Duncan Campbell Scott

At Bethlehem upon the hill, The day was done, the night was nigh, The dusk was deep and had its will,

I gave her a rose in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Each petal I said is a note in the tune,

CHARACTERS The Father. The Child. Death. Angels. Two Travellers.

Here in the pungent gloom Where the tamarac roses glow And the balsam burns its perfume,

Come to me when grief is over, When the tired eyes, Seek thy cloudy wings to cover

Three are emerald pools in the sea, And wing-like flashes of light; The sea is bound with the heavens

Tug at the net, Haul at the net, Strip off the quivering fish;

Here where the cypress tall Shadows the stucco wall, Bronze and deep,

She breath'd deep, And stepped from out life's stream Upon the shore of sleep;

Those who die on Christmas Day (I heard the triumphant Seraph say) Will be remembered, for they died

To ports of balm through isles of musk The gentle airs are leading us; To curtained calm and tents of dusk,

The shore-lark soars to his topmost flight, Sings at the height where morning springs, What though his voice be lost in the light,

(Aetat Six) Now every night we light the grate And I sit up till really late;

Here in Samarcand they offer emeralds, Pure as frozen drops of sea-water, Rubies, pale as dew-ponds stained with slaughter,

Gather the leaves from the forest And blow them over the world, The wind of winter follows

This is the land! It lies outstretched a vision of delight, Bent like a shield between the silver seas

Here there is balm for every tender heart Wounded by life; Rest for each one who bore a valiant part

I Now, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky, The frost has come to charm with elfin might

(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald in one of his letters) I Growing, growing, all the glory going;

I have seen things that charmed the heart to rest: Faint moonlight on the towers of ancient towns, Flattering the soul to dream of old renowns;

Dear Morris - here is your letter - Can my answer reach you now? Fate has left me your debtor,

Under the sky without a stain The long, ripe, rippling of the grain; Light, broadcast from the golden oats

The sunset colours mingle in the sky, And over all the Umbrian valleys flow; Trevi is touched with wonder, and the glow

From the upland hidden, Where the hill is sunny Tawny like pure honey

Veil-like and beautiful Gathered the dutiful Mist in the night,

The Earth moans in her sleep Like an old mother Whose sons have gone to the war,

The night is old, and all the world Is wearied out with strife; A long gray mist lies heavy and wan

Lay him down where the fern is thick and fair. Fain was he for life, here lies he low: With the blood washed clean from his brow and his beautiful hair,

O turn once more! The meadows where we mused and strayed together Abound and glow yet with the ruby sorrel;

This is the mockery of the moving years; Youth's colour dies, the fervid morning glow Is gone from off the foreland; slow, slow,

Creep into my heart, creep in, creep in, Afar from the fret, the toil and the din, Where the spring of love forever flows,

Far in the east the rain-clouds sweep and harry, Down the long haggard hills, formless and low, Far in the west the shell-tints meet and marry,

Gentle angel with your mantle, All of tender green, I was yearning for a vision

Rufus Gale speaks - 1852 Yes, - in the Lincoln Militia, - in the war of eighteen-twelve; Many's the day I've had since then to dig and delve -

An angel burdened with self-pity Came out of heaven to a modern city. He saw a beggar on the street,

The dew falls and the stars fall, The sun falls in the west, But never more

All my life long I heard the step Of some one I would know, Break softly in upon my days

She is free of the trap and the paddle, The portage and the trail, But something behind her savage life

Here is the height of land: The watershed on either hand Goes down to Hudson Bay

This silver-edged geranium leaf Is one sign of a bitter grief Whose symbols are a myriad more;

Crown her with stars, this angel of our planet, Cover her with morning, this thing of pure delight, Mantle her with midnight till a mortal cannot

This is not June, - by Autumn's stratagem Thou hast been ambushed in the chilly air; Upon thy fragile crest virginal fair

O if love were had for asking, In the markets of the town, Hardly a lass would think to wear

Dawn-cool, dew-cool Gleams the surface of my pool Bird haunted, fern enchanted,

I Where love is life The roses blow,

O noble youth that held our honour in keeping, And bore it sacred through the battle flame, How shall we give full measure of acclaim

I Nurture thyself, O Soul, from the clear spring That wells beneath the secret inner shrine;

So in the shadow by the nimble flood He made her whistles of the willow wood, Flutes of one note with mellow slender tone;