Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/614

 598 ALBERT SUTLIFFE. [1850-60. Striking all the echoes dumb Pipes the quail beyond the corn. Silent doth the river run, Lapsing to the silent sea, Through the shadows, through the sun, Neither sadly nor in glee ; Past the inlets, past the bays, Dreaming in and out at coves ; Silver in the meadow ways ; Golden underneath the groves. Children whom no sorrow grieves, Loiter on the way to school, Watching how the crimson leaves Flutter down into the pool. Every thing the softer seems ; Gentlier doth the worldling speak, Tarrying in the land of dreams With glad eye and flushing cheek. And the matron far in years, Moveth with a graver grace. All her by -gone hopes and fears Grouped and chastened in her face. Oh, ye days, I may not speak All your teachings unto me ; Ye are balm to hearts that break, Oil unto the troubled sea. I am gliding down the stream ; Ye are ranged on either side ; Can I pause awhile to dream? Nay ! I cannot stem the tide ! For I hear a noise of pain. Roar of winds and rush of waves, Dashing o'er a sea of storms. Beating on a shore of graves. THE CHURCH. The antique church, — it shrinketh back Ten paces from the green ; The emerald neat doth clasp its feet. The quiet graves between ; Strong-buttressed like a castle old That hath its fill of wars ; By night and day, gold eve or gray. It points the place of stars. It clasps a holy silence in. Six days of every seven. And then an angel organist Plays interludes of heaven ; And in the hushing of the days. Throughout the after week. Unto the golden-kissing sun It holds its dusky cheek. Within, the moted sunlight falls On carving rich and bi'own, — Without, far off, hums on and on, The knavery of the town ; Within, the light makes pui'ely dim The niches of the saints, — Without, the earth doth flout the heaven. With immemorial plaints. A porphyry angel o'er the font. Its breadth of plume extends ; A purple light, serenely bright. Rests on it as it bends ; It hath no haste to stir its wings. Dun eve or dawning pale, — Its steady shade, like sorrow laid, Doth cross the chancel rail. Old friendships snap ; love's golden bowl Lies shattered in my hold ; Yet still God's granite watchman thrills The chords that thrilled of old. And still may its evangel be. Through endless waning moons. While yet its tell-tale brazen face Clangs out its hourly tunes.