Complete poetical works of John Hay / [by John Hay] ; with an introd. by Clarence L. Hay [electronic text]

"RHYMES"

APPARENTLY COMPOSED DURING THE EARLY MONTHS OF THE CIVIL WAR

SOWN sparsely through earth's lifetime there are hours That teem with giant forms of novel powers; When from an idler century's budding gloom The petals of an epoch burst to bloom, Vaguely revealing to the questioning skies Anthers and spikes of unfamiliar dyes; When through life's growing woof, run suddenly, Threads, dim — presageful of the fate to be, And omens darkly from the distance stray, Like orient splendors out of morn's dull gray, Whispering low, as gather from afar The vague foreshadows of the distant war, The war-cries heavy with the hate of years The murmurous clashing of the myriad spears; Omens that presage not the honest fields Where alien mottoes mark opposing shields,

Where loyal men-at-arms, with martial glee With sword blades carve an emperor's decree, Where trumpets wail and silken banners wave Proudly and mournfully o'er valor's grave; Far darker lowers the promise of the fight Which locks in desperate grapple wrong and right, Where o'er the legions of embattled hosts Float the dim shadows of indignant ghosts Where good and evil armed and regnant stand Shouting the battle cry to either band, And men thus fired with hate and vengeance grim Strive with the sinews of the Anakim And on the trampled turf distills the stain That tinged the sod of Armageddon's plain.

At such a time Art sickens through the world, Song slumbers with lethargic pinions furled, Listless the painter at his easel stands, Drops the dulled chisel from the sculptor's hands, The harp hangs silent with untrembling chords For deeds are now more eloquent than words.

As, when reluctant night is half-withdrawn, Steals on the wold the mystery of dawn, The grove may rustle with unquiet wings But never a bird from out his covert sings. But when the routed shadows break and flee And Light stands victor on the dew-lit lea Glad in the triumph, from the twittering throng How pours the jubilant cataract of song! In this vague twilight poets silent wait While the stern Sisters chant the runes of fate. For fuller than the measure of their rhyme Swells the grand cadence of avenging Time, And deeper than the trembling of their chords The Anvil Chorus of the clashing swords.

Not mine the task to wander far away Into the rose-mists of a happier day, To re-create beneath these leaden skies The hues of a forgotten Paradise, Or soothe the soul with love's voluptuous swells, Soft as a Lydian dancer's ankle-bells:

Not this. For I have neither will nor power To scorn the regal summons of the hour And you'll forgive the unmelodious rhyme That beats the jangled rhythm of the time, For never since the days of that July, Consecrate through all time to Liberty, Since the glad light of that grand summer morn Kissed the bright forehead of an empire born, Has any hour brought in its flight a freight So cumbered with the mysteries of fate.

While all the earth in dread suspense is bowed, We can but watch the piling of the cloud. Out of its depths no blinding flash has come, Still sleep inert the inner thunders dumb. Until this cloud and gloom be overpast And the torn mist goes sailing down the blast And the glad earth, green in the springtime rain, Laughs with the sunshine and the flowers again, Of fairer themes what man shall dare to sing? The lute is silent, while the trumpets ring.

And Pleasure's lilt, and Fancy's airy play Wait for the freedom of a brighter day.

In the proud chronicles of a future age These passing days will fill the proudest page, Topping the landmarks of the coming time, The beacons of to-day will loom sublime. This is our hour supreme: this storm and stress Shall blot or vindicate our worthiness. This is the promise vague of fate's decree And other hours have been that this might be.

Far back through elder years and distant climes Shines the stern presage of the passing times. To keep the truth now periled, bright and pure, The people fought their King on Marston Moor, Where curled court darlings sank to death's eclipse— Sweet names of English ladies on their lips, And still the tyrant-hating lifestream ran Hot from the gashed veins of the Puritan.

Charged with the germ of days to come like these, The Mayflower shivering sailed the wintry seas And her stern crew beneath that iron sky Sang their first hymn to God and Liberty.