In lonely places; and at set of sun
They won her back by some fond phantasy,
By telling her some tale of the gone days
Of her dear lost ones, promising to show her
Some faded garland, or some broken toy,
Dusty and dim, which they had found, or feign'd
To have found, some plaything of their infant hours.
Within the echoes of a ruin'd court
She sat and mourn'd, with her lamenting voice,
Melodious in sorrow, like the sound
Of funeral hymns; for in her youth she sang
Along the myrtle valleys in the spring,
Plucking the fresh pinks and the hyacinths,
With her fair troop of girls, who answer'd her
Silvery sweet, so that the lovely tribe
Were Nature's matchless treble to the last
Delicious pipe, pure, warbling, dewy clear.
In summer and in winter, that lorn voice
Went up, like the struck spirit of this world,
Making the starry roof of heaven tremble
With her lament, and agony, and all
The crowned Gods in their high tabernacles
Sigh unawares, and think upon their deeds.
Her guardians let her wander at her will,
For all could weep for her; had she not been
The first and fairest of that sunny land,
And bless'd with all things; doubly crown'd with power
And beauty, doubly now discrown'd and fallen?
Oh! none would harm her, only she herself;
And chiefly then when they would hold her back,
And sue her to take comfort in her home,
Or in the bridal chambers of her youth,
Or in the old gardens, once her joy and pride,
Or the rose-bowers along the river-shore
She lov'd of old, now silent and forsaken.
For then she fled away, as though in fear,
As if she saw the specters of her hours
Of joyance pass before her in the shapes
Of her belov'd ones. But most she chose
Waste places, where the moss and lichen crawl'd,
And the wild ivy flutt'd, and the rains
Wept thro' the roofless ruins, and all seem'd
To mourn in symbols, and to answer to her,
Showing her outward that she was within.
The unregarding multitude pass'd on,
Because her woe was a familiar sight.
But some there were that shut their ears and fled,
And they were childless; the rose-lipp'd and young
Felt that imperial voice and desolate
Strike cold into their hearts; children at play
Were smit with sudden silence, with their toys
Clutch'd in their hands, forgetful of the game.
Aged she was, yet beautiful in age.
Her beauty, thro' the cloud of years and grief,
Shone as a wintry sun; she never smil'd,
Save when a darkness pass'd across the sun,
And blotted out from her entranced eyes
Disastrous shapes that rode upon his disk,
Tyrannous visions, armed presences;
And then she sigh'd and lifted up her head,
And shed a few warm tears. But when he rose,
And her sad eyes unclos'd before his beams,
She started up with terrors in her look,
That wither'd up all pity in affright,
And ran about, like one with Furies torn,
And rent her hair, and madly threaten'd Heaven,
And called for retribution on the gods,
Crying, "O save me from Him, He is there;
Oh, let me wear my little span of life.
I see Him in the center of the sun;
His face is black with wrath! thou angry God,
I am a worthless thing, a childless mother,
Widow'd and wasted, old and comfortless,
But still I am alive; wouldst thou take all?
Thou who hast snatch'd my hopes and my, delights,
Thou who hast kill'd my children, wouldst thou take
The little remnant of my days of sorrow,
Which the sharp winds of the first winter days,
Or the first night of frost, may give unto thee?
For never shall I seek again that home
Where they are not; cold, cold shall be the hearth
Where they were gather'd, cold as is my heart!
Oh, if my living lot be bitterness,
'Tis sweeter than to think, that, if I go
Down to the dust, then I shall think no more
Of them I lov'd and lost, the thoughts of whom
Are all my being, and shall speak no more,
In answer to their voices in my heart,
As though it were mine ear, rewording all
Their innocent delights, and fleeting pains,
Their infant fondnesses, their little wants,
And simple words. Oh! while I am, I dream
Of those who are not; thus my anguish grows
My solace, as the salt surf of the seas
Clothes the sharp crags with beauty." Then her mood Would veer to madness, like a windy change
That brings up thunder, and she rais'd her voice,
Crying, "And yet they are not, they who were,
And never more shall be! accursed dreams!"
And, suddenly becoming motionless,
The bright hue from her cheeks and forehead pass'd, And full of awful resignation, fixing
Her large undazzled orbs upon the sun,
She shrieked, "Strike, God, thou canst not harm me more!"
* From "The Victorian Anthology." Houghton, Mifflin Company.
FROM THE PLEA OF CORNELIA
BY PROPERTIUS
ENGLISH VERSION BY E. D. A. MORSHEAD
Guard, Paullus, guard the pledges of our love—
My very dust that ingrained wish can move!
Father thou art, and mother must thou be,
Unto those little ones bereft of me.
Weep they, give two-fold kisses, thine and mine,
Solace their hearts, and both our loves combine;
And if thou needst must weep, go, weep apart -
Let not our children, folded to thine heart,
Between thy kisses feel the teardrops start.
Enough for love, be nightlong thoughts of me,
And phantom forms that murmur I am she.
Or if thou speakest to mine effigy,
Speak soft, and pause and dream of a reply.
Yet if a presence new our halls behold,
And a new bride my wonted place shall hold —
My children, speak her fair, who pleased your sire,
And let your gentleness disarm her ire:
Nor speak in praise of me- your loyal part
Will turn to gall and wormwood in her heart.
But, if your father hold my worth so high,
That lifelong love can people vacancy,
And solitude seem only love gone by,
Tend ye his loneliness, his thoughts engage,
And bar the avenues of pain to age!
I died before my time-add my lost years.
Unto your youth, be to his heart compeers;
So shall he face, content, life's slow decline,
Glad in my children's love, as once in mine.
THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON
BY SIDNEY DOBELL
Lord, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, O Lord,
Do with him as Thou wilt; but O my God,
Let him come back to die! Let not the fowls
O' the air defile the body of my child,
My own fair child, that when he was a babe,
I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee!
Let not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted,
Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun
Fall to the stranger's lot! Shall the wild bird,
That would have pilfered of the ox, this year
Disdain the pens and stalls?
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