English

Once more, my friend, I touch the trembling lyre,
And in my bosom feel poetic fire,
For thee I quit the Laws more rugged ways,
To pay my humble tribute to thy lays.
What, though I daily turn each learned sage,
And labour through the unenlighten'd page:
Wak'd by thy lines, the borrow'd flames I feel,
As flints give fire when aided by the steel.
Though in sulphureous clouds of smoke confin'd,
Thy rural scenes spring fresh into my mind:
Thy genius in such colours paints the chase,
The real to fictitious joys give place.

Boot , boot into the stirrup, lads,
And hand once more on rein;
Up, up into the saddle, lads,
A-field we ride again:
One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear,
No leisure now to sigh,
God bless them all—we have their prayers,
And they our hearts—“Good-bye!”
Off, off we ride, in reckless pride,
As gallant troopers may,
Who have old scores to settle, and
Long slashing swords to pay.

The trumpet calls—“trot out, trot out,”—
We cheer the stirring sound;
Swords forth, my lads—through smoke and dust

Still creeping, still degenerous soul,
On earth so wallowing still in mire?
Still to the centre dost thou roll,
When up to heaven thou should'st aspire?
Did not thy jailer flesh deny
The freedom for to feed thine own insatiate eye:
How might thou let it surfeit here
On choicest glories! How it might
Thick flowing globes of splendour bear,
And triumph in its native light!
How't would hereafter sleep disdain!
The glorious sun of righteousness uprise again;
O, who so stupid that would not

Here I wander about, and here I mournfully ponder:
Weary to me is the sun, weary the coming of night:
Here is captivity still, there would be captivity yonder:
Like to myself are the rest, smitten is all with a blight.

Much I complain of my state to my own heart heavily beating:
Much to the stars I complain: much to the universe cold;
The stars that of old were fixed, in spheres their courses repeating;
Solidly once were they fixed, and with them their spheres were rolled.

Then through the space of the spheres to the steadfast empyrean

Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth,
—Her gentle voice like a soft water's song;—
None from my loins have ever birth,
—But what to joy and love belong;
I faithful am, and give to thee
Blessings great, and give them free.
—I have woven shrouds of air
In a loom of hurrying light,
—For the trees which blossoms bear,
And gilded them with sheets of bright;
—I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss,
—I make the golden flies and their fine bliss.
I paint the hedge-rows in the lane,
—And clover white and red the pathways bear,

The Sat Guru's faith says, O Dulam, without endurance is no knowledge.
Fruitless is Joga without contentment, I with authority declare it.

On the pillar of endurance set meditation's beam, Dulam.
Bind it firm with cords of memory, set the five, the twenty-five aswing.

If this now silent harp could wake,
How pure, how strong, how true
The tender strain its chords would make
Of love and grief for you!
But, like my heart, though faithful long,
By you cast forth to pain,
This hushed and humbled voice of song
Must never stir again.

Yet, haply, when your fancy strays
O'er unregarded things,
And half in dream your gentle gaze
Falls on its shattered strings,
Some loving impulse may endear
Your memories of the past,
And if for me you shed one tear

And is this day, or is it night,
That is neither dark nor light?

Day is dead and laid in fog—
Nothing but the fog we see—
The fog and our own breath;
Nothing hear but the night watch-dog,
That howls in time of death;
A raven croaking in a tree,
And a robin in the loaning
Weeping out a mournful ditty.—
All the earth is full of pity:
Surely it has ceased to work,
It is so deeply hush'd. Yet, hark!
No, no—it is the deep sea moaning—
Nothing from the city!
City, village, upland steading—

Nobler than solemn organ tone
Or earth's sublimest art,
Deeper than ocean's mystic moan,
Love sings his ancient song alone,
The music of the heart.

All down the immemorial sweep
Of life's immortal way,
O'er sunny height or deathly deep,
Where Love and Light their strong course keep,
'Tis everlasting day.

Oh, Love is strong to breast the wave
On seas of circumstance,
And Love is bold and Love is brave,
Though weeping by a lonely grave
Upon the shores of Chance!

O vision of the cloudless eye,

What we to-day prize and most fondly cherish,
To-morrow scarce may claim a moment's reck'ning.
Yet why adjust the cause? Let doubt all perish.
Can argument withstand the spirit's beck'ning?