R. F. Murray [16]
her summer pride - The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.
All round, the landscape stretches bare, The bleak fields lying far and wide, Monotonous, with here and there A lone tree on a lone hillside. No more the land is glorified With golden gleams of ripening corn, Scarce is a cheerful hue descried - The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.
For me, I do not greatly care Though leaves be dead, and mists abide. To me the place is thrice as fair In winter as in summer-tide: With kindlier memories allied Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn. What care I, though the earth may hide The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn?
Thus I unto my friend replied, When, on a chill late autumn morn, He pointed to the tree, and cried, `The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn!'
PATRIOTISM
There was a time when it was counted high To be a patriot--whether by the zeal Of peaceful labour for the country's weal, Or by the courage in her cause to die:
FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a rallying cry That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel; Not to unheeding ears did it appeal, A pulpit formula, a platform lie.
Only a fool will wantonly desire That war should come, outpouring blood and fire, And bringing grief and hunger in her train. And yet, if there be found no other way, God send us war, and with it send the day When love of country shall be real again!
SLEEP FLIES ME
Sleep flies me like a lover Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover Within some distant wood, Where thickest boughs roof over Her secret solitude.
The nets I spread to snare her, Although with cunning wrought, Have only served to scare her, And now she'll not be caught. To those who best could spare her, She ever comes unsought.
She lights upon their pillows; She gives them pleasant dreams, Grey-green with leaves of willows, And cool with sound of streams, Or big with tranquil billows, On which the starlight gleams.
No vision fair entrances My weary open eye, No marvellous romances Make night go swiftly by; But only feverish fancies Beset me where I lie.
The black midnight is steeping The hillside and the lawn, But still I lie unsleeping, With curtains backward drawn, To catch the earliest peeping Of the desired dawn.
Perhaps, when day is breaking; When birds their song begin, And, worn with all night waking, I call their music din, Sweet sleep, some pity taking, At last may enter in.
LOVE'S PHANTOM
Whene'er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may bear.
At night when I would go to sleep, Thinking of you, awake I keep, And still repeat the words you said, Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.
And when, with weariness oppressed, I sink in spite of you to rest, Your image, like a lovely sprite, Haunts me in dreams through half the night.
I wake upon the autumn morn To find the sunrise hardly born, And in the sky a soft pale blue, And in my heart your image true.
When out I walk to take the air, Your image is for ever there, Among the woods that lose their leaves, Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.
By what enchantment shall be laid This ghost, which does not make afraid, But vexes with dim loveliness And many a shadowy caress?
There is no other way I know But unto you forthwith to go, That I may look upon the maid Whereof that other is the shade.
As the strong sun puts out the moon, Whose borrowed rays are all his own, So, in your living presence, dies The phantom kindled at your eyes.
By this most blessed spell, each day The vexing ghost awhile I lay. Yet am I glad to know that when I leave you it will rise again.
COME BACK TO ST. ANDREWS
Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.
Oh, it's dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down, And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red
All round, the landscape stretches bare, The bleak fields lying far and wide, Monotonous, with here and there A lone tree on a lone hillside. No more the land is glorified With golden gleams of ripening corn, Scarce is a cheerful hue descried - The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn.
For me, I do not greatly care Though leaves be dead, and mists abide. To me the place is thrice as fair In winter as in summer-tide: With kindlier memories allied Of pleasure past and pain o'erworn. What care I, though the earth may hide The leaves from off Queen Mary's Thorn?
Thus I unto my friend replied, When, on a chill late autumn morn, He pointed to the tree, and cried, `The leaves are off Queen Mary's Thorn!'
PATRIOTISM
There was a time when it was counted high To be a patriot--whether by the zeal Of peaceful labour for the country's weal, Or by the courage in her cause to die:
FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a rallying cry That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel; Not to unheeding ears did it appeal, A pulpit formula, a platform lie.
Only a fool will wantonly desire That war should come, outpouring blood and fire, And bringing grief and hunger in her train. And yet, if there be found no other way, God send us war, and with it send the day When love of country shall be real again!
SLEEP FLIES ME
Sleep flies me like a lover Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover Within some distant wood, Where thickest boughs roof over Her secret solitude.
The nets I spread to snare her, Although with cunning wrought, Have only served to scare her, And now she'll not be caught. To those who best could spare her, She ever comes unsought.
She lights upon their pillows; She gives them pleasant dreams, Grey-green with leaves of willows, And cool with sound of streams, Or big with tranquil billows, On which the starlight gleams.
No vision fair entrances My weary open eye, No marvellous romances Make night go swiftly by; But only feverish fancies Beset me where I lie.
The black midnight is steeping The hillside and the lawn, But still I lie unsleeping, With curtains backward drawn, To catch the earliest peeping Of the desired dawn.
Perhaps, when day is breaking; When birds their song begin, And, worn with all night waking, I call their music din, Sweet sleep, some pity taking, At last may enter in.
LOVE'S PHANTOM
Whene'er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may bear.
At night when I would go to sleep, Thinking of you, awake I keep, And still repeat the words you said, Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.
And when, with weariness oppressed, I sink in spite of you to rest, Your image, like a lovely sprite, Haunts me in dreams through half the night.
I wake upon the autumn morn To find the sunrise hardly born, And in the sky a soft pale blue, And in my heart your image true.
When out I walk to take the air, Your image is for ever there, Among the woods that lose their leaves, Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.
By what enchantment shall be laid This ghost, which does not make afraid, But vexes with dim loveliness And many a shadowy caress?
There is no other way I know But unto you forthwith to go, That I may look upon the maid Whereof that other is the shade.
As the strong sun puts out the moon, Whose borrowed rays are all his own, So, in your living presence, dies The phantom kindled at your eyes.
By this most blessed spell, each day The vexing ghost awhile I lay. Yet am I glad to know that when I leave you it will rise again.
COME BACK TO ST. ANDREWS
Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.
Oh, it's dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down, And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red