Through forest ways with rustling leaves o'erspread
The pine-boughs whispered low of bodings dread,
And all the air a mystery seemed to fill. But in the shadows of enfolding night, From out the bosom of the frosty air, Fell a baptismal robe of beauty rare; And when, at kiss of dawn, awoke the earth, Each leaf and pine-bough, clad in vesture white Told of the peaceful hour of Winter's birth.
BORN unto toil and framed in rustic mold, There stirred within him, masterful and strong, The impulse of a heaven-sent gift of song. In strains now blithe, now sad, his verses told The simple rugged nature, grandly bold
In honest manhood's cause to battle wrong; The joys that unto homely lives belong; Though oft his days were dark and skies were cold, What heed we of the wintry winds to-night
When hearts within are warm with friendly cheer? We sing his songs, and dwell in scenes more fair, Where summer's treasures deck the meadows bright,
Where daisies bloom, and glittering waves are clear,
By banks o' bonnie Doon and brigs of Ayr.
THOU mystery of life! O, faltering thought, That, seeking, fain would find the secret dower Of thy eternal, unborn source and power, Thy mystic vital essence, ne'er forth wrought, Though by all science's tireless searching sought. Who hid thy secret in the acorn's cell,
The seed of flower and the bird's egg-shell ? Whenceforth by subtle energy are brought Strength, beauty and glad-voiced trill of songs. Vain finite mind of scientist or sage, Vain strife of human thought in every age,
One only answer is; there truth belongs; Lo, I am life, life's PRINCE! Lo, thou mayst see Life's source and power personified in ME.
WHERE sloped the hillside from the upper glade, I sought cool rest within a maple shade; In pictured beauty there before me lay The varying landscape on that summer day. Just at my right, swift plunged a noisy rill In mimic torrent from the rugged hill,
Till, winding down, it coursed through meadows green
In laughing ripples and in glittering sheen. Nature's own music in melodious treat Filled all my senses with their voices sweet. From the far pasture of the woody dell Came soft vibrations of the tinkling bell; And from the meadows, and the flowery leas, With the chirp of insects and the hum of bees, Came the sweet discord of unmeasured notes From feathered songsters, with uplifted throats. From the soft rustle of the swaying trees, And their leaves' flutter in the gentle breeze, There came co-mingling and falling round The ceaseless cadence of symphonious sound. While thus entranced with all this wordless psalm, My nature softened in its mellow balm; There soon came stealing o'er my grateful sense (My soul beguiling with its recompense) Half conscious sleep; then did the music seem Vague as the vision of a forgotten dream. The song of bird, and bee, and babbling rill, The leaves' soft murmur, and the tinkling bell, By strange transition in the passive mind, Changed then to music of another kind. Out of old years with their memories fraught, Again came visions and unbidden thought. I sat in a classic hall amid the throng Who came to worship at the shrine of There standing forth, the “Prima Donna” made Her voice ring grandly through the great arcade, Then sweet and low, borne faintly through the air, The notes came softly to the people there, Until to all did that grand song impart The strange enchantment of her wondrous art.
Again I sat where somber shadow falls Through Gothic arches in sacred temple walls; While from the organ, in its swelling sound, To the soul came speaking in notes profound, The song of angels, while by human tongue The words were vocal, as the song was sung. 'Twas "Gloria in Excelsis" to the Lord of grace, Who gave salvation to our ruined race.
Again I stood within the tented camp Where armies, marshaled with their heavy tramp, Gathered for war, for the bloody strife,
Where foemen meet and stake life against life. I heard the loud clang of the bugle call; I saw the brave men in red carnage fall; I heard the shout, and heard the groan, The swelling sigh and the dying moan; The battle was won, but in darkness o'er all Mantled the smoke, like a funeral pall;
Then I heard the low music of muffled drums, And I heard the sad wail from ruined homes.
But the spell was broken, the dream passed away, And my thoughts came back to the conscious day; Then the bees, the birds and the brooklets' roar Made nature's glad music as e'en before.
HE following poem was read at an opening of
Rogers is one of Buffalo's younger poets of much promise. Editor.
THE DANCING FAUN.
WHEN was unwrapped the ashen winding sheet That swathed Pompeii, the city of the dead, And once again the southern azure shed
Its light through ruined court and empty street, Lo! from the darkness where no human tread Had echoed for a score of centuries, Appeared a multitude of gracious shapes, A pageant of the long lost deities,
Hermes and Pan, and Bacchus crowned with
And all the pleasant demi-gods and fauns Who thronged the woods and kept the fountains
They could not die; no fear of time had they, For they were born of art and must endure While art should live. The stricken city lay About them, yet they took nor note nor care of unseen evenings and of darkened dawns; In passing years they had no place, no part, Until at last the soft Italian day Peered in upon them, standing silent there, Divine in the divinity of art.
And one there was, a faun, among the throng, With limbs for ever leaping into dance,
With head thrown back, as though he heard, perchance,
The far off echo of some lost Greek song.
The Dancing Faun.
Thou dancer of two-thousand years, Thou dancer of to-day, What silent music fills thine ears, What Bacchic lay,
That thou shouldst dance the centuries Down their forgotten way?
What mystic strain of pagan mirth Has charmed eternally
Those lithe, strong limbs that spurn the earth? What melody
Unheard of men has Father Pan
Left lingering with thee?
And where is now the wanton throng That round thee used to meet? On dead lips died the drinking song, But, wild and sweet,
That silent music urged thee on To its unuttered beat.
And, when at last Time's weary will Brought thee again to sight, Forth camest thou dancing, dancing still, Into the light,
Unwearied from the murk and dusk
Of centuries of night.
Alas for thee, alas again,
The early faith is gone!
The gods no more are seen of men; All, all are gone!
The shady forests no more shield The satyr and the faun.
On Attic slopes the bee still hums, On many an Elian hill
The wild grape swells, but never comes The distant trill
Of reedy flutes, for Pan is dead; Broken his pipes and still.
Broken his pipes, his sweet notes dead, Save those that charm thine ear, And thine alone; his train is fled; His groves are drear;
I speak to heedless ears-ah, well, I would not have thee hear!
Ah, gracious art, whose creatures do not die, We too have heard the far-off magic song, We too have caught the spirit of the long, Soft southern days and sheen of sapphire sky; And so we listen, like the dancing faun, We in our snow-bound new-world haunts, and hear Thy music nearer coming-near, more near- And feel the promise of thy brightening dawn.
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