| |
| HERE ’neath my father’s ample roof, | |
| The blue and bending sky, | |
| A child, I lived in happiness, | |
| Unmindful of the Why. | |
| |
| Far o’er the Earth the mystic charm | 5 |
| Of Nature softly fell | |
| By day, at night the wonderment | |
| Which lips can never tell. | |
| |
| And human love and kindly speech | |
| Were blent with human tears; | 10 |
| And hearkening oft there faintly came | |
| The music of the spheres. | |
| |
| But ah! too common seem’d my lot; | |
| Weird travellers’ tales I heard | |
| Of fairy lands and magic towers, | 15 |
| And realms of grief unstirred. | |
| |
| Unminded now the glorious sun | |
| Might bathe the Earth in light, | |
| No more the rapture of the hills | |
| Did sanctify the night. | 20 |
| |
| O’er all the household hopes and tasks | |
| Was writ Unclean, Unclean; | |
| Upon the idly rusting plough | |
| My nerveless hand did lean. | |
| |
| Deep discontent did gnaw my heart, | 25 |
| Fast bound to grossest needs; | |
| While far away I heard the call | |
| Of winged and fiery steeds. | |
| |
| ‘Far hence I go,’ no hand restrained, | |
| Rich largess too I bore | 30 |
| Of ruddy blood and supple limbs, | |
| And sought that mystic shore. | |
| |
| How shall I speak of wasted years, | |
| Of tantalizing quest, | |
| Of desert wind that inly sears | 35 |
| The disenchanted breast. | |
| |
| A land unblest by chastening law, | |
| Fantastically blent, | |
| Of poppied dreams, and tilted seas, | |
| And meteors cold and spent. | 40 |
| |
| There ’mid the wreck of futile dreams | |
| And giddy hours, the swine— | |
| Basest of all my former years— | |
| Alone, alone were mine. | |
| |
| Cold, grey, yet clearing like the dawn | 45 |
| After a night of mirth, | |
| Came to my heart the piercing cry, | |
| Ah! why scorned I the Earth! | |
| |
| Myriad, uncounted, infinite, | |
| The chisel-marks it bears; | 50 |
| Myriad, uncounted, infinite, | |
| Its upward mounting stairs. | |
| |
| Bread and to spare who toils shall have, | |
| And blesses with his thought; | |
| The friendly door, the garment fair, | 55 |
| The ring with jewels wrought. | |
| |
| ‘Peccavi,’—O what health doth spring | |
| From that astringent word! | |
| Scarce uttered till beside me sang | |
| A tiny fearless bird. | 60 |
| |
| Beside me crunched the crowding swine, | |
| With many an uncouth call; | |
| Why grudged I then my service while | |
| In turn man claim’d their all? | |
| |
| Far on my way I fared that eve, | 65 |
| Stripped, penitent, and worn, | |
| But in my heart a feeling surged— | |
| I am not all forlorn. | |
| |
| Serve will I and endow myself | |
| With all I once did scorn; | 70 |
| And smite with sharp and willing too | |
| The thistle and the thorn. | |
| |
| So came I to my father’s house, | |
| But all the place was still; | |
| I waited at the silent door, | 75 |
| Irresolute of will. | |
| |
| My father’s staff hung by the door, | |
| All mildewed was the crook; | |
| A terror fill’d my trembling frame, | |
| So fearful did it look! | 80 |
| |
| Out from the door then slowly stept | |
| My brother, bent and grey; | |
| Till then I had not dream’d what years | |
| Had swiftly passed away! | |
| |
| Half dazed he stood and scann’d me o’er; | 85 |
| At last he caught the clue; | |
| With outstretched hand he slowly spake, | |
| ‘Ah, brother, is it you?’ | |
| |
| Slowly from out that awful chill | |
| Of fear my spirit stirred, | 90 |
| And all the melancholy tale | |
| In voiceless grief I heard. | |
| |
| Now through the silent rooms I range, | |
| And o’er the distant hills; | |
| But something in the vanished past | 95 |
| No more my spirit fills. | |
| |
| And never more my father’s voice | |
| Comes with insistent tone; | |
| And I, alas! am all too free | |
| To tread my path alone. | 100 |
| |
| But yet the days are fill’d with sun, | |
| The Earth with chemic force; | |
| From unseen founts the rivers run | |
| To seek their ocean source. | |
| |
| And slowly from the grief and loss | 105 |
| My spirit upward springs, | |
| And seeks the precious grain of truth | |
| From endless winnowings. | |
| |
| Though on my father’s face no more | |
| I gaze with mortal eye, | 110 |
| Still o’er the old familiar scene | |
| His blessing seems to lie. | |
| |
| And still remain all powers which were | |
| In him personified,— | |
| Strength, goodness, wisdom, charity, | 115 |
| Forgiveness free and wide. | |
| |
| And from him still proceeds a force | |
| Which never shall return, | |
| With vaster, nobler meaning charged, | |
| In purer love to burn. | 120 |
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