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david moore - the path of roses كلمات أغنية

in the dark silence of an ancient room
whose one tall window fronted to the west
where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine
the sunset_glow was fading into night
sat a pale lady, resting weary hands
upon a great clasped volume, and her face
within her hands. not as in rest she bowed
but large hot tears were coursing down her cheek
and her low_panted sobs broke awefully
upon the sleeping echoes of the night
soon she unclasp’d the volume once again
and read the words in tone of agony
as in self_torture, weeping as she read:—

“he crowns the glory of his race:
he prayeth but in some fit place
to meet his foeman face to face:

“and, battling for the true, the right
from ruddy dawn to purple night
to perish in the midmost fight:

“where hearts are fierce and hands are strong
where peals the bugle loud and long
where blood is dropping in the throng:
“still, with a dim and glazing eye
to watch the tide of victory
to hear in death the battle_cry:

“then, gathered grandly to his grave
to rest among the true and brave
in holy ground, where yew_trees wave:

“where, from church_windows sculptured fair
float out upon the evening air
the note of praise, the voice of prayer:

“where no vain marble mockery
insults with loud and boastful lie
the simple soldier’s memory:

“where sometimes little children go
and read, in whisper’d accent slow
the name of him who sleeps below.”

her voice died out: like one in dreams she sat
“alas!” she sighed. “for what can woman do?
her life is aimless, and her death unknown:
hemmed in by social forms she pines in vain
man has his work, but what can woman do?”
and answer came there from the creeping gloom
the creeping gloom that settled into night:
“peace! for thy lot is other than a man’s:
his is a path of th_rns: he beats them down:
he faces death: he wrestles with despair
thine is of roses, to adorn and cheer
his lonely life, and hide the th_rns in flowers.”
she spake again: in bitter tone she spake:
“aye, as a toy, the puppet of an hour
or a fair posy, newly plucked at morn
but flung aside and withered ere the night.”
and answer came there from the creeping gloom
the creeping gloom that blackened into night:
“so shalt thou be the lamp to light his path
what time the shades of sorrow close around.”
and, so it seemed to her, an awful light
pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew
until all passed away—the ancient room—
the sunlight dying through the trellised vine—
the one tall window—all had passed away
and she was standing on the mighty hills
beneath, around, and far as eye could see
squadron on squadron, stretched opposing hosts
ranked as for battle, mute and motionless
anon a distant thunder shook the ground
the tramp of horses, and a troop shot by—
plunged headlong in that living sea of men—
plunged to their death: back from that fatal field
a scattered handful, fighting hard for life
broke through the serried lines; but, as she gazed
they shrank and melted, and their forms grew thin—

grew pale as ghosts when the first morning ray
dawns from the east—the trumpet’s brazen blare
died into silence—and the vision passed—
passed to a room where sick and dying lay
in long, sad line—there brooded fear and pain—
darkness was there, the shade of azrael’s wing
but there was one that ever, to and fro
moved with light footfall: purely calm her face
and those deep steadfast eyes that starred the gloom:
still, as she went, she ministered to each
comfort and counsel; cooled the fevered brow
with softest touch, and in the listening ear
of the pale sufferer whispered words of peace
the dying warrior, gazing as she passed
clasped his thin hands and blessed her. bless her too
thou, who didst bless the merciful of old!
so prayed the lady, watching tearfully
her gentle moving onward, till the night
had veiled her wholly, and the vision passed
then once again the solemn whisper came:
“so in the darkest path of man’s despair
where war and terror shake the troubled earth
lies woman’s mission; with unblenching brow
to pass through scenes of horror and affright
where men grow sick and tremble: unto her
all things are sanctified, for all are good
nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care:
nothing so great, but she may bear her part
no life is vain: each hath his place assigned:
do thou thy task, and leave the rest to god.”
and there was silence, but the lady made
no answer, save one deeply_breathed “amen.”
and she arose, and in that darkening room
stood lonely as a spirit of the night—
stood calm and fearless in the gathered night—
and raised her eyes to heaven. there were tears
upon her face, but in her heart was peace
peace that the world nor gives nor takes away!

- david moore

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