Delilah

The spring-wind pass’d through the forest, and whispered low in the leaves,
And the cedar toss’d her head, and the oak stood firm in his pride;
The spring-wind pass’d through the town, through the housetops, casements, and eaves,
And whisper’d low in the hearts of the men, and the men replied,
Singing—“Let us rejoice in the light
Of our glory, and beauty, and might;
Let us follow our own devices, and foster our own desires.
As firm as our oaks in our pride, as our cedars fair in our sight,
We stand like the trees of the forest that brave the frosts and the fires.”

The storm went forth to the forest, the plague went forth to the town,
And the men fell down to the plague, as the trees fell down to the gale;
And their bloom was a ghastly pallor, and their smile was a ghastly frown,
And the song of their hearts was changed to a wild, disconsolate wail,
Crying—“God! we have sinn’d, we have sinn’d,
We are bruised, we are shorn, we are thinn’d,
Our strength is turned to derision, our pride laid low in the dust,
Our cedars are cleft by Thy lightnings, our oaks are strew’d by Thy wind,
And we fall on our faces seeking Thine aid, though Thy wrath is just.”

The troubles of life are many,
The pleasures of life are few;
When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,
I dreamt that the skies were blue—
When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,
I dreamt that the earth was green;
There is little colour, if any,
’Neath the sunlight now to be seen.

Then the rays of the sunset glinted
Through the blackwoods’ emerald bough
On an emerald sward, rose-tinted,
And spangled, and gemm’d;—and now
The rays of the sunset redden
With a sullen and lurid frown,
From the skies that are dark and leaden,
To earth that is dusk and brown.

To right and to left extended
The uplands are blank and drear,
And their neutral tints are blended
With the dead leaves sombre and sere;
The cold grey mist from the still side
Of the lake creeps sluggish and sure,
Bare and bleak is the hill-side,
Barren and bleak the moor.

Bright hues and shapes intertwisted,
Fair forms and rich colours;—now
They have flown—if e’er they existed—
It matters not why or how.
It matters not where or when, dear,
They have flown, the blue and the green,
I thought on what might be then, dear,
Now I think on what might have been.

What might have been!—words of folly;
What might be!—speech for a fool;
With mistletoe round me, and holly,
Scarlet and green, at Yule.
With the elm in the place of the wattle,
And in lieu of the gum, the oak,
Years back I believed a little,
And as I believed I spoke.

Have I done with those childish fancies?
They suited the days gone by,
When I pulled the poppies and pansies,
When I hunted the butterfly,
With one who has long been sleeping,
A stranger to doubts and cares,
And to sowing that ends in reaping
Thistles, and thorns, and tares.

What might be!—the dreams were scatter’d,
As chaff is toss’d by the wind,
The faith has been rudely shattered
That listen’d with credence blind;
Things were to have been, and therefore
They were, and they are to be,
And will be;—we must prepare for
The doom we are bound to dree.

Ah, me! we believe in evil,
Where once we believed in good,
The world, the flesh, and the devil
Are easily understood;
The world, the flesh, and the devil
Their traces on earth are plain;
Must they always riot and revel
While footprints of man remain?

Talk about better and wiser,
Wiser and worse are one,
The sophist is the despiser
Of all things under the sun;
Is nothing real but confusion?
Is nothing certain but death?
Is nothing fair save illusion?
Is nothing good that has breath?

Some sprite, malignant and elfish,
Seems present whispering close,
“All motives of life are selfish,
All instincts of life are gross;
And the song that the poet fashions,
And the love-bird’s musical strain,
Are jumbles of animal passions,
Refined by animal pain.”

The restless throbbings and burnings
That hope unsatisfied brings,
The weary longings and yearnings
For the mystical better things,
Are the sands on which is reflected
The pitiless moving lake,
Where the wanderer falls dejected,
By a thirst he never can slake.

A child blows bubbles that glitter,
He snatches them, they disperse;
Yet childhood’s folly is better,
And manhood’s folly is worse;
Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly
Would turn in our hands to dross;
’Tis a fate less cruel than kindly
Denies the gain and the loss.

And as one who pursues a shadow,
As one who hunts in a dream,
As the child who crosses the meadow,
Enticed by the rainbow’s gleam,
I—knowing the course was foolish,
And guessing the goal was pain,
Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish—
Followed and follow again.

The sun over Gideon halted,
Holding aloof the night,
When Joshua’s arm was exalted,
Yet never retraced his flight;
Nor will he turn back, nor can he,
He chases the future fast;
The future is blank—oh, Annie!
I fain would recall the past.

There are others toiling and straining
’Neath burdens graver than mine—
They are weary, yet uncomplaining—
I know it, yet I repine;
I know it, how time will ravage,
How time will level, and yet
I long with a longing savage,
I regret with a fierce regret.

You are no false ideal,
Something is left of you,
Present, perceptible, real,
Palpable, tangible, true;
One shred of your broken necklace,
One tress of your pale, gold hair,
And a heart so utterly reckless,
That the worst it would gladly dare.

There is little pleasure, if any,
In waking the past anew;
My days and nights have been many;
Lost chances many I rue—
My days and nights have been many;
Now I pray that they be few,
When I think on the hill-side, Annie,
Where I dreamt that the skies were blue.

Our hopes are wild imaginings,
Our schemes are airy castles,
Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings,
And we their slaves and vassals;
Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth,
Most ready to deceive is;
But age will own the bitter truth,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

The hill of life with eager feet
We climbed in merry morning,
But on the downward track we meet
The shades of twilight warning;
The shadows gaunt they fall aslant;
And those who scaled Ben Nevis,
Against the mole-hills toil and pant,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

The obstacles that barr’d our path
We seldom quail’d to dash on
In youth, for youth one motto hath,
“The will, the way must fashion.”
Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot,
Too ready to believe is,
But thin and cold our blood hath got,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

And “art is long”, and “life is short”,
And man is slow at learning;
And yet by divers dealings taught,
For divers follies yearning,
He owns at last, with grief downcast
(For man disposed to grieve is)—
One adage old stands true and fast,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

We journey, manhood, youth, and age,
The matron, and the maiden,
Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage,
Loins girded, heavy laden:—
Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng,
Most eager to achieve is,
Foredoom’d ere long to swell the song,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon,
We travel brisk and cheery,
But some have laid them down ere noon,
And all at eve are weary;
The noontide glows with no repose,
And bitter chill the eve is,
The grasshopper a burden grows,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

The staff is snapp’d, the sandal fray’d,
The flint-stone galls and blisters,
Our brother’s steps we cannot aid,
Ah me! nor aid our sister’s;
The pit prepares its hidden snares,
The rock prepared to cleave is,
We cry, in falling unawares,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win!
Oh! Strength, in which we trusted!
Oh! Glory, which we gloried in!
Oh! puppets we adjusted!
On barren land our seed is sand,
And torn the web we weave is,
The bruised reed hath pierced the hand,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”

We, too, “Job’s comforters” have met,
With steps, like ours, unsteady,
They could not help themselves, and yet
To judge us they were ready;
Life’s path is trod at last, and God
More ready to reprieve is,
They know who rest beneath the sod,
“Mors gratum, vita brevis.”