166 UNDER THE ALDER-TREE. Then an awful, high emotion, Of such warm, sweet purity, That for once we understand how Sacred mortal flesh can be! Oh, her touch! Oh, soft her hand, Soft, and warm ever to me! Ever to me? Woe's me, 'tis o'er, And the voice within me cries, She will press my hand no more, To make the heart beat quicker in me; Then a mouth, whereto was given Oh, her voice! 'twas like a heaven Saying kind things ever to me. Ever to me? Woe's me, 'tis o'er, And I call, and call, and she never replies, And she'll speak no more, no more, To make the heart beat quicker in me; UNDER THE ALDER-TREE. For the owl hooteth where she lies, Under the alder-tree. 167 Then a touch, at whose impression, Like an electricity Sheathed in down, flesh, soul change places, Till we guess not which we be ! Her kiss! 'twas like the touch of an angel's wing, Warm of heaven's glory ever to me! Ever to me? And she may Woe's me, 'tis o'er, hallow my cheeks, my eyes, With her lips no more, no more, To make the heart beat quicker in me; For the worm gnaweth where she lies, Then a feeling that doth smite us Into such dreams as saints be On God's bosom! I have pressed her Heart to mine, till I could see To heaven's deep centre. Beat, and beat ever for me! Oh, that heart 168 UNDER THE ALDER-TREE. Ever for me? Woe's me, 'tis o'er, And I shall press her heart, the prize, To make the heart beat quicker in me ; For the cold stones cover her where she lies, Under the alder-tree. Let me alone, O Loneliness! off Sorrow vulture, off from me! Sure this Promethean heart of mine grows Fast as 'tis consumed by thee! Oh, she will not come again, Come again, ever to me! Bliss? The bliss, the bliss is o'er, Is lost for ever, my heart's dear prize, To make this heart beat quicker in me; HENRY SUTTON. THE MUSICIAN AND THE ORGAN. LL through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth : Had I written the same, mad verse-still, effects proceed from cause, Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled : 170 THE MUSICIAN AND THE ORGAN. But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws, that made them, and lo they are! And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought; It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said: Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought; And there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. |