Poems — A Reader’s Guide

These were the days Of story and song, When Hope had a meaning And Faith was strong. "Life will be long, And lit with Love's gleamings;" Such were my dreamings, But, ah, how wrong!

Youth's illusions, One by one, Have passed like clouds That the sun looked on. While morning shone, How purple their fringes! How ashy their tinges When that was gone!

Darkness that cometh Ere morn has fled-- Boughs that wither Ere fruits are shed-- Death bells instead Of a bridal's pealings-- Such are my feelings, Since Hope is dead!

Sad is the knowledge That cometh with years-- Bitter the tree That is watered with tears; Truth appears, With his wise predictions, Then vanish the fictions Of boyhood's years.

As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp-- As meteors are quenched In a stagnant swamp-- Thus Charlemagne's camp, Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond Valley, And Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun's rambles, And Crusoe's isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii's daughters 'Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,

And all that the pen Of Fancy can write Must vanish In manhood's misty light-- Squire and knight, And damosels' glances, Sunny romances So pure and bright!

These have vanished, And what remains?-- Life's budding garlands Have turned to chains; Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O'er desert plains!

The dove will fly From a ruined nest, Love will not dwell In a troubled breast; The heart has no zest To sweeten life's dolour-- If Love, the Consoler, Be not its guest!

The dream is over, The vision has flown; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Wither'd and strown Are the hopes I cherished,-- All hath perished But grief alone!

THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.

Yes! the Summer is returning, Warmer, brighter beams are burning Golden mornings, purple evenings, Come to glad the world once more. Nature from her long sojourning In the Winter-House of Mourning, With the light of hope outpeeping, From those eyes that late were weeping, Cometh dancing o'er the waters To our distant shore. On the boughs the birds are singing, Never idle, For the bridal Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing All the green bells on the branches, Which the soul of man doth hear; Music-shaken, It doth waken, Half in hope, and half in fear, And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!

For the Year is sempiternal, Never wintry, never vernal, Still the same through all the changes That our wondering eyes behold. Spring is but his time of wooing-- Summer but the sweet renewing Of the vows he utters yearly, Ever fondly and sincerely, To the young bride that he weddeth, When to heaven departs the old, For it is her fate to perish, Having brought him, In the Autumn, Children for his heart to cherish. Summer, like a human mother, Dies in bringing forth her young; Sorrow blinds him, Winter finds him Childless, too, their graves among, Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.

Thrice the great Betroth'ed naming, Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming, February, March, and April, Spread the tidings far and wide; Thrice they questioned each new-comer, "Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer, With her rich imperial dower, Golden fruit and diamond flower, And her pearly raindrop trinkets, Should not be the green Earth's Bride?" All things vocal spoke elated (Nor the voiceless Did rejoice less)-- "Be the heavenly lovers mated!" All the many murmuring voices Of the music-breathing Spring, Young birds twittering, Streamlets glittering, Insects on transparent wing-- All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King!

Now the rosy East gives warning, 'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning. Sweetest truant from Elysium, Golden morning of the May! All the guests are in their places-- Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-- Hawthorns in white wedding favours, Scented with celestial savours-- Daisies, like sweet country maidens, Wear white scolloped frills to-day; 'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant Primrose sitteth, Nor permitteth Any of her kindred present, Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, E'er to leave the tranquil shade; By the hedges, Or the edges Of some stream or grassy glade, They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid.