Poems New and Old. John Freeman

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       The sleeping flame, until the vivid light

       And toothed shadows wearied. … And then crept

       The hounds a little nearer, and all slept.

      But the young man still lay in quiet sleep,

       Or half-sleep, and a dream-born cloud enwreathed

       With memories, hopes and longings hidden deep

       In his flown mind. Another air he breathed,

       Saw from an unsubstantial mountain sweep

       In purest light, soon in low shadow sheathed,

       Semblance of faint-known faces, or beloved

       Daily-acquainted still, or long removed.

      Even as sacred fire in fennel stalks

       Through windy ways is borne and densest night,

       Till where the outpost shivering sentry walks

       Beating the minutes into hours, the light

       Touches the guarded pile and, flaring, balks

       Beasts padding near and each unvisioned sprite

       By old dread apprehended; and new gladness

       Shakes in the village prone in winter sadness:—

      So through the young man's dream the kingly flame

       In his own breast was undiminished borne.

       And other peoples catching from his fame

       A noble heat, in neighbouring lands forlorn,

       Would glow with new power and the ancient name

       Bless, that had brightened through their narrow morn.

       And purer yet and steadier would pass on

       The sacred flame to son and son and son.

      Or with contracting mind he saw the host

       Of mountain warriors banded, moving down

       Untrodden ways, as on young buds a frost

       Falls, and the spring lies stiff. The air was sown

       With strife, the fields with blood, the night with ghost

       Wandering by ghost, and wounded men were strown

       Surprised, unweaponed; and chill air congealed

       Each hurt, and with the blood their breath was sealed.

      And the loved tones of music sounded fierce

       When the returning files with aspect proud

       Approached, and brandished their rich trophied spears.

       Sweet the pipes' spearlike music, sweet and loud,

       And music of smitten arms was sweet to tears;

       Sweet the dance unto smiling gods new vowed,

       Sweet the recounting song and choral cries,

       And age's quaverings and girls' envious sighs.

      —So of himself, a father-king, he dreamed,

       Holding an equal nation in his eye.

       O with what golden points the future gleamed!

       Rustled the years like laden mule-trains by,

       Each with its burthen of old time redeemed. …

       Splendour on splendour poured, and so would lie

       Unnoted and unmeasured:—metals, herds,

       Distant-sought wonders, strange growths, beasts and birds.

      Within the summer of that splendid shade

       Might men live happy and nought left to fear,

       Or if an antique restless spirit played

       Fretful within their bones, and change drew near

       Drumming wild airs, and another music made,

       A father-king, speaking assured and clear,

       Bidding them follow he would lead them forth

       Through the yet undiscovered frowning north.

      And the last fire on the warm stones would burn,

       And the smoke linger on the mountain skies.

       And seeing, they would muse yet of return

       And then forget their sadness in the cries

       Confused of the great caravan; and so turn

       Towards the next sun-setting and the next sunrise

       Many and many a day and wind and wind

       Through foreign earth, as a dream through the mind.

      Flowing on with the changes of its thought.

       And doubtful kings entreating them to stay

       Would sleep the easier when they lingered not;

       And sullen tribes menacing would make way,

       And broad slow rivers in their tide be caught,

       And the long caravan o'er the ford all day

       And all day and all day pass; while the tide slept

       In sluggish shallows, or through marsh-reeds crept.

      So would they on and on, with death and birth

       For wayfellows and nightly stars for guide,

       While seasons bloomed and faded on the earth,

       And jealous gods their wandering gods would chide.

       Until, weary of endless going forth

       Dark-locust-like, the old fret would subside,

       And young men with aged men and women cry,

       "In this full-rivered pasture let us lie!

      "Here let us lie, and wanderings be at rest!"

       Midmost a cedar grove high sacrifice

       Needs then be made, that gods be manifest;

       And while the smoke spread in long twilit skies,

       "Here let us lie, and wanderings be at rest,"

       Would old men breathe repeated between sighs.

       "In this green world and cool," would mothers say,

       "Rest we, nor with thin babes yet longer stray."

      —So stealing from the mind of the old King

       Exhausted, into the sleeping young man's brain

       Crept the same dream and lifted on new wing

       And took from his swift passions a new stain,

       Sanguine and azure, and first fluttering

       Rose then on easy vans that bore again

       The sleeper past his common thought's confine:—

       So borne, so soaring, in that air divine,

      He saw his people stayed, their journeys ended. …

       There should they, no more fretful, dwell for ever

       In the full-nourished pasture where untended

       Herds multiplied, and famine threatened never,

       And where high border-hills glittered with splendid

       Sparse-covered veins washed by the hill-born river.

       So stead by stead arose, and men there moved

       Satisfied, and no more vain longings roved.

      Again the silver plough gleamed in the sod,

       And seed from old fields slept in furrows new.

       Then when Spring's rain and sun together trod

       And interweaved swift steps the meadow through,