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Procter Adelaide Anne
Legends and Lyrics. Part 1
VERSE: REST AT EVENING
When the weariness of Life is ended,
And the task of our long day is done,
And the props, on which our hearts depended,
All have failed or broken, one by one;
Evening and our Sorrow’s shadow blended
Telling us that peace is now begun.
How far back will seem the sun’s first dawning,
And those early mists so cold and grey!
Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
And the heat and burthen of the day:
Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,
All alike withered and cast away.
Vain will seem the impatient heart, which waited
Toils that gathered but too quickly round;
And the childish joy, so soon elated
At the path we thought none else had found;
And the foolish ardour, soon abated
By the storm which cast us to the ground.
Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming
As our final home and resting-place;
And the leaving them, while tears were streaming
Of eternal sorrow down our face;
And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
That no future could their touch efface.
All will then be faded: – night will borrow
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
Just remain to show us all was best,
Then melt into a divine to-morrow: -
Oh, how poor a day to be so blest!
VERSE: A RETROSPECT
From this fair point of present bliss,
Where we together stand,
Let me look back once more, and trace
That long and desert land,
Wherein till now was cast my lot, and I could live, and thou wert not.
Strange that my heart could beat, and know
Alternate joy and pain,
That suns could roll from east to west,
And clouds could pass in rain,
And the slow hours without thee fleet, nor stay their noiseless silver feet.
What had I then? a hope, that grew
Each hour more bright and dear,
The flush upon the eastern skies
That showed the sun was near: -
Now night has faded far away, my sun has risen, and it is day.
A dim Ideal of tender grace
In my soul reigned supreme;
Too noble and too sweet I thought
To live, save in a dream —
Within thy heart to-day it lies, and looks on me from thy dear eyes.
Some gentle spirit – Love I thought —
Built many a shrine of pain;
Though each false Idol fell to dust,
The worship was not vain,
But a faint radiant shadow cast back from our Love upon the Past.
And Grief, too, held her vigil there;
With unrelenting sway
Breaking my cloudy visions down,
Throwing my flowers away: -
I owe to her fond care alone that I may now be all thine own.
Fair Joy was there – her fluttering wings
At times she strove to raise;
Watching through long and patient nights,
Listening long eager days:
I know now that her heart and mine were waiting, Love, to welcome thine.
Thus I can read thy name throughout,
And, now her task is done,
Can see that even that faded Past
Was thine, belovèd one,
And so rejoice my Life may be all consecrated, dear, to thee.
VERSE: TRUE OR FALSE
So you think you love me, do you?
Well, it may be so;
But there are many ways of loving
I have learnt to know.
Many ways, and but one true way,
Which is very rare;
And the counterfeits look brightest,
Though they will not wear.
Yet they ring, almost, quite truly,
Last (with care) for long;
But in time must break, may shiver
At a touch of wrong:
Having seen what looked most real
Crumble into dust;
Now I chose that test and trial
Should precede my trust.
I have seen a love demanding
Time and hope and tears,
Chaining all the past, exacting
Bonds from future years;
Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow,
Claiming as its fee:
That was Love of Self, and never,
Never Love of me!
I have seen a love forgetting
All above, beyond,
Linking every dream and fancy
In a sweeter bond;
Counting every hour worthless,
Which was cold or free: -
That, perhaps, was – Love of Pleasure,
But not Love of me!
I have seen a love whose patience
Never turned aside,
Full of tender, fond devices;
Constant, even when tried;
Smallest boons were held as victories,
Drops that swelled the sea:
That I think was – Love of Power,
But not Love of me!
I have seen a love disdaining
Ease and pride and fame,
Burning even its own white pinions
Just to feed its flame;
Reigning thus, supreme, triumphant,
By the soul’s decree;
That was – Love of Love, I fancy,
But not Love of me!
I have heard – or dreamt, it may be —
What Love is when true;
How to test and how to try it,
Is the gift of few:
These few say (or did I dream it?)
That true Love abides
In these very things, but always
Has a soul besides.
Lives among the false loves, knowing
Just their peace and strife:
Bears the self-same look, but always
Has an inner life.
Only a true heart can find it,
True as it is true,
Only eyes as clear and tender
Look it through and through.
If it dies, it will not perish
By Time’s slow decay,
True Love only grows (they tell me)
Stronger, day by day:
Pain – has been its friend and comrade;
Fate – it can defy;
Only by its own sword, sometimes
Love can choose to die.
And its grave shall be more noble
And more sacred still,
Than a throne, where one less worthy
Reigns and rules at will.
Tell me then, do you dare offer
This true Love to me?.
Neither you nor I can answer;
We will – wait and see!
VERSE: GOLDEN WORDS
Some words are played on golden strings,
Which I so highly rate,
I cannot bear for meaner things
Their sound to desecrate.
For every day they are not meet,
Or for a careless tone;
They are for rarest, and most sweet,
And noblest use alone.
One word is POET: which is flung
So carelessly away,
When such as you and I have sung,
We hear it, day by day.
Men pay it for a tender phrase
Set in a cadenced rhyme:
I keep it as a crown of praise
To crown the kings of time.
And LOVE: the slightest feelings, stirred
By trivial fancy, seek
Expression in that golden word
They tarnish while they speak.
Nay, let the heart’s slow, rare decree,
That word in reverence keep
Silence herself should only be
More sacred and more deep.
FOR EVER: men have grown at length
To use that word, to raise
Some feeble protest into strength,
Or turn some tender phrase.
It should be said in awe and fear
By true heart and strong will,
And burn more brightly year by year,
A starry witness still.
HONOUR: all trifling hearts are fond
Of that divine appeal,
And men, upon the slightest bond,
Set it as slighter seal.
That word should meet a noble foe
Upon a noble field,
And echo – like a deadly blow
Turned by a silver shield.
Trust me, the worth of words is such
They guard all noble things,
And that this rash irreverent touch
Has jarred some golden strings.
For what the lips have lightly said
The heart will lightly hold,
And things on which we daily tread
Are lightly bought and sold.
The sun of every day will bleach
The costliest purple hue.
And so our common daily speech
Discolours what was true.
But as you keep some thoughts apart
In sacred honoured care,
If in the silence of your heart,
Their utterance too be rare;
Then, while a thousand words repeat
Unmeaning clamours all,
Melodious golden echoes sweet
Shall answer when you call.
