Going Home.
RAWN by horses with decorous feet,
A carriage for one went through the street,
Polished as anthracite out of the mine,
Tossing its plumes so stately and fine,
As nods to the night a Norway pine.
The passenger lay in Parian rest,
As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed,
A mortal life through the marble stole,
And then till an angel calls the roll
It waits awhile for a human soul.
He rode in state, but his carriage-fare
Was left unpaid to his only heir;
Hardly a man, from hovel to throne,
Takes to this route in coach of his own,
But borrows at last and travels alone.
The driver sat in his silent seat;
The world, as still as a field of wheat,
Gave all the road to the speechless twain,
And thought the passenger never again
Should travel that way with living men.
Not a robin held its little breath,
But sang right on in the face of death;
You never would dream, to see the sky
Give glance for glance to the violet's eye,
That aught between them could ever die.
A wain bound east met the hearse bound west,
Halted a moment, and passed abreast;
And I verily think a stranger pair
Have never met on a thoroughfare,
Or a dim by-road, or anywhere:
The hearse as slim and glossy and still
As silken thread at a woman's will,
Who watches her work with tears unshed,
Broiders a grief with needle and thread,
Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead;
Spotless the steeds in a satin dress,
That run for two worlds the Lord's Express,
The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,
A moment or two, and both were gone;
The wain bound east, the hearse bound west,
Both going home, both looking for rest.
The Lord save all, and his name be blest!
E wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they."
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem
For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.
But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,
As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dew-drops round
Shines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,
Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!
The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round-
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;
The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.
O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain ;
But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
N the time when yellow lilies shake
Their dusty gold on river and lake,
When the cuckoo calls in the heart o' the heat,
When the dog-star foams and the shade is sweet, Where cool and fresh the river ran,
I sat by the side of thee, Charmian,
And heard no sound from the world of man.
All was so sweet and still that day!
The rustling shade, the rippling stream,
All life, all breath dissolved away
Into a golden dream;
Warm and sweet the scented shade
Drowsily caught the breeze and stirred,
Faint and low through the green glade
Came hum of bee and song of bird;
Our hearts were full of drowsy bliss
And yet we did not clasp nor kiss,
Nor did we break the happy spell
With tender tone nor syllable.
But to ease our hearts and set thought free,
We plucked the flowers of a red-rose tree.
And leaf by leaf we threw them, sweet,
Unto the river at our feet,
And in an indolent delight,
Watched them glide onward, out of sight.
Oh, had I spoken boldly then,
How might my love have gathered thee!
But I had left the world of men,
And sitting yonder dreamily
Was happiness enough for me;
Seeking no gift of word or kiss,
But looking into thy face was bliss ;
Plucking the rose-leaves in a dream,
Watching them glimmer down the stream,
Knowing that Eastern heart of thine
Shared the dim ecstasy of mine!
Then, while we lingered, cold and gray
Came twilight, chilling soul and sense;
And you arose to go away,
Full of sweet indifference!
I missed the spell - I watched it break -
And such come never twice to man:
In a less golden hour I spake,
And did not win thee, Charmian!
For wearily we turned away
Into the world of everyday,
And from thy heart the sweetness fled
Like the rose-leaves on the river shed;
But to me that hour is sweeter far
Than the world and all its treasures are:
Still to sit on, so close to thee,
Were happiness enough for me!
Still to sit in that green nook,
Nor break the spell by word or look,
To reach out happy hands forever,
To pluck the rose-leaves, Charmian !
To watch them fade on the golden river,
And hear no sound from the world of man.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
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