Lines
I SOMETIMES think that had I seen Thy face
In those old days when Thou wast with us here,
Clothed with our flesh, a man as we are men,
The very sight had filled my soul with grace;
I should have clung to Thee, and not again
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Moved from Thy side, no lurking doubt or fear
Could drive me from so sweet a hiding-place.
So think I sometimes, and would almost pray
That other age were chosen my faith to prove
More near Thine own (if such a prayer might be),
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Full of Thy memories. But no; each day
Hath its own light, O Christ, and proofs of Thee;
For there was one who saw Thy look of love,
Yet, having wealth, went sorrowful away.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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At Nightfall
O little hands, long vanished in the night--
Sweet fairy hands that were my treasure here--
My heart is full of music from some sphere,
Where ye make melody for God's delight.
Though autumn clouds obscure the starry height,
And winds are noisy and the land is drear,
In this blank room I feel my lost love near,
And hear you playing--hands so small and white.
The shadowy organ sings its songs again,
The dead years turn to music at its voice,
And all the dreams come back my brain did store.
Once more, dear hands, ye soothe me in my pain,
Once more your music makes my heart rejoice--
God speed the day we clasp for evermore!
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Shakespeare
UNSEEN in the great minister dome of time,
Whose shafts are centuries, its spangled roof
The vaulted universe, our master sits,
And organ-voices like a far-off chime
Roll thro' the aisles of thought. The sunlight flits
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From arch to arch, and, as he sits aloof,
Kings, heroes, priests, in concourse vast, sublime,
Glances of love and cries from battle-field,
His wizard power breathes on the living air.
Warm faces gleam and pass, child, woman, man,
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In the long multitude; but he, concealed,
Our bard eludes us, vainly each face we scan,
It is not he; his features are not there;
But, being thus hid, his greatness is revealed.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Rome
IMPERIAL city, slumb'ring on the throne
Of vanished empire, once thy voice and hands
Rocked the wide world; thy finger wove the lands
Into thy girdle; who for crown alone
Didst wear the stars. Yet still in undertone
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Man hears thy deathless utterance, tho' Time's sands
Roll centuries; thou clasp'st the earth with bands
Of speech, art, law, and subtle powers unknown.
Thou wast not meant to die; thy mighty heart
Pulsed with the universe. Thy deeds of old
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Flame like the sunset skies thro' clouds which throng;
They blazon on thy throne a name apart
In red of mighty victories, in gold
Of all things valorous and great and strong.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Sting of Death
`Is Sin, then, fair?'
Nay, love, come now,
Put back the hair
From his sunny brow;
See, here, blood-red
Across his head
A brand is set,
The word -- `Regret.'
`Is Sin so fleet
That while he stays,
Our hands and feet
May go his ways?'
Nay, love, his breath
Clings round like death,
He slakes desire
With liquid fire.
`Is Sin Death's sting?'
Ay, sure he is,
[...] Read more
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Love's Shadows
THERE come dull days in love's clear atmosphere,
When clouds and doubt obscure the wide expanse.
The woods are still; no songs of birds entrance;
No sunlight falls, and desolate and drear,
As if harmonious with the lurking fear
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Which sucks love's peace, the leaden waves that glance
From rock-bound coast the general gloom enhance;
And spectral winds are wailing far and near.
When suddenly, and oft in darkest hour,
I hear some strain of music, or some voice,
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Or some of thy drear writing chance I see,
When, lo! The spell is broken, and the power
Of darkness, earth, and sea, and sky rejoice,
And all my being thrills with songs of thee.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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New Year's Eve
WE stand above the abyss; beneath our feet
Around and onward infinite darkness rolls.
The sky above is black; the watch-bell tolls
The dying year. While slow in silent feet
Pale ghosts come towards us from the ice-locked street
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Of thought's great city; faces young and old,
Eyes sunken, features set and deathly cold
And noiseless bear the dead year's winding-sheet.
But lo! where now we stand is worn with tread
Of millions; in the darkness feel, the ground
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Is dust of powdered bones; sure, on this peak
The years have died, and millions of the dead
Have waited vainly through the gloom profound,
For dawn of day or trumpet-voice to speak.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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At Madame Tussaud's
I STOOD in that strange show, the other day,
On Baker Street, where all the famous men,
Fair dames, and murderers come to life again,
With clockwork breast and face of mimic clay,
To scare the young. Thrice in the long display,
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Blundering, I thought wax flesh, then, with surprise
At being deceived, I turned with cautious eyes
And took for wax all those that thronged my way.
So in this age, methinks, when in the light
Of fuller knowledge, forms that men have reared
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And worshipped turn to dust, too hasty youths,
Shunning the whirlpool jaws of credulous sight,
Rush towards a Scylla far more to be feared,
And take for shadows all too living truths.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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In Memoriam E.S.
HER love was that full love which, like a tide,
Flows in and out life's smallest gulfs and bays,
And fills with music through long summer days
Cold hearts that else would stern and dark abide.
Her smile would cheer, her faintest look could chide;
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No soul too outcast, none too lowly born,
For her kind ear; and none too high for scorn
Of mean pretence, or wrong, or foolish pride.
She loved all Nature; mountain, stream, and tree
To her were thoughts or language for the thought
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She could not utter, signs of truths too high
To set to words. Her love, too, like a tide,
Flowed daily back with cares its surface brought
To the still vast beneath eternal sky.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Truth
I SAW Truth on the mountains, golden-shod
With day-dawn, girt about with skies
Of azure mist, half veiling from man's eyes
Her silent face and gaze upturned to God.
Beneath were clouded steeps of shale and sod,
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Tracked deviously by feet that human-wise
Toiled upward, but toiled vainly towards the prize;
Some following, shunning some where others trod.
Yet in the darkness oft there came, "I see,"
From eager hearts I met. "Behold!" men cried,
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Yet variously; "such are Truth's features high."
Self's shadow, form the soul's intensity
Cast on the mist, not such the face I spied,
Calm, sovereign, silent, upturned 'midst the sky.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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