14 FOUNDER'S DAY. A SECULAR ODE CHRIST and his Mother, heavenly maid, With truth, and purity, mother of truth! O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June, By silver Thames's lulling tune, Or on the tabled sward all day Exceed the prayer and keep the fame Or whether with naked bodies flashing Or what pursuit soe'er it be That makes your mingled presence free, May Peace, that conquereth sin and death, And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise. Here is eternal spring: for you For you shall Shakespeare's scene unroll, Virgil recite his maiden verse. Now learn, love, have, do, be the best; Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven To him that hath shall more be given. Slow on your dial the shadows creep, So many hours for food and sleep, So many hours till study tire, So many hours for heart's desire. These suns and moons shall memory save, Mirrors bright for her magic cave; O in such prime enjoy your lot, Then to the world let shine your light, Children in play be lions in fight, And match with red immortal deeds Or by firm wisdom save your land Send them here to the court of grace And on his day your steps be bent Where, saint and king, crowned with content, 15 THE north wind came up yesternight Yet found he not on heaven's face There was no speck that he might chase Off the blue hemisphere, Nor vapour from the land to drive: The frost-bound country held Nought motionable or alive, That 'gainst his wrath rebelled. There scarce was hanging in the wood A shrivelled leaf to reave ; No bud had burst its swathing hood Where they were shadowed all, And on the white church-wall. -Like as an artist in his mood, So Nature in a frenzied hour And by the churchyard as I came, Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes Its old chaotic change of shapes Remembers evermore. And ghosts of cities long decayed And ruined shrines of Fate Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate. Nor winter there hath hope of spring, Since the old king with scorpion sting * The morn was calm; the wind's last breath The golden moon went down beneath 16 NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: The beech scatters her ruddy fire; The lime hath stripped to the cold, And standeth naked above her yellow attire: To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold. Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft. But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, As the harrying North-wind beareth A cloud of skirmishing hail The grieved woodland to smite: In a hurricane through the trees he teareth, Raking the boughs and the leaves rending, And whistleth to the descending Blows of his icy flail. Gold and snow he mixetn in spite, And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright. |