Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BOWER OF PEACE, by DAVID MACBETH MOIR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BOWER OF PEACE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When hope's illusions all have waned
Last Line: His blood can make—has made them white!
Alternate Author Name(s): Delta
Subject(s): Calm; Peace; Silence; Placid; Undisturbed; Tranquility


I.

WHEN Hope's illusions all have waned,
And silence broods above the dead,
When Sorrow's gloomy clouds have rain'd
Full oft on man's devoted head,—
The time-taught spirit loves to wend
Back through the past its mazy way,
And see the early larks ascend
Up to the gates of day:
While earth, outspread to childhood's glance,
Glow'd like a dream of bright romance.

II.

'Twas in the depth of dazzling May,
When bland the air and blue the skies,
When groves in blossom'd pride were gay,
And flow'rets of innumerous dyes
Gemm'd Earth's green carpet, that I stray'd,
On a salubrious morning bright,
Out to the champaign, and survey'd,
With thrillings of delight,
Landscapes around my path unfurl'd,
That made an Eden of this world.

III.

I listen'd to the blackbird's song,
That from the covert of green trees
Came like a hymn of Heaven along,
Borne on the bloom-enamour'd breeze:
I listen'd to the birds that trill'd,
Each in its turn, some witching note;
With insect swarms the air was fill'd,
Their wintry sleep forgot;
Such was the summer feeling there,
God's love seem'd breathing every where.

IV.

The water-lilies in the waves
Rear'd up their crowns all freshly green,
And, bursting forth as from their graves,
King-cups and daffodils were seen;
The lambs were frisking in the mead;
Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut tree
The ox reclin'd his stately head,
And bent his placid knee;
From brakes the linnets carol'd loud,
While larks responded from the cloud.

V.

I stood upon a high green hill,
On an oak stump mine elbow laid,
And, pondering, leant to gaze my fill
Of glade and glen, in pomp array'd.
Beneath me, on a daisied mound,
A peaceful dwelling I espied,
Girt with its orchard branches round,
And bearing on its side
Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white
Half robb'd the windows of their light:—

VI.

There dozed the mastiff on the green—
His night-watch finished; and, elate,
The strutting turkey-cock was seen,
Arching his fan-like tail in state.
There was an air of placid rest
Around the spot so blandly spread,
That sure the inmates must be blest,
Unto my soul I said;
Sin, strife, or sorrow cannot come,
To desolate so sweet a home!

VII.

Far from the hum of crowds remote,
From life's parade and idle show,
'Twould be an enviable lot
Life's silent tenor here to know;
To banish every thought of sin,
To gaze with pure and blameless eyes;
To nurse those holy thoughts within
Which fit us for the skies,
And to regenerate hearts dispense
A bliss akin to innocence.

VIII.

We make our sorrows; Nature knows
Alone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes
And hydra-pangs that never cease:
Is it not so? And yet we blame
Our fate for frailties all our own,
Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name
To what is fault alone:
Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream
To rise unsullied from such stream?

IX.

Vain thought! far better, then, to shun
The turmoils of the rash and vain,
And pray the Everlasting One
To keep the heart from earthly stain;
Within some sylvan home like this,
To hear the world's far billows roll;
And feel, with deep contented bliss,
They cannot shake the soul,
Or dim the impress bright and grand,
Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand.

X.

When round this bustling world we look,
What treasures observation there?
Doth it not seem as man mistook
This passing scene of toil and care
For an eternity? As if
This cloud-land were his final home;
And that he mock'd the great belief
Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith were built in these?

XI.

To Power he says—"I trust in thee!"
As if terrestrial strength could turn
The avenging shafts of Destiny,
And disappoint the funeral urn:
To Pride—"Behold, I must, and can!"
To Fame—"Thou art mine idol-god!"
To Gold—"Thou art my talisman
And necromantic rod!"
Down Time's far stream he darts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.

XII.

Oh, fool, fool, fool!—and is it thus
Thou feed'st of vanity the flame?
The great, the good, are swept from us,
And only live in deed or name.
From out the myriads of the past,
Two only have been spared by Death;
And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast
To deprecate his wrath?
Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride,
By threats to turn his scythe aside?

XIII.

Where are the warrior-chiefs of old?
Where are the realms on which they trod?
While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd,
And man proclaim'd himself a god!
Where are the sages and their saws,
Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams?
The legislators, and their laws,
What are they now but dreams?
The prophets, do they still forebode?
Our fathers, where are they?—with God!

XIV.

Our fathers! We ourselves have seen
The days when vigour arch'd each brow—
Our fathers!!—are they aught, I ween,
But household recollections now?
Our fathers!!!—nay, the very boys,
Who, with ourselves, were such at school,
When, nectar-sweet, life's cup of joys
Felt almost over-full,
Although one parish gave them birth,
Their graves are scatter'd o'er the earth!

XV.

Where are the blazon'd dreams of Youth,
And where the friends on whom we leant,
Whose feelings—ay! whose hearts of truth,
Fraternal, with our own were blent?
Where now Romance's rich attire,
In which the universe was drest,
As Evening, like a city on fire,
Burn'd down along the West,
Leaving the enchanted eastern sky
To the round moon's calm argentry?

XVI.

Alas! with care we sow the wind,
To reap the whirlwind for our pains;
On the dark day of need to find
Each proffer'd ransom Time disdains:
All that was once our idle boast,
Weigh'd in the balance dust shall be;
Death knocks—frail man gives up the ghost—
He dies—and where is he?
Vanish'd for ever and forgot,
The place that knew him knows him not!

XVII.

Ho! wanderer, ho!—eschew the wrong,
To reason turn, from error cease;
And list the words of wisdom's tongue,
The still small tongue that whispers peace:
Withhold the heart from worldly strife—
Do good—love mercy—evil fly;
And know that, from this dream call'd life,
We wake but when we die;—
Unto the eager to be pure
The path is straight—the palm is sure!

XVIII.

For ne'er hath prodigal come round,
Subdued in heart and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found
Forgiveness in the Saviour's face;
At contrite hearts he will not scoff—
Whoever knocks, an entrance wins:
Then let us at the Cross throw off
The burden of our sins;
And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make—has made them white!





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net