The Poetry Corner

Statio Sexta

By Thomas Edward Brown

Ha! snow Upon the crags! How slow The winter lags Ha, little lamb upon the crags, How fearlessly you go! Take care Up there, You little woolly atom! On and on He goes . . . tis steep . . . Hillo! My friend is gone, Friend orthodoxo-logical, He could not argue with a waterfall! And here it is, my Aber . . . Stay! Ill cross This way: The moss Upon these stones is dripping with the spray, And now one turn, left hand, And I shall stand Before the very rock: not yet . . . not yet! O let me think ! No, no ! I dont forget (Forget!) but this is sacred . . . peace, then, peace! Release From all dead things, that serve not to present At my souls grate the lovely innocent. He had heard some idle talk Of how his father had great strength to walk And climb; And so he thought that he must lose no time, But instantly addressed His little breast To that tall cliff Smooth, perpendicular, too stiff For cragsman from the wildest Hebrides, But he did bend his knees, And spread his little arms, and laid His body to the work, and made Such genuine effort of ascent As though he meant To reach the top, of course, and had no doubt Of what he was about, So serious, no passing whim, O, no! Twas thus his father clomb And he had come To climb like him. And is he here? O Braddan, are you here? O darling, have no fear! Speak to me! breathe some fond thing in my ear But what should Braddan know Of me, and what I am, And what I want, the little lamb! What should he know, Who four brief years ago Knew only what a little child should Should some kind angel, who doth teach my child, Some angel with the love-deep eyes, Some angel charged to keep him undefiled, Hear my sad cries, And bring him unto me, Is my whole heart a thing for him to see? Am I prepared that his sweet honesty Should search it through and through? O, eyes of honest blue! O, fearless eyes! O, mild surprise! O, is there one, one chamber of my heart Thats fit For him to sit Therein, till it is time to part? Or could I come to him? No matter where, Swim, Swim the dark river, and be there? Could a deep acquiescence Convey me to his presence? And if it could, What were it after all But as a young prince stood Upon the city wall, And saw his foster-father at the gate, And wondered at his mean estate, And made no sign Unto the warders? But my Braddans mine! Mine! mine! and nones beside! O helpless men, has everything been tried? Where does the secret bide? Is it a simple thing perhaps? Yea, after all, a very simple thing, That through the lapse Of all the ages any tide Might bring, Nay, every tide has brought Up to the level of our thought? Is the blest converse that I crave The function of a faculty we have, But know not how to use, being, by some dark mischance Time-prisoned in a rooted ignorance? A faculty which, if no God forbad it, An accident might bring to light, And some one, somewhere, waking in the night, Would know he had it. But we are cumbered with our egotisms; A thousand prisms, Hung round our souls, refract the single ray, That else would show us instantly the way. So even now, when my sad heart aspires To height of paramount desires, These verses mock it With their rhyme-jangles, frustrate as a rocket, That mounts, and breaks, and falls in coloured fading fire A curse Upon the impotent verse! Yet, no! Not so, It may be that in these The soul shall yet win something more than ease For song is of the essence, and who sings Touches the central springs, Ah, vain imaginings! Let be! let be! O Braddan, pity me! Yes, yes! I know there is another way, press, press, And I will press, sweet Braddan. Sink thought sink, sink To think Is but to madden Stop, heart! You have no part In this, die, soul: Die, die! it must be soon, The barriers but a film; one gasp, and I shall swoon Into his arms, Braddan! why, Braddan! see, I keep my tryst, O God! O Christ! That snow Is very slow To disappear: how winter lags! I see the darn Upon the crags But nowhere can I see the little lamb