Read Ebook: The Coast of Bohemia by Page Thomas Nelson

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Ebook has 269 lines and 14496 words, and 6 pages

We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep With the earth for their bed, With stones at their head: We leave them and weep When we bury our dead.

We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep,-- On our Mother's calm breast We leave them to rest-- To rest while we weep.

We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep-- They reck not our tears, Though the sad years creep-- Through our tears, through the years They tranquilly sleep.

We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep; We bury the bloom Of our life,--all our bloom In the coffin we fold: We enfold in the tomb: We re?nter the room We left young,--we are old.

We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep; The cold Time-tides flow With winter and spring, With birds on the wing, With roses and snow, With friends who beguile Our sorrow with pity-- With pity awhile. Then weary and smile, Then chide us, say, "Lo! How the sun shines,--'t is May." But we know 't is not so-- That the sun died that day When we laid them away, With the earth for a bed-- When we buried our dead.

We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep; We turn back to the world; We are caught,--we are whirled In the rush of the current-- The rush and the sweep Of the tide, without rest. But they sleep--they the blest-- The Blessed dead sleep: They tranquilly rest On our Mother's calm breast.

MY MOTHER

I knew her in her prime, Before the seal of Time Was graven on her brow, As Age hath graved it now: When radiant Youth was just subdued To yield to gracious womanhood. And as an inland lake Lies tranquil mid the hills, Unruffled by the storms that break Beyond, and mirrors Heaven; So, to her spirit, freed from ills, A blessed calm was given. Encircled by War's strife Peace ruled her life. Christ's teachings were her constant guide, And naught beside, Christ's Death and Passion were her plea-- None needed she; For that amid earth's fiercest strife Her life was patterned on His life. Now when her eyes grow dim She lives so close to Him, The radiance of His smile Envelops her the while. As when the Prophet's figure shone With light reflected from the Throne, So, ever in her face Shines Heaven's divinest grace. Her soul is fresh and mild As is a little child. And as the fleshly tenement With age grows worn and bent, Her Spirit's unabated youth Is aye to me The mind-compelling truth Of Immortality. Her voice is, as it were, A silver dulcimer, Tuned like the seraph's lays Eternally to praise. The blessings of Christ's chosen friends Are doubly hers, whose mind, To charity inclined, No selfish ends Have ever for an instant moved: Who served like Martha And like Mary loved.

HER INFLUENCE

The tender Earth that smiles when kissed by Spring; The flowers; the budding woods; the birds that sing The Summer's song her spirit to me bring.

The meadows cool that breathe their fragrant myrrh; Deep, placid pools that little breezes blur; Soft-tinkling springs speak to my heart of her.

Heaven's purple towers upon the horizon's rim; The dove that mourns upon his lonely limb, Fill my soul's cup with memories to its brim.

In evening's calm when in the quiet skies, The lustrous, silent, tender stars uprise, I feel the holy influence of her eyes.

That deeper hour when Night with Dawn is blent, And Silence stirs, its languors well-nigh spent, I hear her gently sigh with sweet content.

I hear young children laughing in the street: Catch rays of sunshine from them as we meet, And smile content to know what makes them sweet.

Yea, everywhere, in every righteous strife, I find her spirit's fragrant influence rife, Like Mary's precious spikenard sweetening Life.

MATTHEW ARNOLD

He challenged all that came within his ken, And Error held with steadfast mind aloof. E'en Truth itself he put upon the proof: Holding that Light was God's first gift to men.

THE STRANGER

Straying one day amid the leafy bowers, A Presence passed, masked in a sunny ray, Tossing behind him carelessly the hours, As one shakes blossoms from a ravished spray,-- Strewing them far and wide. Nor glanced to either side.

A-sudden as he strolled he chanced upon A flower which full within his pathway blew, White as a lily, modest as a nun, Sweeter than Lilith's rose in Eden grew-- Her beauty he espied, Approached and softly sighed.

His breath the blossom stirred and all the air Grew fragrant with a subtle, rich perfume; The spic?d alleys glowed, the while a rare And crystal radiance did illume All the adjacent space As 't were an angel's face.

Kneeling, he gently laid his glowing lips, Like softest music on her lips, when came A thrill that trembled to her petal-tips, And on the instant, with a sudden flame, Leaped forth the shining sun, And Earth and Heaven were one.

"Who art thou?" queried she, "Tell me thy name, To whom Godlike this Godlike power is given, That thus for me, without or fear or shame, But by thy lips' soft touch Greatest Heaven?" Whilst to his heart she clove, He whispered, "I am Love."

LOVE

Astray within a garden bright I found a tiny wing?d sprite:

He scarce was bigger than a sparrow And bore a little bow and arrow.

I lifted him up in my arm, Without a thought of guile or harm;

But merely as it were in play, With threats to carry him away.

The sport he took in such ill part, He stuck an arrow in my heart.

And ever since, I have such pain,-- I cannot draw it out again.

And yet, the strangest part is this: I love the pain as though 't were bliss.

AN OLD REFRAIN

It seems to me as I think of her, That my youth has come again: I hear the breath of summer stir The leaves in the old refrain: "Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? I will seek my Love, with the wings of a dove, And pray her to love but me."

The flower-kissed meadows all once more Are green with grass and plume; The apple-trees again are hoar With fragrant snow of bloom. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

The meadow-brook slips tinkling by With silvery, rippling flow, And blue-birds sing on fences nigh, To dandelions below. Oh! my Lady-love, Oh, my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I hear again the drowsy croon Of honey-laden bees, And catch the poppy-mellowed rune They hum to locust trees. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady-love be? etc.

Far off the home-returning cows Low that the Eve is late, And call their calves neath apple-boughs To meet them at the gate. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

Once more the Knights and ladies pass In visions Fancy-wove: I lie full length in summer grass, To choose my own True-Love. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know not how,--I know not where,-- I dream a fairy-spell: I know she is surpassing fair,-- I know I love her well. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know she is as pure as snow:-- As true as God's own Truth:-- I know,--I know I love her so, She must love me, in sooth! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know the stars dim to her eyes; The flowers blow in her face: I know the angels in the skies Have given her of their grace. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

And none but I her heart can move, Though seraphs may have striven; And when I find my own True-love, I know I shall find Heaven. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be! I will seek my Love with the wings of a dove And pray her to love but me.

TO CLAUDIA

It is not, Claudia, that thine eyes Are sweeter far to me, Than is the light of Summer skies To captives just set free.

It is not that the setting sun Is tangled in thy hair, And recks not of the course to run, In such a silken snare.

Nor for the music of thy words, Fair Claudia, love I thee, Though sweeter than the songs of birds That melody to me.

It is not that rich roses rare Within thy garden grow, Nor that the fairest lilies are Less snowy than thy brow.

Nay, Claudia, 't is that every grace In thy dear self I find; That Heaven itself is in thy face, And also in thy mind.

THE APPLE-TREES AT EVEN

Ah! long ago it seems to me, Those sweet old days of summer, When I was young and fair was she, And sorrow only rumor.

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