« AnteriorContinuar »
POEMS, TALES, AND SONGS.
Thus, like a calm to stormy path,
But where's the help for him who hath
Is there not ONE of power supreme
'T is not the rumour of a dream,
SONG OF LIGHT.
PLEASANT the light-the light of morn;
Pleasant the light, when suns set soon,-
Fringing the cloud with silvery wings;
Pleasant the light as light of morn,—
A CORNFIELD CAROL.
UP! Let us in the light of morn
Tell how the spirit of the Spring
Thou surely shalt recover!
Into good hands thou giv'st the grain;
In this way proof of faith is given! Faith finds the Fatherland of gain; Who trust the most, the most obtain
From the full hand of Heaven!"
Tell how the Summer spirit came,
Bidding the sunborn bloom unfold,
In quiet vales, or rude hills hoary; Singing "I come with songs of gold!" Till the fair listening fields—behold,
Have changed from grace to glory!
Away with melancholy rhyme !
Is it a day for doleful strains,
Is, "No-oh, no!" replying
THE BILBERRY MOORS.
DIDST ever go and gather berries blue? Not on the common only, just near home, But on the moors afar, where standing water, Left by the rains in hollows of black earth, Look'd as like ink as snowdrops look like snow. The sun rose early in those days, but we Prevented even him. Ere the grey mist In the low vale had seen a streak of glory, Or the vast bulk of cloud along the hill Had seen the smile of morning; or had heard The first note of the skyward warbler sung; Even, ere then, we wander'd forth afar, Over the hills, to gather moorland fruit, Hoping for cheerful weather, and success. But not for us would always smile the day; For while we gather'd berries blue, the clouds Would gather blackness, and toss out the storm! And were we wretched then? I tell thee, friend, There were not merrier children in the world!
COME! will you not go where the bilberries grow, On their beautiful bushes of green;
Whose ruby bells smiled, in the desolate wild,
On the far away, moorland scene ?
We are up and away, at the dawn of the day,
Ere the dawn of the day we are up and away—
With basket and tin, with provision therein,
Like the birds of the air, in our freedom from care,
Nor future, nor past, bringeth shadow or blast;
We need no police to look after the peace,
The wealthy man's wall bounded not what we call
His broad-acred lot-nay, we covet it not-
But the bilberry blue oweth nothing to you;
Oh! mean were the might that would question our
To roam on the bilberry moor.