Poems (Cary)/Lyra
POEMS.
LYRA: A LAMENT.
Maidens, whose tresses shine,Crownéd with daffodil and eglantine,Or, from their stringéd buds of brier roses,Bright as the vermeil closesOf April twilights after sobbing rains,Fall down in rippled skeinsAnd golden tangles lowAbout your bosoms, dainty as new snow;While the warm shadows blow in softest gales Fair hawthorn flowers and cherry blossoms whiteAgainst your kirtles, like the froth from pails O'er brimmed with milk at night,When lowing heifers bury their sleek flanksIn winrows of sweet hay or clover banks—Come near and hear, I pray,My plainéd roundelay. Where creeping vines o'errun the sunny leas,Sadly, sweet souls, I watch your shining bands,Filling with stainéd hands Your leafy cups with lush red strawberries;Or deep in murmurous glooms,In yellow mosses full of starry blooms,Sunken at ease—each busied as she likes, Or stripping from the grass the beaded dews,Or picking jagged leaves from the slim spikes Of tender pinks—with warbled interfuseOf poesy divine, That haply long ago Some wretched borderer of the realm of woWrought to a dulcet line;—If in your lovely yearsThere be a sorrow that may touch with tearsThe eyelids piteously, they must be shedFor Lyra, dead.
The mantle of the May Was blown almost within the summer's reach,And all the orchard trees, Apple, and pear, and peach,Were full of yellow bees, Flown from their hives away.The callow dove upon the dusty beam Fluttered its little wings in streaks of light, And the gray swallow twittered full in sight;Harmless the unyoked team Browsed from the budding elms, and thrilling lays Made musical prophecies of brighter days; And all went jocundly. I could but say,Ah! well-a-day!—What time spring thaws the wold,And in the dead leaves come up sprouts of gold,And green and ribby blue, that after hoursEncrown with flowers;Heavily lies my heartFrom all delights apart,Even as an echo hungry for the wind,When fail the silver-kissing waves to unbindThe music bedded in the drowsy strings Of the sea's golden shells—That, sometimes, with, their honeyed murmurings Fill all its underswells;—For o'er the sunshine fell a shadow wideWhen Lyra died.
When sober Autumn, with his mist-bound brows,Sits drearily beneath the fading boughs,And the rain, chilly cold,Wrings from his beard of gold,And as some comfort for his lonesome hours,Hides in his bosom stalks of withered flowers,I think about what leaves are drooping roundA smoothly shapen mound,And if the wild wind criesWhere Lyra lies.Sweet shepherds softly blowDitties most sad and low—Piping on hollow reeds to your pent sheep—Calm be my Lyra's sleep, Unvexed with dream of the rough briers that pullFrom his strayed lambs the wool!Oh, star, that tremblest dimUpon the welkin's rim,Send with thy milky shadows from aboveTidings about my love;If that some envious waveMade his untimely grave,Or if, so softening half my wild regrets,Some coverlid of bluest violetsWas softly put aside,What time he died!Nay, come not, piteous maids,Out of the murmurous shades;But keep your tresses crownéd as you mayWith eglantine and daffodillies gay,And with the dews of myrtles wash your cheeks,When flamy streaks,Uprunning the gray orient, tell of morn—While I, forlorn,Pour all my heart in tears and plaints. instead,For Lyra, dead.