Poems New and Old. John Freeman

cold bosom wrapt:—

      So in the golden-hued and burning hours

       Of harvest, leapt on high the full-eared corn.

       Friendly to pious hands those imaged Powers

       Of rain and sun. And when the grain was borne

       By oxen trailing tangled straws and flowers,

       With leaves and dying blossoms on each horn,

       Friendly the gods commingling in the shades

       Of moon and torch and smoke-delaying glades.

      Fell slowly sunset; the starred evening cool

       Drooped round as mid his people the king rode,

       Blessing and blessed, and in the faithful pool

       Of their old loves his clear reflection glowed

       Like summer's golden moon:—in wise and fool,

       Noble and mean, accustomed reverence showed

       Clear-shining; so he reached the unbarred hall

       Where lamps, lords, servitors flashed festival,

      Remembering old journeys and their end.

       Bright-throned he sat there, with those lords around

       Snow-polled, co-eval, as with friends their friend

       Feasting. Arose at length the awaited sound

       Of bardic chanting, bidding their thoughts descend

       Into the chamber where the Past lay bound,

       Wanting but music's finger; so upspringing,

       The Past stormed all their minds in that loud singing.

      And strangers, furred and tawny, seated there,

       Far travellers from the sunrise, looking on

       The feasting and the splendour, and with ear

       Uncertain listening to the solemn tone

       Of most dear Memory, envied all and sware

       A sudden fealty. But the bard sang on

       While silver beakers brimmed untouched; and darkened

       The proud remembering eyes of men that hearkened.

      Then came once more those strangers leading long

       Migration of their subject folk. They stayed

       And medley'd and were mingled, and their throng

       Melted in his like snows, and so were made

       One with them, and forgot their useless tongue,

       Nor now their ancient bloody worship paid

       To painted gods:—name, language, story died

       When their last faithless exile parting sighed.

      So year on year, century on century

       In his imagination of delight

       Followed, in a new world all innocency

       And simpleness, and made for beings bright,

       Where man to man was friend, unfearful, free,

       And natural griefs alone darkened their night,

       And natural joys as the wide air were common,

       And kindness was the bond of all kin human.

      —When the loved reeds of music sounded clear

       From birds' breasts quivering in tall woodland trees

       That rustled leafless in the winter air,

       And with morn's new voice shrilled the western breeze:

       Folding her wings the dream crept from his ear

       To hang where bats drowse until daylight dies.

       Then he from sleep's dear vanity awaking

       Watched a sole sunbeam the roof-shadows raking.

PART II

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THE WAKERS

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