A PARABLE FROM LIEBIG

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing
   On the stump of a rotting old tree;
’Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,
   And the world is nigh ready for me.’

The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,
   And smiled as he crumbled the tree;
’Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish,
   And the world is too live yet for thee.’

Eversley, 1848.

THE STARLINGS

Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,
Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing—­
’Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily? 
   Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.’

Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings,
Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing—­
’Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily;
   Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.’

Eversley, 1848.

OLD AND NEW:  A PARABLE

See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,
Down the wild swirls of the rain-swollen stream. 
So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again;
Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.

Nay! see the spring-blossoms steal forth a-maying,
Clothing with tender hues orchard and glen;
So, though old forms pass by, ne’er shall their spirit die,
Look!  England’s bare boughs show green leaf again.

Eversley, 1848.

THE WATCHMAN

‘Watchman, what of the night?’
   ’The stars are out in the sky;
And the merry round moon will be rising soon,
   For us to go sailing by.’

‘Watchman, what of the night?’
   ’The tide flows in from the sea;
There’s water to float a little cockboat
   Will carry such fishers as we.’

‘Watchman, what of the night?’
   ’The night is a fruitful time;
When to many a pair are born children fair,
   To be christened at morning chime.’

1849.

THE WORLD’S AGE

Who will say the world is dying? 
   Who will say our prime is past? 
Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
   Flash, and will flash till the last. 
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
   Man a tool to buy and sell;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,
   Anteroom of Hell.

Still the race of Hero-spirits
   Pass the lamp from hand to hand;
Age from age the Words inherits—­
   ‘Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.’ 
Still the youthful hunter gathers
   Fiery joy from wold and wood;
He will dare as dared his fathers
   Give him cause as good.

While a slave bewails his fetters;
   While an orphan pleads in vain;
While an infant lisps his letters,
   Heir of all the age’s gain;
While a lip grows ripe for kissing;
   While a moan from man is wrung;
Know, by every want and blessing,
   That the world is young.