SONGS OUT OF DOORS EARLY VERSES

How long the echoes love to play Around the shore of silence, as a wave Retreating circles down the sand! One after one, with sweet delay, The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, Have lingered in the crescent bay, Until, by lightest breezes fanned, They float far off beyond the dying day And leave it still as death. But hark,— Another singing breath Comes from the edge of dark; A note as clear and slow As falls from some enchanted bell, Or spirit, passing from the world below, That whispers back, Farewell.

So in the heart, When, fading slowly down the past, Fond memories depart, And each that leaves it seems the last; Long after all the rest are flown, Returns a solitary tone,— The after-echo of departed years,— And touches all the soul to tears.

A tear that trembles for a little while Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world Wavers within its circle like a dream, Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.

A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, And grows in silence to an amber dawn Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes, Is dearer to the soul than sun or star.

A joy that falls into the hollow heart From some far-lifted height of love unseen, Unknown, makes a more perfect melody Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam.

Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky And the fair ministries of Nature dear, But as they set themselves unto the tune That fills our life; as light mysterious Flows from within and glorifies the world.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet Than crowns the royal lily of the South; And so a well-remembered perfume seems The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, The silver-crested waves no murmur make; But far away the avalanches wake The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; Their momentary thunders, dying, seem To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, And leave the hollow air with naught to break The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; As if a poet's heart had felt the glow Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; The vault of heaven was glaring overhead With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, “Shall any living thing that dares to tread This royal lair of Death escape again?”

But even then I saw before my feet A line of pointed footprints in the snow: Some roving chamois, but an hour ago, Had passed this way along his journey fleet, And left a message from a friend unknown To cheer my pilgrim-heart, no more alone.

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells, To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells Go chiming after her across the fair And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells Of peace are woven through the purple air.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems To walk before the dark by falling rills, And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; She opens all the doors of night, and fills With moving bells the music of my dreams, That wander far among the sleeping hills.

Flowers rejoice when night is done, Lift their heads to greet the sun; Sweetest looks and odours raise, In a silent hymn of praise.

So my heart would turn away From the darkness to the day; Lying open in God's sight Like a flower in the light.

Who watched the worn-out Winter die? Who, peering through the window-pane At nightfall, under sleet and rain Saw the old graybeard totter by? Who listened to his parting sigh, The sobbing of his feeble breath, His whispered colloquy with Death, And when his all of life was done Stood near to bid a last good-bye? Of all his former friends not one Saw the forsaken Winter die.

Who welcomed in the maiden Spring? Who heard her footfall, swift and light As fairy-dancing in the night? Who guessed what happy dawn would bring The flutter of her bluebird's wing, The blossom of her mayflower-face To brighten every shady place? One morning, down the village street, “Oh, here am I,” we heard her sing,— And none had been awake to greet The coming of the maiden Spring.

But look, her violet eyes are wet With bright, unfallen, dewy tears; And in her song my fancy hears A note of sorrow trembling yet. Perhaps, beyond the town, she met Old Winter as he limped away To die forlorn, and let him lay His weary head upon her knee, And kissed his forehead with regret For one so gray and lonely,—see, Her eyes with tender tears are wet.

And so, by night, while we were all at rest, I think the coming sped the parting guest.

If all the skies were sunshine, Our faces would be fain To feel once more upon them The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music, Our hearts would often long For one sweet strain of silence. To break the endless song.

If life were always merry, Our souls would seek relief, And rest from weary laughter In the quiet arms of grief.

At sunset, when the rosy light was dying Far down the pathway of the west, I saw a lonely dove in silence flying, To be at rest.

Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest, I'd fly away from every careful sorrow, And find my rest.

But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling, Home flew the dove to seek his nest, Deep in the forest where his mate was calling To love and rest.

Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander; Lose not thy life in barren quest. There are no happy islands over yonder; Come home and rest.

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, The regiments of autumn stood: I saw their gold and scarlet glowing From every hillside, every wood.

Above the sea the clouds were keeping Their secret leaguer, gray and still; They sent their misty vanguard creeping With muffled step from hill to hill.

All day the sullen armies drifted Athwart the sky with slanting rain; At sunset for a space they lifted, With dusk they settled down again.

At dark the winds began to blow With mutterings distant, low; From sea and sky they called their strength Till with an angry, broken roar, Like billows on an unseen shore, Their fury burst at length.

I heard through the night The rush and the clamour; The pulse of the fight Like blows of Thor's hammer; The pattering flight Of the leaves, and the anguished Moan of the forest vanquished.

At daybreak came a gusty song: “Shout! the winds are strong. The little people of the leaves are fled. Shout! The Autumn is dead!”

The storm is ended! The impartial sun Laughs down upon the battle lost and won, And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host In rolling lines retreating to the coast.

But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade, And grateful friends of every fallen leaf, Forget the glories of the cloud-parade, And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief.

For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat On fields of triumph dirges of defeat; And still we turn on gala-days to tread Among the rustling memories of the dead.

Does the snow fall at sea? Yes, when the north winds blow, When the wild clouds fly low, Out of each gloomy wing, Silently glimmering, Over the stormy sea Falleth the snow.

Does the snow hide the sea? Nay, on the tossing plains Never a flake remains; Drift never resteth there; Vanishing everywhere, Into the hungry sea Falleth the snow.

What means the snow at sea? Whirled in the veering blast, Thickly the flakes drive past; Each like a childish ghost Wavers, and then is lost; In the forgetful sea Fadeth the snow.

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine The art that reared thy costly shrine! Thy carven columns must have grown By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall Would I in adoration fall, So gladly as within the glen That leads to lovely Hawthornden.

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green And vine-clad pillars, while between, The Esk runs murmuring on its way, In living music night and day.

Within the temple of this wood The martyrs of the covenant stood, And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer, From Nature's solemn altar-stair.