.

I am tired of counting the ridges, Where the oxen come and go, And of thinking of all the blossoms That are trampled down below.

I wonder if ever he guesses That under the ragged brim Of his torn straw hat I am peeping To steal a look at him.

The spire of the church and the windows Are all ablaze in the sun.

He has left the plough in the furrow, His summer day's work is done.

And I hear him carolling softly A sweet and simple lay, That we often have sung together, While he turns the oxen away.

The b.u.t.tercups in the pasture Twinkle and gleam like stars.