Some Poetry by Charles Rann Kennedy, Barrister

The elder Charles Rann Kennedy, of whom you can read here wrote a lot of poetry which is hard to find now,  so here is a selection. It was intended to be read aloud, incidentally.

1. The Poet's Dream

1.
Of Poesy why grudge the praise?
Tis all a dream, the worldling says.
If dream it be, 'tis not of earth,
But in a higher sphere had birth.

It is no spectre of the night,
That fades at blush of morning-light;
No fantasy, that at the breath
Of waking Reason vanisheth.

It is a vision bright and clear,
Seen now and alway, far and near,
And ever to the earnest view
Unfolding revelations new.

Tis Truth array'd in Beauty's form,
And with her richest colours warm,
Imprest with Nature's mystic seal,
And shown to man for human weal.

2.
Alas for them, the would-be wise,
Who all they cannot feel despise,
To whom a universe is nought
Beyond their narrow range of thought.

The mole constructs his earthen cell,
And deems it a vast citadel,
And little thinks the eagle's eye
Is piercing to the mid-day sky.

The silver moon is bright above,
The starlit heaven all beams with love,
And countless worlds are rolling there;
Yet what doth plodding peasant care?

Home wendeth he with blithesome strains,
Nor starlight him nor moon detains;
The moonbeam lights him to his cot,
Yet otherwise he feels it not.

The boatman sees the tide go past,
Each following wave is like the last:
What wonder is there in that sea,
With all its dull monotony?

None he perceived: but I can feel
Its music o'er me gently steal;
And every passing wave to me
Is full of new variety.

3.
The turtle labours for her brood,
She watches long, she gathers food,
She warms them with her downy breast,
She spreads her wing to guard their rest;

And still she hovers round, as fear
None there could be, while she was near:
O love maternal! how I bless
Thy self-devoting tenderness!

Yet are there who unmoved and cold
That busy toil of love behold;
Versed in the schoolman's wordy lore,
They call it instinct, think no more:

As if 'twere not by Nature's plan
A lesson meant for selfish man!
Dearer the Poet's dreamto me
Than all their vain philosophy.

4.
I love the daisy of the green,
I love the snowdrop's pensive mien,
The honeysuckle's graceful twine,
The primrose coy, the eglantine.

Thou woodland sister of the rose!
The vale no sweeter blossom shows:
Thine opening bud is like the smile
Of infant joy, that knows no guile:

Thous lightest all the bramble rude,
Thou bloomest in the solitude,
Teaching that e'en the thorny shade
Was for delight and beauty made.

Yea, I should deem mine own heart dull,
Did I not think thee wonderful:
Yet thousands pass thee by, and see
Nought but a poor wild flower in thee.

5.
The meanest of created things
Kind Nature to perfection brings;
And nothing is so poor or small,
But yet is great, as part of all.

The leafage dropping to the ground
Hath meaning in the faintest sound;
And thoughts with busy purpose rife
Are call'd by shadows into life.

The worlding with incessant gaze
Himself in ample pride surveys:
All else, as thro' a glass obscure,
Before him flits in miniature.

Intent upon his narrow self,
And crawling after earthly pelf,
He grasps the dust, calls that his own,
Life, wealth, enjoyment, that alone.

Cling, reptile, cling to thy vile dust;
Mingle with it full soon thou must.
Dearer the Poet's dream to me
Than thy misnamed reality.

6.
For what is real? Knowest thou,
Vain-glorious mortal? Tell me how.
The laws of Nature he must learn,
Who false and real would discern.

Behold, with generous hand profuse
She scatters plenty for thy use,
She biddeth thee the essence cull
Of all the sweet and beautiful.

The flower, the fruit, are all ready for thee,
If thou wert like the honey-bee,
Tasteful and wise: but oh, beware!
The fruit has gall, the flower a snare.

Is thine a prudence, thine a power
To treasure stores for winter's hour?
Or wastest thou the season's prime,
Borne thoughtless down the stream of time?

Thy joys, thy pleasures, what are they?
With golden promise bright to-day:
But ere the morrow's dawn hath shone,
Like wither'd blossoms, they are gone.

VII.
A carved monumental stone
To passing strangers maketh known,
That in yon grave doth one abide,
Who pious lived, lamented died.

Tis false! his truth, his faith he sold,
His peace, his slumber, all for gold;
He walk'd with purpose dark and blind;
He shut his heart 'gainst all mankind:

He sought to frame 'gainst earthly want
A buckler strong as adamant;
In vain: by avarice enslaved,
For more and more he ever craved:

He would not drink from Nature's well,
Yet burn'd with thirst unquenchable;
His heart was arid as the sand
That gleams on Libya's desert-strand:

He died, and none lamented him,
While many a scowl of pleasure grim
Told that the very slaves he fed
Rejoiced to see their tyrant dead.

Did he then aught of real gain
With all his care, his toil, his pain?
No: in a dream his life he spent,
To gain that worthless monument.

VIII.
Nor wiser, who devote to sense
The life-sustaining elements,
The precious seed of heavenly flame
That animates this mortal frame.

Press from the grape the blushing wine!
Tis full of sunny juice divine!
See, see; those bubbling streams invite
To bathe the soul in soft delight!

Hold! there is poison in the cup!
The madman breathless drinks it up;
With riot laughter swells his eye,
It rolls, it swims in ecstasy:

Aerial shapes before him stand,
And seem to move at his command:
Yes; imps of hell! they dance for glee,
To see that frantic revelry!

Soon prostrate on the ground will lie,
Who now is soaring to the sky:
From earth, not heaven, those raptures come;
The drunkard's wild delirium.

IX.
And thou, who feel'st the subtle charm,
The tender thrill, the soft alarm,
And all that fancy e'er combined
To make the love of womankind:

Oh, whence those trembling fond desires?
It is a Goddess who inspires!
Mark ye the splendour of that face,
Her every motion full of grace!

And in her form such majesty,
And in her look such witchery!
It were a taste for Gods to sip
The bloom from off that rosy lip!

Thou hangest on her siren tongue;
Its note is soft as fairy-song,
More sweet than murmur in the glade
By gently falling waters made.

A few brief years, and thou no more
Shalt find a Goddess to adore;
Parch'd will that lip and pale have grown,
Tuneless and harsh that silver tone:

That winning smile, the snowy brow,
The blushes that enchant thee now,
All with thy love will disappear,
Or linger in remembrance drear.

Yet why the name of Love profane?
Love tempts not mortals to their bane:
Tis not celestial Love supplies
Thy wanton thoughts and burning sighs:

Oh self-deceived! Tis carnal heat
That makes thy pulse so wildly beat:
Base earthly passions in thee stir:
Awake, though idol-worshipper!

X.
And what is fame? A thing of air,
Sought far and wide, and found nowhere:
More flitting than a shade.  Who knows
From whence it came, or whither goes?

The Statesman plans, he giveth laws,
While listening senates peal applause;
The people bless their happy lot,
And hail him for a patriot;

Their gratulations echoing pour,
Like ocean waves from shore to shore;
Then silence; and they die away,
Like tones of some forgotten lay.

Soon other sounds are on the gale;
They tell a new, a different tale;
The people mourn; and he the cause;
They curse the man, revile his laws;

The storm frowns, gathers, bursts at length :
Yet courage! he hath inward strength
To bear him up! Ah no! he shrinks
Before the cruel blow; he sinks,

Hopeless, heartsmitten; as an oak,
When riven by the lightning-stroke,
Sapless and bare and honour-shorn,
Stands on the blasted heath forlorn.

XI.
The victor's praise loud clarions tell,
While nations ring the funeral knell.
O madness! One there lived, whose death:

He seemed on earth a demi-god;
On throne and altar fierce he trod;
He moved and found no resting-place;
Shook the broad hills his thunder-pace:

His war-denouncing trumpet blew,
And thousand thousands round him flew,
For him to fight, for him to bleed,
His name their watchword and their creed:

He march'd to Winter's icy field
And sternly bade the Monarch yield;
But Winter call'd her vassal train,
Famine and frost and hurricane:

She came, and blew so dread a blast,
Shriek'd vale and mountain as she pass'd;
With wrath more deadly than the sword
Upon the foe for her tempests pour'd:

There under waves of sweeping snow
The mighty men of war lay low,
The blood was frozen in their veins,
Their bones were scattered on the plains.

Twas not for this the gallant band
March'd proudly from their fatherland:
Of fields, of glory dreamt the brave,
Of conquest or a soldier's grave.

And dreamt not he, the soul of pride,
Who scorn'd the earth and heaven defied?
I wis not what his visions were ;
But his awaking was despair.

XII.
The poet's aim is pure and high ;
The poet's love can never die:
He pants for gales that ever blow,
He thirsts for streams that ever flow;

His eye is soft as Luna's ray,
Yet dazzling as the orb of day,
Light as the silver-shining rill,
Yet, as the ocean, deep and still.

Now loves he in the shade to lie,
Now sparkles like the butterfly,
Now like a swallow skims the stream,
Now basks him in the sunny beam.

He softly breathes on Nature's lute;
To hear his lay, the winds are mute,
And air and heaven and earth and sea
Swell with deep love and sympathy.

He soars where never bird hath flown,
O'er regions vast, to man unknown;
He comes, and tells where he hath been,
He comes, and tells what he hath seen;

And few believe; yet still he sings
Of his unearthly wanderings,
And whispers into kindred ears
A music tuned for happier spheres.

In great and small his heart hath place,
Of love divine he finds the trace,
In woman more than beauty sees,
In life unnumber'd mysteries:

Dreams, if thou wilt! so let it be:
Fresh glories ever weaveth he;
Truthful and bright and spirit-free
He dreams of immortality.

2. Woman.
-
Lovely Woman, honour to thee!
  All our joys from thee begin :
Tis our sweetest task to woo thee,
  Tis our dearest hope to win.

Man in Eden wander'd lonely;
  All was bright in earth and sky;
All rejoiced; his bosom only
  Heav'd with pain, he knew not why:

Woman came; with new-born feeling
  Thrill'd through all his frame was he,
As when waters uncongealing
  Dance in light and liberty :

Warmer life his soul dilated,
  All he had desired was there,
Gift of Heaven, for him created,
  Love to wake, and bliss to share.

II.
As the zephyr lightly roving
  Sports with every flower that blows,
Tasting sweets, but none approving,
  Till he finds the summer rose;

Then the happy moment seizes,
  And the flower he loves the best
Courts with all his softest breezes,
  Lingers on her balmy breast:

Man a thousand joys are luring,
  But alone with rosy chain
In a bower of bliss enduring
  Woman can his heart detain.

III.
Man is like the owl benighted
  In his dismal dream-like moods;
Thinks himself the clearest-sighted,
  When o'er darkest thought he broods ;

As when clouds and darkness vanish
  At the break of morning-tide,
Melancholy dreams to banish,
  Cometh woman to his side ;

From his eyes the mist is shaken;
  In the light of beauty free
He beholds himself awaken
  To a blest reality.

IV.
Man with stormy passion rages,
  Dark and wild his spirits flow;
With his neighbour war he wages
  Of his brother makes a foe :

As when storms in fierce commotion
  Rouse the billows of the deep,
Mermaids rising o'er the ocean
  Sing the troubled waves to sleep;

Thus let man his heart surrender
  Unto woman's gentle sway,
She shall breathe a charm so tender,
  All his rage shall melt away.

V.
Oft when man forlorn and dreary
  On the bed of sickness pines,
When the wretch with anguish weary
  To despair his heart reigns,

Angel-bright approaching near him,
  Woman sheds her rainbow smile,
Speaks the word of hope to cheer him
  And the painful hour beguile.

When the hand of death is o'er us,
  Such the voice we hope to hear,
Such the light to shine before us
  Streaming from a happier sphere.

Lovely Woman, honour to thee!
  All our joys from thee begin :
Tis our sweetest task to woo thee,
  Tis our dearest hope to win.

3. MORNING.

-

Whom do I in the East descry,

  Nearer now and nearer;

Silver-bright in a robe of light,

  Clearer now and cleaner?

All in space she floats with grace,

  Radiant are her glances:

Twilight fades, and distant shades

  Melt as she advances.

Flaxen-fair the stream of hair

  Waving doen her shoulder:

Clouds with fringe of saffron tinge

  Like a scarf enfold her:

Deeper hues her cheek suffuse,

  Like the bloom of roses;

Like the flush of a maiden's blush,

  That her love discloses.

Who are they that throng in play?

  Spirits young and airy,

From their sleep in the misty deep

  Rise to greet the fairy.

All the band, as she waves her hand,

  Gaily flock around her,

Fluttering and frolicking,

  Happy to have found her.

And the glee of their harmony

  In mine ear is ringing:

Oh that I had wings to fly!

  There would I be singing!

She the while her beamy smile

  Sheds benignly o'er them;

Yet she will be mounting still

  In the clouds before them.

Lo, her brow is kindling now

  Into sunny splendours:

Who can tell to what holy spell

  She her soul surrrenders?

Trustfully she looks on high,

  As when one believing

Mysteries unearthly sees

  Past the mind's conceiving:

And the stream of her golden beam

  Faster falls and stronger;

And those eyn so dazzling shine,

  I can gaze no longer:

I would fain (but all in vain

  Is my mortal yearning)

Drink the rays, till in their blaze

  Were my bosom burning.

Is she gone? There is not one

  Of those forms remaining,

In the clear blue atmosphere

  Silent beauty reigning:

All above is joy and love,

  Mountains fall asunder,

Hills arise and kiss the skies;

  Lost am I in wonder!

4. THE STREAM OF LIFE
-
Ever onward rushing
  Waters pour along;
Rill from mountain gushing
  Cheers the earth with song;
Rivers full of gladness
  Kiss the meadows fair;
Cataracts in madness
  Plunge they reck not where.

River, rills, and fountains,
  Wherefore do ye flow?
O'er the meads and mountains
  Whither do ye go?
Gliding, leaping, springing,
  Endless waterfall,
Murmuring, roaring, singing,
  Sea receives you all.

Life is moving ever
  In a varied stream;
Manhood's brisk endeavour
  Follows youthful dream;
Infants with their prattle
  Make the moments fly;
Soldiers in the battle
  Strive they know not why.

Wherefore without leisure
  Do we toil and play?
Busy hours and pleasure
  Whither lead us they?
All in restless motion
  Ever hurrying fast,
In a boundless ocean
  Death receives at last.

5. HUMANITY
-
Oh, why is Nature soft and mild?
  Why do the moonbeams play
O'er rippling waters, like a child
  Upon a holiday?

The zephyr woos the aspen-tree,
  And bids it gently move;
Birds wake their tuneful melody,
  And fill the air with love.

Charm is there in the modest flower
  That from the greenwood peeps,
In verdure glistening after shower
  Like beauty when it weeps.

The very storms are merciful,
  Their anger passes by;
And lovely is the tempest's lull,
  And sweet is the rainbow sky.

Therefore is Nature soft and mild,
  That human hearts may learn
To tame the savage and the wild,
  To soothe the proud and stern.

Relax thy frown, thou lord of earth,
  Unbend thy haughty brow:
Twas gentle woman gave thee birth,
  And once a child was thou;

And thou wert made for happiness,
  And thou wert born for woe:
Then welcome joy, that comes to bless,
  And check not the pity's flow.

The fairest path is wearisome
  Without a smile to cheer,
And heavier would affliction come
  Unsoften'd by a tear.

6. THE PARTING LOOK

-

No braided hair, no chain of gold,

   No sparkling gem for me:

I need not, Love, such tokens hold,

  To make me think of thee.

I do not ask for magic spells

  To bring thee back to view;

Within my breast thine image dwells,

  My heart reflects it true.

For others let the canvas warm

  With mimic colours glow;

For others let the stately form

  From sculptur'd marble grow.

Oh, what are these?  Tho' Art can trace

  Each feature bright and rare,

Each line of loveliness and grace;

  The soul is wanting there.

Could I forget thy last fond look

  Upon the parting day?

The last and sad farewell we took

  When I was torn away?

The tear along thy cheek that stole

  Said more than tongue could tell:

I read the anguish of thy soul

  That choked the word Farewell.

Alas! twere past the artist's skill

  That moment to restore:

But love, fond love recalls it still

  To live for evermore.