While The Billy BoilsSearchAh, to be by Mooni now,Where the great dark hills of wonder,Scarred with storm and cleft asunderBy the strong sword of the thunder,Make a night on morning's brow!Just to stand where Nature's face isFlushed with power in forest places—Where of God authentic trace is—Ah, to be by Mooni now!
Just to be by Mooni's springs!There to stand, the shining sharerOf that larger life, and rarerBeauty caught from beauty fairerThan the human face of things!Soul of mine from sin abhorrentFain would hide by flashing current,Like a sister of the torrent,Far away by Mooni's springs.
He that is by Mooni nowSees the water-sapphires gleamingWhere the River Spirit, dreaming,Sleeps by fall and fountain streamingUnder lute of leaf and bough—Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is,Psalms from unseen wildernessesDeep amongst far hill-recesses—He that is by Mooni now.
Yea, for him by Mooni's margeSings the yellow-haired September,With the face the gods rememberWhen the ridge is burnt to ember,And the dumb sea chains the barge!Where the mount like molten brass is,Down beneath fern-feathered passes,Noonday dew in cool green grassesGleams on him by Mooni's marge.
Who that dwells by Mooni yet,Feels, in flowerful forest arches,Smiting wings and breath that parchesWhere strong Summer's path of march is,And the suns in thunder set?Housed beneath the gracious kirtleOf the shadowy water myrtle,Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle—He is safe by Mooni yet!
Days there were when he who sings(Dumb so long through passion's losses)Stood where Mooni's water crossesShining tracts of green-haired mosses,Like a soul with radiant wings;Then the psalm the wind rehearses—Then the song the stream dispersesLent a beauty to his verses,Who to-night of Mooni sings.
Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme!Certain days are not above me,Certain hearts have ceased to love me,Certain fancies fail to move meLike the affluent morning dream.Head whereon the white is stealing,Heart whose hurts are past all healing,Where is now the first pure feeling?Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme!
Sin and shame have left their trace!He who mocks the mighty, graciousLove of Christ, with eyes audacious,Hunting after fires fallacious,Wears the issue in his face.Soul that flouted gift and Giver,Like the broken Persian river,Thou hast lost thy strength for ever!Sin and shame have left their trace.
In the years that used to be,When the large, supreme occasionBrought the life of inspiration,Like a god's transfigurationWas the shining change in me.Then, where Mooni's glory glances,Clear, diviner countenancesBeamed on me like blessed chances,In the years that used to be.
Ah, the beauty of old ways!Then the man who so resembledLords of light unstained, unhumbled,Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembledAt the grand benignant gaze!Now he shrinks before the splendidFace of Deity offended,All the loveliness is ended!All the beauty of old ways!
Still to be by Mooni cool—Where the water-blossoms glister,And, by gleaming vale and vista,Sits the English April's sisterSoft and sweet and wonderful.Just to rest beyond the burningOuter world—its sneers and spurning—Ah! my heart—my heart is yearningStill to be by Mooni cool!
Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads,Lo, the gold green lights are glowing,Where, because no wind is blowing,Fancy hears the flowers growingIn the herby watersheds!Faint it is—the sound of thunderFrom the torrents far thereunder,Where the meeting mountains ponder—Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads.
Just to be where Mooni is,Even where the fierce fall racesDown august, unfathomed places,Where of sun or moon no trace is,And the streams of shadows hiss!Have I not an ample reasonSo to long for—sick of treason—Something of the grand old season,Just to be where Mooni is?