Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

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;
For the nettle thriveth where she lies,

Under the alder-tree.

Then a mouth, whereto was given
Voice that should be clue and key
To old dreams that rocked the poet
On the cradle of their knee.
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.

167

For the owl hooteth where she lies,

Under the alder-tree.

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? Woe's me, 'tis o'er,
And she may 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,

Under the alder-tree.

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. Oh, that heart
Beat, and beat ever for me!

168

UNDER THE ALDER-TREE.

Ever for me? Woe's me, 'tis o'er,
And I shall press her heart, the prize,
To my own no more, no more,
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,
And she's mine no more, no more,
To make this heart beat quicker in me;
For the wind waileth where she lies,

Under the alder-tree.

HENRY SUTTON.

[graphic][merged small]

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.

« ZurückWeiter »