The Lilac-Tree
CHANT -R OYAL .
Because the rose and lily have been sung
By every bard that ever tuned a lyre,
And daisies, may, and pansies have been flung
On every altar, touched or not with fire;
Because the jessamine's faint stars of white
Are always making sweet the summer night,
Whenever lovers sing a roundelay;
And the shy violet, this many a day,
Has been despoiled of all her modesty
By being praised in every poet's lay, —
I sing the beauty of the lilac-tree!
The patient ivy-vine has crept and clung
In every poem, till it can but tire;
The woodbine wandered in and out among
The daffodils and myrtle and sweet-brier,
In all the songs since earliest poet's flight,
Whether of laurelled bard, or neophyte;
And we, grown weary of the hackneyed way,
Crave something that has not been twined with bay,
And made a byword in all minstrelsy;
Wherefore, in all sincerity, I say
I sing the glory of the lilac-tree.
Because we loved it so when we were young,
And knew nor worldly dolor nor desire;
Its heart-shaped leaves in wilting wreaths we strung,
Nor wept to see them wither and expire;
Beneath its roof of flickering shade and light
We talked of fairies, beautiful and bright,
And spread our banquet-board as children may,
A Barmecidal feast, which only they
Whose eyes were clear with youth could ever see:
Because of those sweet days of happy play,
I sing thy praises, kindly lilac-tree!
How fair it stood, with purple tassels hung,
Their hue more tender than the tint of Tyre!
How musical amid their fragrance rung
The bee's bassoon, key-note of spring's glad choir!
O languorous lilac! still in time's despite
I see thy plumy branches all alight
With new-born butterflies, which loved to stay
And bask and banquet in the temperate ray
Of spring-time, ere the torrid heats should be:
For these dear memories, though the world grow gray,
I sing thy sweetness, lovely lilac-tree!
Oh for a sweeter voice, a readier tongue,
A lighter touch upon the tuneful wire!
No tree more beautiful has ever sprung
Since first a green leaf grew from earthly mire.
Thou shrinkest from the warm and withering blight
Of human touch; unlike the favorite
Of poets, rose or lily, thou alway
Refusest to be sold for sordid pay;
The street and market-place are death to thee:
Because thou wilt not live the spoiler's prey,
I sing thy praises, sensitive lilac-tree!
Oh, touch my forehead with thy purple spray!
Bid me not worship thee, lest I obey.
The Persian's flower-adoring shocks not me;
So, lovingly, though all the world say nay,
I sing my fealty to the lilac-tree!
Because the rose and lily have been sung
By every bard that ever tuned a lyre,
And daisies, may, and pansies have been flung
On every altar, touched or not with fire;
Because the jessamine's faint stars of white
Are always making sweet the summer night,
Whenever lovers sing a roundelay;
And the shy violet, this many a day,
Has been despoiled of all her modesty
By being praised in every poet's lay, —
I sing the beauty of the lilac-tree!
The patient ivy-vine has crept and clung
In every poem, till it can but tire;
The woodbine wandered in and out among
The daffodils and myrtle and sweet-brier,
In all the songs since earliest poet's flight,
Whether of laurelled bard, or neophyte;
And we, grown weary of the hackneyed way,
Crave something that has not been twined with bay,
And made a byword in all minstrelsy;
Wherefore, in all sincerity, I say
I sing the glory of the lilac-tree.
Because we loved it so when we were young,
And knew nor worldly dolor nor desire;
Its heart-shaped leaves in wilting wreaths we strung,
Nor wept to see them wither and expire;
Beneath its roof of flickering shade and light
We talked of fairies, beautiful and bright,
And spread our banquet-board as children may,
A Barmecidal feast, which only they
Whose eyes were clear with youth could ever see:
Because of those sweet days of happy play,
I sing thy praises, kindly lilac-tree!
How fair it stood, with purple tassels hung,
Their hue more tender than the tint of Tyre!
How musical amid their fragrance rung
The bee's bassoon, key-note of spring's glad choir!
O languorous lilac! still in time's despite
I see thy plumy branches all alight
With new-born butterflies, which loved to stay
And bask and banquet in the temperate ray
Of spring-time, ere the torrid heats should be:
For these dear memories, though the world grow gray,
I sing thy sweetness, lovely lilac-tree!
Oh for a sweeter voice, a readier tongue,
A lighter touch upon the tuneful wire!
No tree more beautiful has ever sprung
Since first a green leaf grew from earthly mire.
Thou shrinkest from the warm and withering blight
Of human touch; unlike the favorite
Of poets, rose or lily, thou alway
Refusest to be sold for sordid pay;
The street and market-place are death to thee:
Because thou wilt not live the spoiler's prey,
I sing thy praises, sensitive lilac-tree!
Oh, touch my forehead with thy purple spray!
Bid me not worship thee, lest I obey.
The Persian's flower-adoring shocks not me;
So, lovingly, though all the world say nay,
I sing my fealty to the lilac-tree!
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