James Thomson - (Bysshe Vanolis)

"While the trees grow, While the streams flow, While the winds blow,

What would you have? said I;1 'Tis so easy to go and die, 'Tis so hard to stay and live,

The church stands there beyond the orchard-blooms: How yearningly I gaze upon its spire! Lifted mysterious through the twilight glooms,

Would some little joy to-day Visit us, heart! Could it but a moment stay,

I. What precious thing are you making fast In all these silken lines?

My thoughts go back to last July, Sweet happy thoughts and tender; 'The bridal of the earth and sky,'

The Pilgrimage To Kevlaar. I. At the window stood the mother,

I. The white-rose garland at her feet, The crown of laurel at her head,

For I must sing of all I feel and know, Waiting with Memnon passive near the palms, Until the heavenly light doth dawn and grow

I LOVE'S DAWN Still thine eyes haunt me; in the darkness now,

From the midst of the fire I fling These arrows of fire to you: If they sing, and burn, and sting,

We were now in the midmost Maytime, in the full green flood of the Spring, When the air is sweet all the daytime with the blossoms and birds that sing; When the air is rich all the night, and richest of all in its noon;

' Ceste insigne fable et tragicque comedie.' - RABELAIS. I.

This field of stones, he said, May well call forth a sigh; Beneath them lie the dead,

As we rush, as we rush in the Train, The trees and the houses go wheeling back, But the starry heavens above the plain

Sleepless himself to give to others sleep. He giveth His beloved sleep. I heard the sounding of the midnight hour;

Who has a thing to bring For a gift to our lord the king, Our king all kings above?

In the early morning-shine Of a certain day divine, I beheld a Maiden stand

To Alice and Hypatia Bradlaugh Who was Lilah? I am sure She was young and sweet and pure;

Last evening's huge lax clouds of turbid white Grew dark and louring, burthened with the rain Which that long wind monotonous all night

In the endless nights, from my bed, where sleepless in anguish I lie, I startle the stillness and gloom with a bitter and strong cry: 0 Love! 0 Beloved long lost! come down from thy Heaven above,

Mr. MacCall at Cleveland Hall, Sunday evening-date to fix Fifteenth April, sixty-six,

He cried out through the night: "Where is the light? Shall nevermore

What are these leaves dark-spotted and acerb? 'A very holy herb.' To what good use may I this herb convert?

Once in a saintly passion I cried with desperate grief, "O Lord, my heart is black with guile,

I. His eyes found nothing beautiful and bright, Nor wealth nor, honour, glory nor delight,

He felt scant need Of church or creed, He took small share

"The Nightingale was not yet heard, For the Rose was not yet blown."1 His heart was quiet as a bird

I That one long dirge-moan sad and deep, Low, muffled by the solemn stress

'En allant promener aux champs, J'y ai trouv' les bl's si grands, Les aub'pines florissant.

I. This is the Heath of Hampstead, There is the dome of Saint Paul's;

Eastwards through busy streets I lingered on; Jostled by anxious crowds, who, heart and brain, Were so absorbed in dreams of Mammon-gain,

As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: All was black, In heaven no single star, on earth no track;

From out the house I crept, The house which long had caged my homeless life: The mighty City in vast silence slept,

The fire that filled my heart of old Gave luster while it burned; Now only ashes gray and cold

I. Nor did we lack our own right royal king, The glory of our peaceful realm and race.

'Arcane danze D'immortal piede i ruinosi gioghi Scossero e l'ardue selve (oggi romito

Love on the earth alit, Come to be Lord of it; Looked round and laughed with glee,

Through foulest fogs of my own sluggish soul, Through midnight glooms of all the wide world's guilt, Through sulphurous cannon-clouds that surge and roll

When one is forty years and seven, Is seven and forty sad years old, He looks not onward for his Heaven,

'Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.' - SHAKESPEARE: Sonnet 66 Weary of erring in this desert Life,

I saw thee once, I see thee now; Thy pure young face, thy noble mien, Thy truthful eyes, thy radiant brow;

Their eyes met; flashed an instant like swift swords That leapt unparring to each other's heart, Jarring convulsion through the inmost chords;

I "Why are your songs all wild and bitter sad As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries?

She was so good, and he was so bad A very pretty time they had! A pretty time, and it lasted long:

He came to the desert of London town Gray miles long; He wandered up and he wandered down,