Collected Works (Vol. I)

ELEGY 127 Then on these heights of Caucasus A fire shall dwell, Pure as the dawn, and odorous Of bud and bell ; A flower of fire, a flame from Heaven to us All triumph to foretell, A glory of unspeakable delight, A flower like lightning, adamant and white. There needs no more or sun or sea Or any light ; On golden wheels Eternity Revolves in Night. The island peoples are too proud and free And full of might To care for time or space, but glorious wend A royal path of flowers to the end. I pray thee, God, to weapon me With this keen fire, That I may set this people free As my desire ; That the white lilies of our liberty Grow on Life’s crags still higher, Till on the loftiest peaks their blossom flower, The rampart of a people and their power. ELEGY, August 27/h, 18983 So have the days departed, as the leaves Smitten by wrath of Autumn blast ; So the year, fallen from delight, still grieves Over the happy past. The year of barren summer, when the wind Blew from the south unlooked-for snow, The year when Collon,? desolate and blind, Gloomed on the vale below, When logs of pinewood lit the little room, And friendship ventured in to sit Beside their blaze, to listen in the gloom To wisdom and to wit; ! When Dr. John Hopkinson and three of his children perished on the Petite Dent de Veisivi. 2 A mountain at d’Hérens. the head of the Val When we discussed our hopes, and told the stories Of happy climbing days gone by ; The stubborn battle with the cliffs, the glories Of the blue Alpine sky. The keen delight of paths untrodden yet, And new steep ice and rocky ways Too dangerous and splendid to forget. Those dear strong happy days! And now what happier fate to your brave souls Than so to strive and fighting fall? Think you that He who sees you, and controls, Did not devise it all? The mountains that you loved have taken you, And we who love you will not weep. Shall we begrudge? Your last look saw sky blue; You will be glad to sleep. Your pure names (thine renowned, yours fresh with youth And full of promise) shall be kept Sul in our hearts for monuments of truth, As if you had not slept. EPILOGUE. HORACE, in the fruitful Sabine country, Where the wheat and vine are most abun- dant, Where the olive ripens in the sunshine, Where the streams are voiced with Dian’s whispers, Lived in quiet, with a woman’s passion To inspire his lute and bring contentment In the gray still days of early winter. I, remote from cities, like the poet,