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Sunday, July 3, 1881. A BALLAD, HISTORICAL AND PROPHETIC. (“In maiden meditation, fancy free.”
My thoughts go back to last July, Sweet happy thoughts and tender;– “The bridal of the earth and sky,” A day of noble splendour; A day to make the saddest heart In joy a true believer; When two good friends we roamed apart The shady walks of Belvoir.
A maiden like a budding rose, Unconscious of the golden And fragrant bliss of love that glows Deep in her heart infolden; A Poet old in years and thought, Yet not too old for pleasance, Made young again and fancy-fraught By such a sweet friend's presence.
The other two beyond our ken Most shamefully deserted, And far from all the ways of men Their stealthy steps averted: Of course our Jack would go astray, Erotic and erratic; But Mary!—well, I own the day Was really too ecstatic.
We roamed with many a merry jest And many a ringing laughter; The slow calm hours too rich in zest To heed before and after: Yet lingering down the lovely walks Soft strains anon came stealing, A finer music through our talks Of sweeter, deeper feeling:
Yes, now and then a quiet word Of seriousness dissembling In smiles would touch some hidden chord And set it all a-trembling: I trembled too, and felt it strange;– Could I be in possession Of music richer in its range Than yet had found expression?
The cattle standing in the mere, The swans upon it gliding, The sunlight on the waters clear, The radiant clouds dividing; The solemn sapphire sky above, The foliage lightly waving, The soft air's Sabbath peace and love To satisfy all craving.
We mapped the whole fair region out As Country of the Tender, From first pursuit in fear and doubt To final glad surrender: Each knoll and arbour got its name, Each vista, covert, dingle;– No young pair now may track the same And long continue single!
And in the spot most thrilling-sweet Of all this Love-Realm rosy Our truant pair had found retreat, Unblushing, calm and cosy: Where seats too wide for one are placed, And yet for two but narrow, It's “Let my arm steal round your waist, And be my winsome marrow!”
Reclining on a pleasant lea Such tender scenes rehearsing, A freakish fit seized him and me For wildly foolish versing: We versed of this, we versed of that, A pair of mocking sinners, While our lost couple strayed or sat Oblivious of their dinners.
But what was strange, our maddest rhymes In all their divagations Were charged and over-charged at times With deep vaticinations: I yearn with wonder at the power Of Poetry prophetic Which in my soul made that blithe hour With this hour sympathetic.
For though we are in winter now, My heart is full of summer: Old Year, old Wish, have made their bow; I welcome each new-comer. “The King is dead, long live the King! The throne is vacant never!” Is true, I read, of everything, So of my heart forever!
My thoughts go on to next July, More happy thoughts, more tender; “The bridal of the earth and sky,” A day of perfect splendour; A day to make the saddest heart In bliss a firm believer; When two True Loves may roam apart The shadiest walks of Belvoir.
There may be less of merry jest And less of ringing laughter, Yet life be much more rich in zest And richer still thereafter; The love-scenes of that region fair Have very real rehearsing, And tremulous kisses thrill the air Far sweetlier than sweet versing;
The bud full blown at length reveal Its deepest golden burning; The heart inspired with love unseal Its inmost passionate yearning: The music of the hidden chord At length find full expression; The Seraph of the Flaming Sword Assume divine possession.