The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 308 : And though thy loftier brother shall be king, High-priest be thou to Brahma unrevealed

And though thy loftier brother shall be king, High-priest be thou to Brahma unrevealed, While thy white sanct.i.ty forever sealed In icy silence leaves desire congealed.

In ghostly ministrations to the sun, And to the mendicant stars and the moon-nun, Be holy still, till east to west has run, And till no sacrificial suffering On any shrine is left to tell life's sting.

Cale Young Rice [1872-

THE HILLS

Mussoorie and Chakrata Hill The Jumna flows between And from Chakrata's hills afar Mussoorie's vale is seen.

The mountains sing together In cloud or sunny weather, The Jumna, through their tether, Foams white or plunges green.

The mountains stand and laugh at Time, They pillar up the Earth, They watch the ages pa.s.s, they bring New centuries to birth.

They feel the daybreak s.h.i.+ver, They see Time pa.s.sing ever, As flows the Jumna River As breaks the white sea-surf.

They drink the sun in a golden cup And in blue mist the rain; With a sudden brightening they meet the lightning Or ere it strikes the plain.

They seize the sullen thunder And take it up for plunder And cast it down and under, And up and back again....

... Here, in the hills of ages I met thee face to face; O mother Earth, O lover Earth, Look down on me with grace.

Give me thy pa.s.sion burning, And thy strong patience, turning All wrath to power, all yearning To truth, thy dwelling-place.

Julian Grenfell [1888-1915]

HEMLOCK MOUNTAIN

By orange grove and palm-tree, we walked the southern sh.o.r.e, Each day more still and golden than was the day before.

That calm and languid suns.h.i.+ne! How faint it made us grow To look on Hemlock Mountain when the storm hangs low!

To see its rocky pastures, its spa.r.s.e but hardy corn, The mist roll off its forehead before a harvest morn; To hear the pine-trees cras.h.i.+ng across its gulfs of snow Upon a roaring midnight when the whirlwinds blow.

Tell not of lost Atlantis, or fabled Avalon; The olive, or the vineyard, no winter breathes upon; Away from Hemlock Mountain we could not well forego, For all the summer islands where the gulf tides flow.

Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-

SUNRISE ON RYDAL WATER

Come down at dawn from windless hills Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island boughs One silence and one element, Where wonder goes surely as once It went By Galilean prows.

Moveless the water and the mist, Moveless the secret air above, Hushed, as upon some happy tryst The poised expectancy of love; What spirit is it that adores What mighty presence yet unseen?

What consummation works apace Between These rapt enchanted sh.o.r.es?

Never did virgin beauty wake Devouter to the bridal feast Than moves this hour upon the lake In adoration to the east.

Here is the bride a G.o.d may know, The primal will, the young consent, Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent The G.o.d shall leap--and, lo,

Over the lake's end strikes the sun-- White, flameless fire; some purity Thrilling the mist, a splendor won Out of the world's heart. Let there be Thoughts, and atonements, and desires; Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue; Where now we move with mortal care Among Immortal dews and fires.

So the old mating goes apace, Wind with the sea, and blood with thought, Lover with lover; and the grace Of understanding comes unsought When stars into the twilight steer, Or thrushes build among the may, Or wonder moves between the hills, And day Comes up on Rydal mere.

John Drinkwater [1882-

THE DESERTED PASTURE

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have.

The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For b.u.t.tercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October pa.s.ses In gorgeous livery,-- In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive To pitch their tents therein.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green; Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

Ye've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, Ye're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.