How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide!
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose walls the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
"Time was, like thee they life possest,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest."
Those graves, with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumpled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose,
Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away,)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapped with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accent cry,
"Think, mortal, what it is to die."
FROM A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT!
The silent heart, which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks, as I have vainly done,
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude 's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.
Lovely, lasting peace appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
'T was thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved:
It seemed, as all the quiet place
Confessed the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke-" Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still,
Know God-and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then every Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy!
Raised as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleased and blessed with God alone:
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colors of delight;
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song;
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great source of nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrowed light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumbered waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The fields whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.
PERCY SOMERS PAYNE, whose 'Rest' was considered by some the best poem contributed to Kottabos, was the son of the Rev. Somers Payne, rector of Upton, County Cork. He was a student at Trinity College, Dublin, but was never graduated. His contributions were marked by intensity and sincerity of feeling and a creative power which gave promise of high distinction. Unfortunately he was untimely cut off by death in 1874.
Silence sleeping on a waste of ocean
Sun-down-westward traileth a red streak-
One white sea-bird, poised with scarce a motion,
Challenges the stillness with a shriek-
Challenges the stillness, upward wheeling
Where some rocky peak containeth her rude nest;
For the shadows o'er the waters they come stealing,
And they whisper to the silence: "There is Rest."
Down where the broad Zambesi River
Glides away into some shadowy lagoon
Lies the antelope, and hears the leaflets quiver,
Shaken by the sultry breath of noon-
Hears the sluggish water ripple in its flowing;
Feels the atmosphere, with fragrance all opprest; Dreams his dreams; and the sweetest is the knowing That above him, and around him, there is Rest.
Centuries have faded into shadow.
Earth is fertile with the dust of man's decay;
Pilgrims all they were to some bright El-dorado,
But they wearied, and they fainted, by the way.
Some were sick with the surfeiture of pleasure,
Some were bowed beneath a care-encumbered breast;
But they all trod in turn Life's stately measure,
And all paused betimes to wonder, "Is there Rest?
Look, O man! to the limitless Hereafter,
When thy Sense shall be lifted from its dust,
When thy Anguish shall be melted into Laughter,
When thy Love shall be severed from its Lust.
Then thy spirit shall be sanctified with seeing
The Ultimate dim Thulé of the Blest,
And the passion-haunted fever of thy being
Shall be drifted in a Universe of Rest.
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