POETRY.
BEACON HILL.
THEY chanted vespers 'neath a nave Of Norman arches grand and grave, And the deep tones of stately song Surged, like a wave, the aisles along, And prayers flowed forth, the prayers sublime That soothed the saints of olden time; And reverence on the people fell With every soul-tuned syllable ; And splendours from the West the while Swam round the imperishable pile, Clothed sombre tower and sacred sward, As with the glory of the Lord ; And eve's loud birds, with silvery din, Answered the rolling psalm within.
'Twas long ago ; the minster hoar Still shakes with song from roof to floor, In spring-tide, on the forest hill, Unfurls the deathless bracken still ; But some are deaf in death who heard The vesper bell, the nightly bird,
Who climbed with us the woodland height, That woos the breeze, and hails the light,
The vanished forms we trust to see In some eternal country free.
A blind dream, says the seeming-sage Suggestion of a cynic age,
They breathe no more, their sands are run, Felt immortality unwon, They live but now in pure deeds done.
Yet once again my journey lay One morning, on an April day Of glittering rain and softened fire, Thro' that green placid midland shire ; I gazed from Beacon's craggy side O'er Charnwood's uplands wild and wide, Beanmanoir's oaks gleamed fresh and fair In the moist lights of limpid air, A lurking plenty filled the plain Of peopled pastures, sprouting grain, Where thro' the willowy meadows went The meek Soar to the kingly Trent; On the far verge of that vast view Rose the lone rock in the dim blue, Whence the sad Stuart's standard flew, And wavering ran a pale dark streak,— The ranges of the misty Peak.
Was all that charm of sky and land But double of the vision bland That mocks parched lips on desert sand ?
In this maimed life breathe love, power, bliss, Why not in new worlds, after this ?
Are faith's most golden moments given That hope should be from mortals riven ?
Shame on the craven voice that said No kindlier fate befalls the dead!
JOSEPH TRUMAN.
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