That friend of mine who lives in God, SELECTIONS FROM MAUD. WE are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower; Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed? However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man: He now is first, but is he the last? is he not too base? The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. A voice by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call ! Singing alone in the morning of life, Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, Silence, beautiful voice, Be still, for you only trouble the mind Still! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice Whom but Maud should I meet At the head of the village street, Whom but Maud should I meet? And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet For a courtesy not return'd. And thus a delicate spark Of glowing and growing light Thro' the livelong hours of the dark Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, Ready to burst in a colour'd flame; Till at last, when the morning came In a cloud, it faded, and seems Birds in the high Hall-garden They were crying and calling. Where was Maud? in our wood Birds in our wood sang I kiss'd her slender hand, She took the kiss sedately; Maud is not seventeen, But she is tall and stately. I to cry out on pride Who have won her favour! O Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her. I know the way she went Home with her maiden posy, For her feet have touch'd the meadows Birds in the high Hall-garden Look, a horse at the door, And little King Charley snarling, Go back, my lord, across the moor, You are not her darling. Go not, happy day, From the shining fields, Go not, happy day, Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth. When the happy Yes Over seas at rest, By his red cedar tree, Blush it thro' the West. Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth. I have led her home, my love, my only friend. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for-end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. I. Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, II. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 1 III. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd IV. I said to the lily, "There is but one Low on the sand and loud on the stone V. I said to the rose, "The brief night goes O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, VI. And the soul of the rose went into my blood, And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; VII. From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. |