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diff --git a/1057-h/1057-h.htm b/1057-h/1057-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d3d296 --- /dev/null +++ b/1057-h/1057-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7953 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Poems, by Oscar Wilde</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Oscar Wilde, Edited by Robert Ross + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems + with the Ballad of Reading Gaol + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Editor: Robert Ross + +Release Date: March 31, 2013 [eBook #1057] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997] +[Last updated: July 2, 2014] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>POEMS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br /> +OSCAR WILDE</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">WITH THE BALLAD OF<br /> +READING GAOL</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">METHUEN & CO. LTD.<br /> +36 ESSEX STREET W.C.<br /> +LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Twelfth Edition</i></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span><i>First Published</i>—</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>Ravenna</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1878</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>Poems</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1881</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> ,, <i>Fifth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1882</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>The Sphinx</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1894</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>The Ballad of Reading Gaol</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1898</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Issued by Methuen and Co.</i> (<i>Limited +Editions on Handmade Paper and Japanese Vellum</i>)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>March 1908</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Seventh Edition</i> (<i>F’cap. 8vo</i>).</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>September 1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Eighth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Ninth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>December 1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Tenth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1910</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Eleventh Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>December 1911</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Twelfth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>April 1913</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2>NOTE</h2> +<p><i>This collection of Wilde’s Poems contains the volume +of</i> 1881 <i>in its entirety</i>, ‘<i>The +Sphinx</i>’, ‘<i>The Ballad of Reading +Gaol</i>,’ <i>and</i> ‘<i>Ravenna</i>.’ +<i>Of the Uncollected Poems published in the Uniform Edition +of</i> 1908, <i>a few</i>, <i>including the Translations from the +Greek and the Polish</i>, <i>are omitted</i>. <i>Two new +poems</i>, ‘<i>Désespoir</i>’ <i>and</i> +‘<i>Pan</i>,’<i> which I have recently discovered in +manuscript</i>, <i>are now printed for the first time</i>. +<i>Particulars as to the original publication of each poem will +be found in</i> ‘<i>A Bibliography of the Poems of Oscar +Wilde</i>,’ <i>by Stuart Mason</i>, <i>London</i> 1907.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap"><i>Robert +Ross</i></span>.</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>POEMS (1881):</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Hélas!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Eleutheria</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet To Liberty</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ave Imperatrix</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page8">8</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>To Milton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Louis Napoleon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Quantum Mutata</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Libertatis Sacra Fames</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Theoretikos</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Garden of +Eros</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Rosa Mystica</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Requiescat</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet on approaching Italy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>San Miniato</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ave Maria Gratia Plena</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Italia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Rome Unvisited</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>Urbs Sacra Æterna</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet on hearing the Dies Iræ sung in the Sistine +Chapel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Easter Day</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>E Tenebris</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Vita Nuova</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Madonna Mia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page54">54</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The New Helen</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Burden Of +Itys</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Wind Flowers</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impression du Matin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Magdalen Walks</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Athanasia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Serenade</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Endymion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>La Bella Donna della mia Mente</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Chanson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Charmides</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Flowers of +Gold</span>:</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impressions: <span class="GutSmall">I.</span> Les +Silhouettes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> La Fuite de la +Lune</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Grave of Keats</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Theocritus: A Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>In the Gold Room: A Harmony</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade de Marguerite</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Dole of the King’s Daughter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Amor Intellectualis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Santa Decca</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>A Vision</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impression de Voyage</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>The Grave of Shelley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>By the Arno</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Impressions de +Théàtre</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Fabien dei Franchi</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Phèdre</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Sonnets written at the Lyceum Theatre</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">I.</span> Portia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> Queen Henrietta +Maria</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">III.</span> Camma</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Panthea</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">The Fourth +Movement</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impression: Le Réveillon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>At Verona</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page176">176</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Apologia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Quia Multum Amavi</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page179">179</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Silentium Amoris</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page180">180</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Her Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page181">181</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>My Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page183">183</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Tædium Vitæ</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Humanitad</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page185">185</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Flower of Love</span>:</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> + +<td><p>ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ +ΕΡΩΣ</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page211">211</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="4"><p>UNCOLLECTED POEMS (1876–1893):</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>From Spring Days to Winter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Tristitiæ</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The True Knowledge</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +viii</span>Impressions: <span class="GutSmall">I.</span> Le +Jardin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> La Mer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page222">222</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Under the Balcony</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Harlot’s House</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Le Jardin des Tuileries</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The New Remorse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Fantasisies Décoratives: <span +class="GutSmall">I.</span> Le Panneau</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> Les Ballons</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Canzonet</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page233">233</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Symphony in Yellow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>In the Forest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>To my Wife: With a Copy of my Poems</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>With a Copy of ‘A House of Pomegranates’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Roses and Rue</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page239">239</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Désespoir</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Pan: Double Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page243">243</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>THE SPHINX (1894)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (1898)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page269">269</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>RAVENNA (1878)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page305">305</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>POEMS</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>HÉLAS!</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> <i>drift with +every passion till my soul</i><br /> +<i>Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play</i>,<br /> +<i>Is it for this that I have given away</i><br /> +<i>Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control</i>?<br /> +<i>Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll</i><br /> +<i>Scrawled over on some boyish holiday</i><br /> +<i>With idle songs for pipe and virelay</i>,<br /> +<i>Which do but mar the secret of the whole</i>.<br /> +<i>Surely there was a time I might have trod</i><br /> +<i>The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance</i><br /> +<i>Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God</i>:<br /> +<i>Is that time dead</i>? <i>lo</i>! <i>with a little rod</i><br +/> +<i>I did but touch the honey of romance</i>—<br /> +<i>And must I lose a soul’s inheritance</i>?</p> +<h3><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>ELEUTHERIA</h3> +<h4><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>SONNET +TO LIBERTY</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> that I love thy +children, whose dull eyes<br /> +See nothing save their own unlovely woe,<br /> +Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,—<br /> +But that the roar of thy Democracies,<br /> +Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,<br /> +Mirror my wildest passions like the sea<br /> +And give my rage a brother—! Liberty!<br /> +For this sake only do thy dissonant cries<br /> +Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings<br /> +By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades<br /> +Rob nations of their rights inviolate<br /> +And I remain unmoved—and yet, and yet,<br /> +These Christs that die upon the barricades,<br /> +God knows it I am with them, in some things.</p> +<h4><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>AVE +IMPERATRIX</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Set</span> in this stormy +Northern sea,<br /> + Queen of these restless fields of tide,<br /> +England! what shall men say of thee,<br /> + Before whose feet the worlds divide?</p> +<p class="poetry">The earth, a brittle globe of glass,<br /> + Lies in the hollow of thy hand,<br /> +And through its heart of crystal pass,<br /> + Like shadows through a twilight land,</p> +<p class="poetry">The spears of crimson-suited war,<br /> + The long white-crested waves of fight,<br /> +And all the deadly fires which are<br /> + The torches of the lords of Night.</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow leopards, strained and lean,<br /> + The treacherous Russian knows so well,<br /> +With gaping blackened jaws are seen<br /> + Leap through the hail of screaming shell.</p> +<p class="poetry">The strong sea-lion of England’s wars<br +/> + Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,<br /> +To battle with the storm that mars<br /> + The stars of England’s chivalry.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>The brazen-throated clarion blows<br /> + Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,<br /> +And the high steeps of Indian snows<br /> + Shake to the tread of armèd men.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many an Afghan chief, who lies<br /> + Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,<br /> +Clutches his sword in fierce surmise<br /> + When on the mountain-side he sees</p> +<p class="poetry">The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes<br /> + To tell how he hath heard afar<br /> +The measured roll of English drums<br /> + Beat at the gates of Kandahar.</p> +<p class="poetry">For southern wind and east wind meet<br /> + Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,<br /> +England with bare and bloody feet<br /> + Climbs the steep road of wide empire.</p> +<p class="poetry">O lonely Himalayan height,<br /> + Grey pillar of the Indian sky,<br /> +Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight<br /> + Our wingèd dogs of Victory?</p> +<p class="poetry">The almond-groves of Samarcand,<br /> + Bokhara, where red lilies blow,<br /> +And Oxus, by whose yellow sand<br /> + The grave white-turbaned merchants go:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>And on from thence to Ispahan,<br /> + The gilded garden of the sun,<br /> +Whence the long dusty caravan<br /> + Brings cedar wood and vermilion;</p> +<p class="poetry">And that dread city of Cabool<br /> + Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet,<br +/> +Whose marble tanks are ever full<br /> + With water for the noonday heat:</p> +<p class="poetry">Where through the narrow straight Bazaar<br /> + A little maid Circassian<br /> +Is led, a present from the Czar<br /> + Unto some old and bearded khan,—</p> +<p class="poetry">Here have our wild war-eagles flown,<br /> + And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;<br /> +But the sad dove, that sits alone<br /> + In England—she hath no delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain the laughing girl will lean<br /> + To greet her love with love-lit eyes:<br /> +Down in some treacherous black ravine,<br /> + Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many a moon and sun will see<br /> + The lingering wistful children wait<br /> +To climb upon their father’s knee;<br /> + And in each house made desolate</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>Pale women who have lost their lord<br /> + Will kiss the relics of the slain—<br /> +Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—<br /> + Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">For not in quiet English fields<br /> + Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,<br /> +Where we might deck their broken shields<br /> + With all the flowers the dead love best.</p> +<p class="poetry">For some are by the Delhi walls,<br /> + And many in the Afghan land,<br /> +And many where the Ganges falls<br /> + Through seven mouths of shifting sand.</p> +<p class="poetry">And some in Russian waters lie,<br /> + And others in the seas which are<br /> +The portals to the East, or by<br /> + The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.</p> +<p class="poetry">O wandering graves! O restless sleep!<br +/> + O silence of the sunless day!<br /> +O still ravine! O stormy deep!<br /> + Give up your prey! Give up your prey!</p> +<p class="poetry">And thou whose wounds are never healed,<br /> + Whose weary race is never won,<br /> +O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield<br /> + For every inch of ground a son?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,<br /> + Change thy glad song to song of pain;<br /> +Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,<br /> + And will not yield them back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wave and wild wind and foreign shore<br /> + Possess the flower of English land—<br /> +Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,<br /> + Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">What profit now that we have bound<br /> + The whole round world with nets of gold,<br /> +If hidden in our heart is found<br /> + The care that groweth never old?</p> +<p class="poetry">What profit that our galleys ride,<br /> + Pine-forest-like, on every main?<br /> +Ruin and wreck are at our side,<br /> + Grim warders of the House of Pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?<br +/> + Where is our English chivalry?<br /> +Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,<br /> + And sobbing waves their threnody.</p> +<p class="poetry">O loved ones lying far away,<br /> + What word of love can dead lips send!<br /> +O wasted dust! O senseless clay!<br /> + Is this the end! is this the end!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead<br /> + To vex their solemn slumber so;<br /> +Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,<br /> + Up the steep road must England go,</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet when this fiery web is spun,<br /> + Her watchmen shall descry from far<br /> +The young Republic like a sun<br /> + Rise from these crimson seas of war.</p> +<h4><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>TO +MILTON</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Milton</span>! I +think thy spirit hath passed away<br /> +From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;<br /> + This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours<br /> +Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,<br /> +And the age changed unto a mimic play<br /> + Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:<br /> + For all our pomp and pageantry and powers<br /> +We are but fit to delve the common clay,<br /> +Seeing this little isle on which we stand,<br /> + This England, this sea-lion of the sea,<br /> + By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,<br /> +Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land<br /> + Which bare a triple empire in her hand<br /> + When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!</p> +<h4><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>LOUIS +NAPOLEON</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Eagle</span> of Austerlitz! +where were thy wings<br /> + When far away upon a barbarous strand,<br /> + In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,<br /> +Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!</p> +<p class="poetry">Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of +red,<br /> + Or ride in state through Paris in the van<br /> + Of thy returning legions, but instead<br /> +Thy mother France, free and republican,</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead +place<br /> + The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,<br /> + That not dishonoured should thy soul go down<br /> +To tell the mighty Sire of thy race</p> +<p class="poetry">That France hath kissed the mouth of +Liberty,<br /> + And found it sweeter than his honied bees,<br /> + And that the giant wave Democracy<br /> +Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.</p> +<h4><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>SONNET</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE +MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Christ</span>, dost Thou +live indeed? or are Thy bones<br /> +Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?<br /> +And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her<br /> +Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?<br /> +For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,<br /> +The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,<br /> +Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain<br /> +From those whose children lie upon the stones?<br /> +Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom<br /> +Curtains the land, and through the starless night<br /> +Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!<br /> +If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb<br /> +Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might<br /> +Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!</p> +<h4><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>QUANTUM MUTATA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a time in +Europe long ago<br /> + When no man died for freedom anywhere,<br /> + But England’s lion leaping from its lair<br /> +Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so<br /> +While England could a great Republic show.<br /> + Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care<br /> + Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair<br /> +The Pontiff in his painted portico<br /> +Trembled before our stern ambassadors.<br /> + How comes it then that from such high estate<br /> + We have thus fallen, save that Luxury<br /> +With barren merchandise piles up the gate<br /> +Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by:<br /> + Else might we still be Milton’s heritors.</p> +<h4><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Albeit</span> nurtured in +democracy,<br /> + And liking best that state republican<br /> + Where every man is Kinglike and no man<br /> +Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,<br /> +Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,<br /> + Better the rule of One, whom all obey,<br /> + Than to let clamorous demagogues betray<br /> +Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.<br /> +Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane<br /> + Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street<br /> + For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign<br +/> +Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,<br /> + Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,<br /> + Or Murder with his silent bloody feet.</p> +<h4><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>THEORETIKOS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> mighty empire +hath but feet of clay:<br /> + Of all its ancient chivalry and might<br /> + Our little island is forsaken quite:<br /> +Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,<br /> +And from its hills that voice hath passed away<br /> + Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,<br /> + Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit<br /> +For this vile traffic-house, where day by day<br /> + Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,<br /> + And the rude people rage with ignorant cries<br /> +Against an heritage of centuries.<br /> + It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art<br /> + And loftiest culture I would stand apart,<br /> +Neither for God, nor for his enemies.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>THE +GARDEN OF EROS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span><span class="smcap">It</span> is full summer now, the +heart of June;<br /> + Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir<br /> +Upon the upland meadow where too soon<br /> + Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,<br /> +Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,<br /> +And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift +breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,<br /> + That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on<br /> +To vex the rose with jealousy, and still<br /> + The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,<br /> +And like a strayed and wandering reveller<br /> +Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s +messenger</p> +<p class="poetry">The missel-thrush has frighted from the +glade,<br /> + One pale narcissus loiters fearfully<br /> +Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid<br /> + Of their own loveliness some violets lie<br /> +That will not look the gold sun in the face<br /> +For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a +place</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>Which should be trodden by Persephone<br /> + When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!<br /> +Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!<br /> + The hidden secret of eternal bliss<br /> +Known to the Grecian here a man might find,<br /> +Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are the flowers which mourning +Herakles<br /> + Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,<br /> +Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze<br /> + Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,<br /> +That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,<br /> +And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and +leave</p> +<p class="poetry">Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed<br /> + To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,<br /> +Its little bellringer, go seek instead<br /> + Some other pleasaunce; the anemone<br /> +That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl<br /> +Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl</p> +<p class="poetry">Their painted wings beside it,—bid it +pine<br /> + In pale virginity; the winter snow<br /> +Will suit it better than those lips of thine<br /> + Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>And pluck +that amorous flower which blooms alone,<br /> +Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.</p> +<p class="poetry">The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus<br /> + So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet<br /> +Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous<br /> + As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet<br /> +Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar<br /> +For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers +which are</p> +<p class="poetry">Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon<br /> + Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,<br /> +That morning star which does not dread the sun,<br /> + And budding marjoram which but to kiss<br /> +Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make<br /> +Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy +girdle take</p> +<p class="poetry">Yon curving spray of purple clematis<br /> + Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,<br /> +And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,<br /> + But that one narciss which the startled Spring<br /> +Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard<br /> +In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s +bird,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Ah! leave it for a subtle memory<br /> + Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,<br /> +When April laughed between her tears to see<br /> + The early primrose with shy footsteps run<br /> +From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,<br /> +Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with +shimmering gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet<br +/> + As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!<br /> +And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet<br /> + Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,<br /> +For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride<br /> +And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies +pied.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I will cut a reed by yonder spring<br /> + And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan<br /> +Wonder what young intruder dares to sing<br /> + In these still haunts, where never foot of man<br /> +Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy<br /> +The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears<br +/> + Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,<br /> +And why the hapless nightingale forbears<br /> + To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>When the +fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,<br /> +And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening +east.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I will sing how sad Proserpina<br /> + Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,<br /> +And lure the silver-breasted Helena<br /> + Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,<br /> +So shalt thou see that awful loveliness<br /> +For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s +abyss!</p> +<p class="poetry">And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian +tale<br /> + How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,<br /> +And hidden in a grey and misty veil<br /> + Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun<br /> +Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase<br /> +Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,<br /> + We may behold Her face who long ago<br /> +Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea,<br /> + And whose sad house with pillaged portico<br /> +And friezeless wall and columns toppled down<br /> +Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured +town.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,<br /> + They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;<br /> +Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile<br /> + Is better than a thousand victories,<br /> +Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo<br /> +Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few</p> +<p class="poetry">Who for thy sake would give their manlihood<br +/> + And consecrate their being; I at least<br /> +Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,<br /> + And in thy temples found a goodlier feast<br /> +Than this starved age can give me, spite of all<br /> +Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,<br /> + The woods of white Colonos are not here,<br /> +On our bleak hills the olive never blows,<br /> + No simple priest conducts his lowing steer<br /> +Up the steep marble way, nor through the town<br /> +Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,<br +/> + Whose very name should be a memory<br /> +To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest<br /> + Beneath the Roman walls, and melody<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>Still +mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play<br /> +The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had +left<br /> + One silver voice to sing his threnody,<br /> +But ah! too soon of it we were bereft<br /> + When on that riven night and stormy sea<br /> +Panthea claimed her singer as her own,<br /> +And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk +alone,</p> +<p class="poetry">Save for that fiery heart, that morning star<br +/> + Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye<br /> +Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war<br /> + The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy<br /> +Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring<br /> +The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to +sing,</p> +<p class="poetry">And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,<br /> + And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot<br /> +In passionless and fierce virginity<br /> + Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute<br +/> +Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,<br /> +And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,<br /> + And sung the Galilæan’s requiem,<br /> +That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine<br /> + He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him<br /> +Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,<br /> +And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,<br /> + It is not quenched the torch of poesy,<br /> +The star that shook above the Eastern hill<br /> + Holds unassailed its argent armoury<br /> +From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—<br /> +O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,</p> +<p class="poetry">Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s +child,<br /> + Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,<br /> +With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled<br /> + The weary soul of man in troublous need,<br /> +And from the far and flowerless fields of ice<br /> +Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s +bride,<br /> + Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,<br /> +How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,<br /> + <a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>And what enchantment held the king in thrall<br /> +When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers<br /> +That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer +hours,</p> +<p class="poetry">Long listless summer hours when the noon<br /> + Being enamoured of a damask rose<br /> +Forgets to journey westward, till the moon<br /> + The pale usurper of its tribute grows<br /> +From a thin sickle to a silver shield<br /> +And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy +field</p> +<p class="poetry">Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,<br +/> + At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come<br /> +Almost before the blackbird finds a mate<br /> + And overstay the swallow, and the hum<br /> +Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,<br /> +Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,</p> +<p class="poetry">And through their unreal woes and mimic pain<br +/> + Wept for myself, and so was purified,<br /> +And in their simple mirth grew glad again;<br /> + For as I sailed upon that pictured tide<br /> +The strength and splendour of the storm was mine<br /> +Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>The little laugh of water falling down<br /> + Is not so musical, the clammy gold<br /> +Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town<br /> + Has less of sweetness in it, and the old<br /> +Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady<br /> +Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!<br /> + Although the cheating merchants of the mart<br /> +With iron roads profane our lovely isle,<br /> + And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,<br /> +Ay! though the crowded factories beget<br /> +The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!</p> +<p class="poetry">For One at least there is,—He bears his +name<br /> + From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—<br /> +Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame<br /> + To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,<br /> +Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,<br /> +And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,</p> +<p class="poetry">Loves thee so well, that all the World for +him<br /> + A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,<br /> +And Sorrow take a purple diadem,<br /> + Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair<br /> +Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be<br /> +Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>Which Painters hold, and such the heritage<br /> + This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,<br /> +Being a better mirror of his age<br /> + In all his pity, love, and weariness,<br /> +Than those who can but copy common things,<br /> +And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.</p> +<p class="poetry">But they are few, and all romance has flown,<br +/> + And men can prophesy about the sun,<br /> +And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,<br /> + Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,<br /> +How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,<br /> +And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Methinks these new Actæons boast too +soon<br /> + That they have spied on beauty; what if we<br /> +Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon<br /> + Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,<br /> +Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope<br /> +Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!</p> +<p class="poetry">What profit if this scientific age<br /> + Burst through our gates with all its retinue<br /> +Of modern miracles! Can it assuage<br /> + One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do<br +/> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>To make +one life more beautiful, one day<br /> +More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay</p> +<p class="poetry">Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth<br /> + Hath borne again a noisy progeny<br /> +Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth<br /> + Hurls them against the august hierarchy<br /> +Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust<br /> +They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must</p> +<p class="poetry">Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,<br +/> + From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,<br /> +Create the new Ideal rule for man!<br /> + Methinks that was not my inheritance;<br /> +For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul<br /> +Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away<br +/> + Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat<br +/> +Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day<br /> + Blew all its torches out: I did not note<br /> +The waning hours, to young Endymions<br /> +Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of +suns!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Mark how the yellow iris wearily<br /> + Leans back its throat, as though it would be +kissed<br /> +By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,<br /> + Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white +wrist,<br /> +Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,<br /> +Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath +the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come let us go, against the pallid shield<br /> + Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,<br /> +The corncrake nested in the unmown field<br /> + Answers its mate, across the misty stream<br /> +On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,<br /> +And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,</p> +<p class="poetry">Scatters the pearlèd dew from off the +grass,<br /> + In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,<br /> +Who soon in gilded panoply will pass<br /> + Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion<br /> +Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim<br /> +O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of +him</p> +<p class="poetry">Already the shrill lark is out of sight,<br /> + Flooding with waves of song this silent +dell,—<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>Ah! there +is something more in that bird’s flight<br /> + Than could be tested in a crucible!—<br /> +But the air freshens, let us go, why soon<br /> +The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of +June!</p> +<h3><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>ROSA +MYSTICA</h3> +<h4><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>REQUIESCAT</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tread</span> lightly, she +is near<br /> + Under the snow,<br /> +Speak gently, she can hear<br /> + The daisies grow.</p> +<p class="poetry">All her bright golden hair<br /> + Tarnished with rust,<br /> +She that was young and fair<br /> + Fallen to dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lily-like, white as snow,<br /> + She hardly knew<br /> +She was a woman, so<br /> + Sweetly she grew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Coffin-board, heavy stone,<br /> + Lie on her breast,<br /> +I vex my heart alone,<br /> + She is at rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Peace, Peace, she cannot hear<br /> + Lyre or sonnet,<br /> +All my life’s buried here,<br /> + Heap earth upon it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Avignon</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>SONNET +ON APPROACHING ITALY</h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">reached</span> the Alps: +the soul within me burned,<br /> + Italia, my Italia, at thy name:<br /> + And when from out the mountain’s heart I +came<br /> +And saw the land for which my life had yearned,<br /> +I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:<br /> + And musing on the marvel of thy fame<br /> + I watched the day, till marked with wounds of +flame<br /> +The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.<br /> +The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,<br /> + And in the orchards every twining spray<br /> + Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:<br /> +But when I knew that far away at Rome<br /> + In evil bonds a second Peter lay,<br /> + I wept to see the land so very fair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Turin</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>SAN +MINIATO</h4> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">See</span>, I have climbed the mountain side<br /> + Up to this holy house of God,<br /> + Where once that Angel-Painter trod<br /> +Who saw the heavens opened wide,</p> +<p class="poetry"> And throned upon the crescent +moon<br /> + The Virginal white Queen of Grace,—<br /> + Mary! could I but see thy face<br /> +Death could not come at all too soon.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O crowned by God with thorns +and pain!<br /> + Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!<br /> + My heart is weary of this life<br /> +And over-sad to sing again.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O crowned by God with love +and flame!<br /> + O crowned by Christ the Holy One!<br /> + O listen ere the searching sun<br /> +Show to the world my sin and shame.</p> +<h4><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>AVE +MARIA GRATIA PLENA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Was</span> this His +coming! I had hoped to see<br /> + A scene of wondrous glory, as was told<br /> + Of some great God who in a rain of gold<br /> +Broke open bars and fell on Danae:<br /> +Or a dread vision as when Semele<br /> + Sickening for love and unappeased desire<br /> + Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the +fire<br /> +Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:<br /> +With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,<br /> + And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand<br /> + Before this supreme mystery of Love:<br /> +Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,<br /> + An angel with a lily in his hand,<br /> + And over both the white wings of a Dove.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Florence</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>ITALIA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Italia</span>! thou art +fallen, though with sheen<br /> + Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride<br /> + From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!<br /> +Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen<br /> +Because rich gold in every town is seen,<br /> + And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride<br /> + Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride<br /> +Beneath one flag of red and white and green.<br /> +O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!<br /> + Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town<br +/> + Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!<br /> +Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?<br /> + Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,<br +/> + And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Venice</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>SONNET</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WRITTEN IN +HOLY WEEK AT GENOA</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">wandered</span> through +Scoglietto’s far retreat,<br /> + The oranges on each o’erhanging spray<br /> + Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;<br +/> +Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet<br /> +Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet<br /> + Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:<br /> + And the curved waves that streaked the great green +bay<br /> +Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.<br /> +Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,<br /> + ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,<br /> + O come and fill His sepulchre with +flowers.’<br /> +Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours<br /> + Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,<br /> + The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the +Spear.</p> +<h4><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>ROME +UNVISITED</h4> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> corn has turned +from grey to red,<br /> + Since first my spirit wandered forth<br /> + From the drear cities of the north,<br /> +And to Italia’s mountains fled.</p> +<p class="poetry">And here I set my face towards home,<br /> + For all my pilgrimage is done,<br /> + Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun<br /> +Marshals the way to Holy Rome.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Blessed Lady, who dost hold<br /> + Upon the seven hills thy reign!<br /> + O Mother without blot or stain,<br /> +Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Roma, Roma, at thy feet<br /> + I lay this barren gift of song!<br /> + For, ah! the way is steep and long<br /> +That leads unto thy sacred street.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">And</span> yet what joy it +were for me<br /> + To turn my feet unto the south,<br /> + And journeying towards the Tiber mouth<br /> +To kneel again at Fiesole!</p> +<p class="poetry">And wandering through the tangled pines<br /> + That break the gold of Arno’s stream,<br /> + To see the purple mist and gleam<br /> +Of morning on the Apennines</p> +<p class="poetry">By many a vineyard-hidden home,<br /> + Orchard and olive-garden grey,<br /> + Till from the drear Campagna’s way<br /> +The seven hills bear up the dome!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>III.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">pilgrim</span> from the +northern seas—<br /> + What joy for me to seek alone<br /> + The wondrous temple and the throne<br /> +Of him who holds the awful keys!</p> +<p class="poetry">When, bright with purple and with gold<br /> + Come priest and holy cardinal,<br /> + And borne above the heads of all<br /> +The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">O joy to see before I die<br /> + The only God-anointed king,<br /> + And hear the silver trumpets ring<br /> +A triumph as he passes by!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or at the brazen-pillared shrine<br /> + Holds high the mystic sacrifice,<br /> + And shows his God to human eyes<br /> +Beneath the veil of bread and wine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> lo, what changes +time can bring!<br /> + The cycles of revolving years<br /> + May free my heart from all its fears,<br /> +And teach my lips a song to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before yon field of trembling gold<br /> + Is garnered into dusty sheaves,<br /> + Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves<br /> +Flutter as birds adown the wold,</p> +<p class="poetry">I may have run the glorious race,<br /> + And caught the torch while yet aflame,<br /> + And called upon the holy name<br /> +Of Him who now doth hide His face.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arona</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>URBS +SACRA ÆTERNA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rome</span>! what a scroll +of History thine has been;<br /> + In the first days thy sword republican<br /> + Ruled the whole world for many an age’s +span:<br /> +Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,<br /> +Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;<br /> + And now upon thy walls the breezes fan<br /> + (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)<br /> +The hated flag of red and white and green.<br /> +When was thy glory! when in search for power<br /> + Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,<br /> + And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?<br /> +Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,<br /> + When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,<br /> + The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Montre Mario</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>SONNET</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ON HEARING +THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Nay</span>, Lord, not thus! +white lilies in the spring,<br /> +Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,<br /> + Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love<br /> +Than terrors of red flame and thundering.<br /> +The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:<br /> + A bird at evening flying to its nest<br /> + Tells me of One who had no place of rest:<br /> +I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.<br /> +Come rather on some autumn afternoon,<br /> + When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,<br +/> + And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,<br +/> +Come when the splendid fulness of the moon<br /> + Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,<br /> + And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.</p> +<h4><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>EASTER +DAY</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> silver trumpets +rang across the Dome:<br /> + The people knelt upon the ground with awe:<br /> + And borne upon the necks of men I saw,<br /> +Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.<br /> +Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,<br /> + And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,<br /> + Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:<br /> +In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.<br /> +My heart stole back across wide wastes of years<br /> + To One who wandered by a lonely sea,<br /> + And sought in vain for any place of rest:<br /> +‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.<br /> + I, only I, must wander wearily,<br /> + And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with +tears.’</p> +<h4><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>E +TENEBRIS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span> down, O Christ, +and help me! reach Thy hand,<br /> + For I am drowning in a stormier sea<br /> + Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:<br /> +The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,<br /> +My heart is as some famine-murdered land<br /> + Whence all good things have perished utterly,<br /> + And well I know my soul in Hell must lie<br /> +If I this night before God’s throne should stand.<br /> +‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,<br /> + Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name<br /> + From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten +height.’<br /> +Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,<br /> + The feet of brass, the robe more white than +flame,<br /> + The wounded hands, the weary human face.</p> +<h4><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>VITA +NUOVA</h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">stood</span> by the +unvintageable sea<br /> + Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with +spray;<br /> + The long red fires of the dying day<br /> +Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;<br /> +And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:<br /> + ‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is full +of pain,<br /> + And who can garner fruit or golden grain<br /> +From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’<br /> +My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,<br /> + Nathless I threw them as my final cast<br /> + Into the sea, and waited for the end.<br /> +When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw<br /> + From the black waters of my tortured past<br /> + The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!</p> +<h4><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>MADONNA MIA</h4> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">lily-girl</span>, not +made for this world’s pain,<br /> + With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,<br +/> + And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears<br +/> +Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:<br /> +Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,<br /> + Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,<br /> + And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,<br +/> +Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.<br /> +Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,<br /> + Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,<br /> + Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,<br /> +Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice<br /> + Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw<br +/> + The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.</p> +<h4><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>THE +NEW HELEN</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> hast thou been +since round the walls of Troy<br /> + The sons of God fought in that great emprise?<br /> + Why dost thou walk our common +earth again?<br /> +Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,<br /> + His purple galley and his Tyrian +men<br /> + And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?<br +/> +For surely it was thou, who, like a star<br /> + Hung in the silver silence of the night,<br /> + Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and +might<br /> +Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?<br /> + In amorous Sidon was thy temple built<br /> + Over the light and laughter of the +sea<br /> + Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,<br +/> + Some brown-limbed girl did weave +thee tapestry,<br /> +All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>Till her +wan cheek with flame of passion burned,<br /> + And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss<br /> +Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned<br /> + From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!</p> +<p class="poetry">No! thou art Helen, and none other one!<br /> + It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,<br +/> + And Memnôn’s manhood +was untimely spent;<br /> + It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried<br /> +With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,<br /> + In the last year of thy +beleaguerment;<br /> +Ay! even now the glory of thy fame<br /> + Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,<br /> + Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well<br /> +Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land<br +/> + Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,<br /> + Where never mower rose at break of +day<br /> + But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,<br +/> +And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand<br /> + Till summer’s red had +changed to withered grey?<br /> +Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream<br /> + Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,<br /> + <a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam<br /> +From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill<br /> + With one who is forgotten utterly,<br /> + That discrowned Queen men call the +Erycine;<br /> + Hidden away that never mightst thou see<br /> +The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine<br /> + To-day at Rome the silent nations +kneel;<br /> +Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,<br /> + But only Love’s intolerable pain,<br /> + Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,<br /> +Only the bitterness of child-bearing.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of +Death<br /> + Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,<br /> + While yet I know the summer of my +days;<br /> + For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath<br /> +To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,<br /> + So bowed am I before thy +mystery;<br /> +So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,<br /> + That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,<br /> + Yet care I not what ruin time may bring<br /> +If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,<br /> + But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,<br /> + Who flies before the north wind +and the night,<br /> + So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,<br /> +Back to the tower of thine old delight,<br /> + And the red lips of young +Euphorion;<br /> +Nor shall I ever see thy face again,<br /> + But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,<br /> + Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,<br +/> +Till all my loveless life shall pass away.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while,<br /> + Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,<br /> + Till the dawn cometh and the +shadows flee!<br /> + For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile<br /> +Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,<br /> + Seeing I know no other god but +thee:<br /> +No other god save him, before whose feet<br /> + In nets of gold the tired planets move,<br /> + The incarnate spirit of spiritual love<br /> +Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou wert not born as common women are!<br /> + But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,<br /> + Didst from the depths of sapphire +seas arise!<br /> + And at thy coming some immortal star,<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>Bearded +with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,<br /> + And waked the shepherds on thine +island-home.<br /> +Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep<br /> + Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;<br /> + No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,<br /> +Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lily of love, pure and inviolate!<br /> + Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!<br /> + Thou hast come down our darkness +to illume:<br /> +For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,<br /> + Wearied with waiting for the World’s +Desire,<br /> + Aimlessly wandered in the House of +gloom,<br /> +Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne<br /> + For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,<br /> +Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,<br /> + And the white glory of thy loveliness.</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>THE +BURDEN OF ITYS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span><span class="smcap">This</span> English Thames is holier +far than Rome,<br /> + Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea<br /> +Breaking across the woodland, with the foam<br /> + Of meadow-sweet and white anemone<br /> +To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there<br /> +Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!</p> +<p class="poetry">Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take<br +/> + Yon creamy lily for their pavilion<br /> +Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake<br /> + A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,<br /> +His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old<br /> +Bishop in <i>partibus</i>! look at those gaudy scales all green +and gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wind the restless prisoner of the trees<br +/> + Does well for Palæstrina, one would say<br /> +The mighty master’s hands were on the keys<br /> + Of the Maria organ, which they play<br /> +When early on some sapphire Easter morn<br /> +In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>From his dark House out to the Balcony<br /> + Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,<br /> +Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy<br /> + To toss their silver lances in the air,<br /> +And stretching out weak hands to East and West<br /> +In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations +rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is not yon lingering orange after-glow<br /> + That stays to vex the moon more fair than all<br /> +Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago<br /> + I knelt before some crimson Cardinal<br /> +Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,<br /> +And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as +fine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous<br +/> + With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring<br /> +Through this cool evening than the odorous<br /> + Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,<br +/> +When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,<br /> +And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and +vine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass<br /> + Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird<br /> +Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass<br /> + I see that throbbing throat which once I heard<br /> +On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,<br /> +Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves<br +/> + At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,<br /> +And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves<br /> + Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe<br /> +To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait<br /> +Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard +gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,<br /> + And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,<br +/> +And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees<br /> + That round and round the linden blossoms play;<br /> +And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,<br /> +And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick +wall,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring<br /> + While the last violet loiters by the well,<br /> +And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing<br /> + The song of Linus through a sunny dell<br /> +Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold<br /> +And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled +fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">And sweet with young Lycoris to recline<br /> + In some Illyrian valley far away,<br /> +Where canopied on herbs amaracine<br /> + We too might waste the summer-trancèd day<br +/> +Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,<br /> +While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot<br /> + Of some long-hidden God should ever tread<br /> +The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute<br /> + Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his +head<br /> +By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed<br /> +To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to +feed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,<br /> + Though what thou sing’st be thine own +requiem!<br /> +Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler<br /> + <a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn<br /> +These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,<br /> +For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield</p> +<p class="poetry">Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose<br +/> + Which all day long in vales Æolian<br /> +A lad might seek in vain for over-grows<br /> + Our hedges like a wanton courtesan<br /> +Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too<br /> +Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue</p> +<p class="poetry">Dot the green wheat which, though they are the +signs<br /> + For swallows going south, would never spread<br /> +Their azure tents between the Attic vines;<br /> + Even that little weed of ragged red,<br /> +Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady<br /> +Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding +Thames<br /> + Which to awake were sweeter ravishment<br /> +Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems<br /> + Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>For +Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here<br /> +Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer</p> +<p class="poetry">There is a tiny yellow daffodil,<br /> + The butterfly can see it from afar,<br /> +Although one summer evening’s dew could fill<br /> + Its little cup twice over ere the star<br /> +Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold<br /> +And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold</p> +<p class="poetry">As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae<br /> + Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss<br /> +The trembling petals, or young Mercury<br /> + Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis<br /> +Had with one feather of his pinions<br /> +Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its +suns</p> +<p class="poetry">Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,<br /> + Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—<br +/> +Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre<br /> + Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me<br /> +It seems to bring diviner memories<br /> +Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where<br /> + On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,<br +/> +The tangle of the forest in his hair,<br /> + The silence of the woodland in his eyes,<br /> +Wooing that drifting imagery which is<br /> +No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis</p> +<p class="poetry">Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,<br /> + Fed by two fires and unsatisfied<br /> +Through their excess, each passion being loth<br /> + For love’s own sake to leave the other’s +side<br /> +Yet killing love by staying; memories<br /> +Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,</p> +<p class="poetry">Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf<br /> + At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew<br /> +Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf<br /> + And called false Theseus back again nor knew<br /> +That Dionysos on an amber pard<br /> +Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s +bard</p> +<p class="poetry">With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of +Troy,<br /> + Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,<br /> +And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy<br /> + Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s +plume,<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>And far +away the moil, the shout, the groan,<br /> +As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;</p> +<p class="poetry">Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless +sword<br /> + Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,<br /> +And all those tales imperishably stored<br /> + In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich<br /> +Than any gaudy galleon of Spain<br /> +Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,</p> +<p class="poetry">For well I know they are not dead at all,<br /> + The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:<br /> +They are asleep, and when they hear thee call<br /> + Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,<br /> +This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade<br /> +The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and +played.</p> +<p class="poetry">If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird<br /> + Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne<br /> +Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard<br /> + The horn of Atalanta faintly blown<br /> +Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering<br /> +Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ +spring,—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate<br /> + That pleadest for the moon against the day!<br /> +If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate<br /> + On that sweet questing, when Proserpina<br /> +Forgot it was not Sicily and leant<br /> +Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished +wonderment,—</p> +<p class="poetry">Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the +wood!<br /> + If ever thou didst soothe with melody<br /> +One of that little clan, that brotherhood<br /> + Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany<br /> +More than the perfect sun of Raphael<br /> +And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow +young,<br /> + Let elemental things take form again,<br /> +And the old shapes of Beauty walk among<br /> + The simple garths and open crofts, as when<br /> +The son of Leto bare the willow rod,<br /> +And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here<br +/> + Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,<br /> +And over whimpering tigers shake the spear<br /> + With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>While at +his side the wanton Bassarid<br /> +Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,<br +/> + And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth,<br +/> +Upon whose icy chariot we could win<br /> + Cithæron in an hour ere the froth<br /> +Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun<br /> +Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of +dawn</p> +<p class="poetry">Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,<br /> + And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,<br /> +Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast<br /> + Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping +Pans<br /> +So softly that the little nested thrush<br /> +Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will +rush</p> +<p class="poetry">Down the green valley where the fallen dew<br +/> + Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,<br +/> +Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew<br /> + Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,<br /> +And where their hornèd master sits in state<br /> +Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face<br /> + Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will +come,<br /> +The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase<br /> + Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,<br /> +And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,<br /> +After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! and I the dying boy will see<br /> + Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell<br /> +That overweighs the jacinth, and to me<br /> + The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,<br /> +And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,<br /> +And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!</p> +<p class="poetry">Cry out aloud on Itys! memory<br /> + That foster-brother of remorse and pain<br /> +Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,<br /> + To burn one’s old ships! and to launch +again<br /> +Into the white-plumed battle of the waves<br /> +And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!</p> +<p class="poetry">O for Medea with her poppied spell!<br /> + O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!<br /> +O for one leaf of that pale asphodel<br /> + Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,<br /> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>And sheds +such wondrous dews at eve that she<br /> +Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,</p> +<p class="poetry">Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased<br +/> + From lily to lily on the level mead,<br /> +Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste<br /> + The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,<br /> +Ere the black steeds had harried her away<br /> +Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless +day.</p> +<p class="poetry">O for one midnight and as paramour<br /> + The Venus of the little Melian farm!<br /> +O that some antique statue for one hour<br /> + Might wake to passion, and that I could charm<br /> +The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,<br /> +Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my +lair!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,<br +/> + Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,<br /> +I would forget the wearying wasted strife,<br /> + The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,<br /> +The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,<br /> +The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,<br +/> + Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal<br /> +From joy its sweetest music, not as we<br /> + Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal<br /> +Our too untented wounds, and do but keep<br /> +Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing louder yet, why must I still behold<br /> + The wan white face of that deserted Christ,<br /> +Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,<br /> + Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,<br /> +And now in mute and marble misery<br /> +Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for +me?</p> +<p class="poetry">O Memory cast down thy wreathèd +shell!<br /> + Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!<br /> +O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell<br /> + Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!<br /> +Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong<br /> +To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!</p> +<p class="poetry">Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be +dumb<br /> + Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,<br /> +Whose jocund carelessness doth more become<br /> + This English woodland than thy keen despair,<br /> +<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Ah! cease +and let the north wind bear thy lay<br /> +Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment more, the startled leaves had +stirred,<br /> + Endymion would have passed across the mead<br /> +Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard<br /> + Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed<br /> +To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid<br /> +Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,<br /> + The silver daughter of the silver sea<br /> +With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed<br /> + Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope<br /> +Had thrust aside the branches of her oak<br /> +To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss<br +/> + Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon<br /> +Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis<br /> + Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,<br /> +And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile<br /> +Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,<br /> + To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned +bliss,<br /> +Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare<br /> + High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis<br /> +Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer<br /> +From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking +spear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie +still!<br /> + O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!<br /> +O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill<br /> + Come not with such despondent answering!<br /> +No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain,<br /> +Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!</p> +<p class="poetry">It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,<br /> + No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,<br /> +The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,<br /> + And from the copse left desolate and bare<br /> +Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,<br /> +Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody</p> +<p class="poetry">So sad, that one might think a human heart<br +/> + Brake in each separate note, a quality<br /> +Which music sometimes has, being the Art<br /> + <a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Which is most nigh to tears and memory;<br /> +Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?<br /> +Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,</p> +<p class="poetry">Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,<br +/> + No woven web of bloody heraldries,<br /> +But mossy dells for roving comrades made,<br /> + Warm valleys where the tired student lies<br /> +With half-shut book, and many a winding walk<br /> +Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.</p> +<p class="poetry">The harmless rabbit gambols with its young<br +/> + Across the trampled towing-path, where late<br /> +A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng<br /> + Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;<br +/> +The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,<br /> +Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines +out<br /> + Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating +flock<br /> +Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout<br /> + Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>And starts +the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,<br /> +And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the +hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">The heron passes homeward to the mere,<br /> + The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,<br +/> +Gold world by world the silent stars appear,<br /> + And like a blossom blown before the breeze<br /> +A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,<br /> +Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.</p> +<p class="poetry">She does not heed thee, wherefore should she +heed,<br /> + She knows Endymion is not far away;<br /> +’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed<br /> + Which has no message of its own to play,<br /> +So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,<br /> +Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite +trill<br /> + About the sombre woodland seems to cling<br /> +Dying in music, else the air is still,<br /> + So still that one might hear the bat’s small +wing<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Wander and +wheel above the pines, or tell<br /> +Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming +cell.</p> +<p class="poetry">And far away across the lengthening wold,<br /> + Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,<br /> +Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold<br /> + Marks the long High Street of the little town,<br /> +And warns me to return; I must not wait,<br /> +Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ +Church gate.</p> +<h3><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>WIND +FLOWERS</h3> +<h4><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>IMPRESSION DU MATIN</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Thames nocturne +of blue and gold<br /> + Changed to a Harmony in grey:<br /> + A barge with ochre-coloured hay<br /> +Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow fog came creeping down<br /> + The bridges, till the houses’ walls<br /> + Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s<br /> +Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then suddenly arose the clang<br /> + Of waking life; the streets were stirred<br /> + With country waggons: and a bird<br /> +Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.</p> +<p class="poetry">But one pale woman all alone,<br /> + The daylight kissing her wan hair,<br /> + Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,<br /> +With lips of flame and heart of stone.</p> +<h4><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>MAGDALEN WALKS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> little white +clouds are racing over the sky,<br /> + And the fields are strewn with the gold of the +flower of March,<br /> + The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled +larch<br /> +Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.</p> +<p class="poetry">A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the +morning breeze,<br /> + The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown +new-furrowed earth,<br /> + The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s +glad birth,<br /> +Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all the woods are alive with the murmur and +sound of Spring,<br /> + And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing +briar,<br /> + And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire<br /> +Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale +of love<br /> + Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle +of green,<br /> + And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit +with the iris sheen<br /> +Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a +dove.</p> +<p class="poetry">See! the lark starts up from his bed in the +meadow there,<br /> + Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of +dew,<br /> + And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!<br /> +The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.</p> +<h4><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>ATHANASIA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> that gaunt House +of Art which lacks for naught<br /> + Of all the great things men have saved from Time,<br +/> +The withered body of a girl was brought<br /> + Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched +its prime,<br /> +And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid<br /> +In the dim womb of some black pyramid.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when they had unloosed the linen band<br /> + Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! +was found<br /> +Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand<br /> + A little seed, which sown in English ground<br /> +Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear<br /> +And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.</p> +<p class="poetry">With such strange arts this flower did +allure<br /> + That all forgotten was the asphodel,<br /> +And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,<br /> + Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,<br /> +For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,<br /> +But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white<br /> + At its own beauty, hung across the stream,<br /> +The purple dragon-fly had no delight<br /> + With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,<br /> +Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,<br /> +Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.</p> +<p class="poetry">For love of it the passionate nightingale<br /> + Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,<br /> +And the pale dove no longer cared to sail<br /> + Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,<br /> +But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,<br /> +With silvered wing and amethystine throat.</p> +<p class="poetry">While the hot sun blazed in his tower of +blue<br /> + A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,<br /> +And the warm south with tender tears of dew<br /> + Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose<br +/> +Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky<br /> +On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted +field<br /> + The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,<br /> +And broad and glittering like an argent shield<br /> + High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,<br /> +Did no strange dream or evil memory make<br /> +Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years<br /> + Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,<br +/> +It never knew the tide of cankering fears<br /> + Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered +grey,<br /> +The dread desire of death it never knew,<br /> +Or how all folk that they were born must rue.</p> +<p class="poetry">For we to death with pipe and dancing go,<br /> + Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,<br /> +As some sad river wearied of its flow<br /> + Through the dull plains, the haunts of common +men,<br /> +Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!<br /> +And counts it gain to die so gloriously.</p> +<p class="poetry">We mar our lordly strength in barren strife<br +/> + With the world’s legions led by clamorous +care,<br /> +It never feels decay but gathers life<br /> + From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,<br /> +We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,<br /> +It is the child of all eternity.</p> +<h4><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>SERENADE</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">FOR +MUSIC</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> western wind is +blowing fair<br /> + Across the dark Ægean sea,<br /> +And at the secret marble stair<br /> + My Tyrian galley waits for thee.<br /> +Come down! the purple sail is spread,<br /> + The watchman sleeps within the town,<br /> +O leave thy lily-flowered bed,<br /> + O Lady mine come down, come down!</p> +<p class="poetry">She will not come, I know her well,<br /> + Of lover’s vows she hath no care,<br /> +And little good a man can tell<br /> + Of one so cruel and so fair.<br /> +True love is but a woman’s toy,<br /> + They never know the lover’s pain,<br /> +And I who loved as loves a boy<br /> + Must love in vain, must love in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">O noble pilot, tell me true,<br /> + Is that the sheen of golden hair?<br /> +Or is it but the tangled dew<br /> + That binds the passion-flowers there?<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Good +sailor come and tell me now<br /> + Is that my Lady’s lily hand?<br /> +Or is it but the gleaming prow,<br /> + Or is it but the silver sand?</p> +<p class="poetry">No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,<br /> + ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,<br /> +It is my own dear Lady true<br /> + With golden hair and lily hand!<br /> +O noble pilot, steer for Troy,<br /> + Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,<br /> +This is the Queen of life and joy<br /> + Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!</p> +<p class="poetry">The waning sky grows faint and blue,<br /> + It wants an hour still of day,<br /> +Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,<br /> + O Lady mine, away! away!<br /> +O noble pilot, steer for Troy,<br /> + Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,<br /> +O loved as only loves a boy!<br /> + O loved for ever evermore!</p> +<h4><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>ENDYMION</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">FOR +MUSIC</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> apple trees are +hung with gold,<br /> + And birds are loud in Arcady,<br /> +The sheep lie bleating in the fold,<br /> +The wild goat runs across the wold,<br /> +But yesterday his love he told,<br /> + I know he will come back to me.<br /> +O rising moon! O Lady moon!<br /> + Be you my lover’s sentinel,<br /> + You cannot choose but know him well,<br /> +For he is shod with purple shoon,<br /> +You cannot choose but know my love,<br /> + For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,<br /> +And he is soft as any dove,<br /> + And brown and curly is his hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">The turtle now has ceased to call<br /> + Upon her crimson-footed groom,<br /> +The grey wolf prowls about the stall,<br /> +The lily’s singing seneschal<br /> +Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all<br /> + The violet hills are lost in gloom.<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>O risen +moon! O holy moon!<br /> + Stand on the top of Helice,<br /> + And if my own true love you see,<br /> +Ah! if you see the purple shoon,<br /> +The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,<br /> + The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,<br /> +Tell him that I am waiting where<br /> + The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.</p> +<p class="poetry">The falling dew is cold and chill,<br /> + And no bird sings in Arcady,<br /> +The little fauns have left the hill,<br /> +Even the tired daffodil<br /> +Has closed its gilded doors, and still<br /> + My lover comes not back to me.<br /> +False moon! False moon! O waning moon!<br /> + Where is my own true lover gone,<br /> + Where are the lips vermilion,<br /> +The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?<br /> +Why spread that silver pavilion,<br /> + Why wear that veil of drifting mist?<br /> +Ah! thou hast young Endymion,<br /> + Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!</p> +<h4><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>LA +BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> limbs are wasted +with a flame,<br /> + My feet are sore with travelling,<br /> +For, calling on my Lady’s name,<br /> + My lips have now forgot to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Linnet in the wild-rose brake<br /> + Strain for my Love thy melody,<br /> +O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,<br /> + My gentle Lady passeth by.</p> +<p class="poetry">She is too fair for any man<br /> + To see or hold his heart’s delight,<br /> +Fairer than Queen or courtesan<br /> + Or moonlit water in the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,<br /> + (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)<br /> +Green grasses through the yellow sheaves<br /> + Of autumn corn are not more fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her little lips, more made to kiss<br /> + Than to cry bitterly for pain,<br /> +Are tremulous as brook-water is,<br /> + Or roses after evening rain.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>Her neck is like white melilote<br /> + Flushing for pleasure of the sun,<br /> +The throbbing of the linnet’s throat<br /> + Is not so sweet to look upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">As a pomegranate, cut in twain,<br /> + White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,<br /> +Her cheeks are as the fading stain<br /> + Where the peach reddens to the south.</p> +<p class="poetry">O twining hands! O delicate<br /> + White body made for love and pain!<br /> +O House of love! O desolate<br /> + Pale flower beaten by the rain!</p> +<h4><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>CHANSON</h4> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">ring</span> of gold and a +milk-white dove<br /> + Are goodly gifts for thee,<br /> +And a hempen rope for your own love<br /> + To hang upon a tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">For you a House of Ivory,<br /> + (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!<br /> +A narrow bed for me to lie,<br /> + (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!</p> +<p class="poetry">Myrtle and jessamine for you,<br /> + (O the red rose is fair to see)!<br /> +For me the cypress and the rue,<br /> + (Finest of all is rosemary)!</p> +<p class="poetry">For you three lovers of your hand,<br /> + (Green grass where a man lies dead)!<br /> +For me three paces on the sand,<br /> + (Plant lilies at my head)!</p> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>CHARMIDES</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> was a Grecian +lad, who coming home<br /> + With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily<br /> +Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam<br /> + Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,<br +/> +And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite<br /> +Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy +night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear<br +/> + Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,<br /> +And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,<br /> + And bade the pilot head her lustily<br /> +Against the nor’west gale, and all day long<br /> +Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured +song.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the faint Corinthian hills were red<br +/> + Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,<br /> +And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,<br /> + <a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,<br +/> +And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold<br /> +Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,</p> +<p class="poetry">And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ +juice<br /> + Which of some swarthy trader he had bought<br /> +Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,<br /> + And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,<br /> +And by the questioning merchants made his way<br /> +Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring +day</p> +<p class="poetry">Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,<br +/> + Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet<br +/> +Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd<br /> + Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat<br /> +Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring<br /> +The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd +fling</p> +<p class="poetry">The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang<br +/> + His studded crook against the temple wall<br /> +To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang<br /> + Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;<br +/> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>And then +the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,<br /> +And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,</p> +<p class="poetry">A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,<br /> + A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery<br /> +Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb<br /> + Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee<br /> +Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil<br /> +Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked +spoil</p> +<p class="poetry">Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid<br /> + To please Athena, and the dappled hide<br /> +Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade<br /> + Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,<br /> +And from the pillared precinct one by one<br /> +Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had +done.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the old priest put out the waning fires<br +/> + Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed<br /> +For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres<br /> + Came fainter on the wind, as down the road<br /> +In joyous dance these country folk did pass,<br /> +And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished +brass.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,<br /> + And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,<br /> +And the rose-petals falling from the wreath<br /> + As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,<br +/> +And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon<br /> +Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon</p> +<p class="poetry">Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,<br +/> + When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,<br /> +And flinging wide the cedar-carven door<br /> + Beheld an awful image saffron-clad<br /> +And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared<br /> +From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin +flared</p> +<p class="poetry">Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled<br +/> + The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs +rolled,<br /> +And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,<br /> + And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold<br /> +In passion impotent, while with blind gaze<br /> +The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp<br /> + Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast<br /> +The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp<br /> + <a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast<br /> +Divide the folded curtains of the night,<br /> +And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.</p> +<p class="poetry">And guilty lovers in their venery<br /> + Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,<br /> +Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;<br /> + And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats<br /> +Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,<br /> +Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.</p> +<p class="poetry">For round the temple rolled the clang of +arms,<br /> + And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,<br /> +And the air quaked with dissonant alarums<br /> + Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,<br /> +And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,<br /> +And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>Ready for death with parted lips he stood,<br /> + And well content at such a price to see<br /> +That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,<br /> + The marvel of that pitiless chastity,<br /> +Ah! well content indeed, for never wight<br /> +Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a +sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air<br /> + Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,<br /> +And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,<br /> + And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;<br /> +For whom would not such love make desperate?<br /> +And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands +violate</p> +<p class="poetry">Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,<br /> + And bared the breasts of polished ivory,<br /> +Till from the waist the peplos falling down<br /> + Left visible the secret mystery<br /> +Which to no lover will Athena show,<br /> +The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of +snow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those who have never known a lover’s +sin<br /> + Let them not read my ditty, it will be<br /> +To their dull ears so musicless and thin<br /> + That they will have no joy of it, but ye<br /> +To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,<br /> +Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile.</p> +<p class="poetry">A little space he let his greedy eyes<br /> + Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight<br /> +Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,<br /> + And then his lips in hungering delight<br /> +<a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>Fed on +her lips, and round the towered neck<br /> +He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to +check.</p> +<p class="poetry">Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,<br /> + For all night long he murmured honeyed word,<br /> +And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed<br /> + Her pale and argent body undisturbed,<br /> +And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed<br /> +His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was as if Numidian javelins<br /> + Pierced through and through his wild and whirling +brain,<br /> +And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins<br /> + In exquisite pulsation, and the pain<br /> +Was such sweet anguish that he never drew<br /> +His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.</p> +<p class="poetry">They who have never seen the daylight peer<br +/> + Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,<br /> +And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear<br /> + And worshipped body risen, they for certain<br /> +Will never know of what I try to sing,<br /> +How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,<br /> + The sign which shipmen say is ominous<br /> +Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,<br /> + And the low lightening east was tremulous<br /> +With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,<br /> +Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Down the steep rock with hurried feet and +fast<br /> + Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,<br +/> +And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,<br /> + And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran<br /> +Like a young fawn unto an olive wood<br /> +Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;</p> +<p class="poetry">And sought a little stream, which well he +knew,<br /> + For oftentimes with boyish careless shout<br /> +The green and crested grebe he would pursue,<br /> + Or snare in woven net the silver trout,<br /> +And down amid the startled reeds he lay<br /> +Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the green bank he lay, and let one hand<br +/> + Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,<br /> +And soon the breath of morning came and fanned<br /> + His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly<br /> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>The +tangled curls from off his forehead, while<br /> +He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak<br +/> + With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,<br /> +And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke<br /> + Curled through the air across the ripening oats,<br +/> +And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed<br /> +As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle +strayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the light-foot mower went afield<br /> + Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,<br /> +And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,<br /> + And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,<br /> +Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream<br /> +And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one +said,<br /> + ‘It is young Hylas, that false runaway<br /> +Who with a Naiad now would make his bed<br /> + Forgetting Herakles,’ but others, +‘Nay,<br /> +It is Narcissus, his own paramour,<br /> +Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can +allure.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>And when they nearer came a third one cried,<br /> + ‘It is young Dionysos who has hid<br /> +His spear and fawnskin by the river side<br /> + Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,<br /> +And wise indeed were we away to fly:<br /> +They live not long who on the gods immortal come to +spy.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So turned they back, and feared to look +behind,<br /> + And told the timid swain how they had seen<br /> +Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined,<br /> + And no man dared to cross the open green,<br /> +And on that day no olive-tree was slain,<br /> +Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,</p> +<p class="poetry">Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty +pail<br /> + Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound<br /> +Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail,<br /> + Hoping that he some comrade new had found,<br /> +And gat no answer, and then half afraid<br /> +Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade</p> +<p class="poetry">A little girl ran laughing from the farm,<br /> + Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,<br /> +And when she saw the white and gleaming arm<br /> + And all his manlihood, with longing eyes<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>Whose +passion mocked her sweet virginity<br /> +Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far off he heard the city’s hum and +noise,<br /> + And now and then the shriller laughter where<br /> +The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys<br /> + Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,<br /> +And now and then a little tinkling bell<br /> +As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through the grey willows danced the fretful +gnat,<br /> + The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,<br /> +In sleek and oily coat the water-rat<br /> + Breasting the little ripples manfully<br /> +Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough<br /> +Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the +slough.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the faint wind floated the silky seeds<br /> + As the bright scythe swept through the waving +grass,<br /> +The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds<br /> + And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s +glass,<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>Which +scarce had caught again its imagery<br /> +Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">But little care had he for any thing<br /> + Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,<br +/> +And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing<br /> + To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;<br /> +Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen<br /> +The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the herdsman called his straggling +goats<br /> + With whistling pipe across the rocky road,<br /> +And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes<br /> + Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to +bode<br /> +Of coming storm, and the belated crane<br /> +Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain</p> +<p class="poetry">Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he +rose,<br /> + And from the gloomy forest went his way<br /> +Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,<br /> + And came at last unto a little quay,<br /> +And called his mates aboard, and took his seat<br /> +On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping +sheet,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>And steered across the bay, and when nine suns<br /> + Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,<br /> +And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons<br /> + To the chaste stars their confessors, or told<br /> +Their dearest secret to the downy moth<br /> +That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging +froth</p> +<p class="poetry">Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes<br +/> + And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked<br /> +As though the lading of three argosies<br /> + Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and +shrieked,<br /> +And darkness straightway stole across the deep,<br /> +Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down +the steep,</p> +<p class="poetry">And the moon hid behind a tawny mask<br /> + Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s +marge<br /> +Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,<br /> + The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!<br /> +And clad in bright and burnished panoply<br /> +Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened +looks<br /> + Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet<br +/> +Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,<br /> + <a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>And, marking how the rising waters beat<br /> +Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried<br /> +To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side</p> +<p class="poetry">But he, the overbold adulterer,<br /> + A dear profaner of great mysteries,<br /> +An ardent amorous idolater,<br /> + When he beheld those grand relentless eyes<br /> +Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’<br /> +Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then fell from the high heaven one bright +star,<br /> + One dancer left the circling galaxy,<br /> +And back to Athens on her clattering car<br /> + In all the pride of venged divinity<br /> +Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,<br /> +And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew<br +/> + With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,<br /> +And the old pilot bade the trembling crew<br /> + Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen<br /> +Close to the stern a dim and giant form,<br /> +And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the +storm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>And no man dared to speak of Charmides<br /> + Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,<br /> +And when they reached the strait Symplegades<br /> + They beached their galley on the shore, and +sought<br /> +The toll-gate of the city hastily,<br /> +And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">But</span> some good +Triton-god had ruth, and bare<br /> + The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian +land,<br /> +And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair<br /> + And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching +hand;<br /> +Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,<br /> +And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when he neared his old Athenian home,<br /> + A mighty billow rose up suddenly<br /> +Upon whose oily back the clotted foam<br /> + Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,<br /> +And clasping him unto its glassy breast<br /> +Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous +quest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now where Colonos leans unto the sea<br /> + There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;<br /> +The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee<br /> + <a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun<br /> +Is not afraid, for never through the day<br /> +Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.</p> +<p class="poetry">But often from the thorny labyrinth<br /> + And tangled branches of the circling wood<br /> +The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth<br /> + Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood<br /> +Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,<br /> +Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of +day</p> +<p class="poetry">The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball<br +/> + Along the reedy shore, and circumvent<br /> +Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal<br /> + For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,<br /> +And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,<br /> +Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should +rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">On this side and on that a rocky cave,<br /> + Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands<br /> +Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave<br /> + Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,<br +/> +As though it feared to be too soon forgot<br /> +By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a +spot</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +116</span>So small, that the inconstant butterfly<br /> + Could steal the hoarded money from each flower<br /> +Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy<br /> + Its over-greedy love,—within an hour<br /> +A sailor boy, were he but rude enow<br /> +To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted +prow,</p> +<p class="poetry">Would almost leave the little meadow bare,<br +/> + For it knows nothing of great pageantry,<br /> +Only a few narcissi here and there<br /> + Stand separate in sweet austerity,<br /> +Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,<br /> +And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hither the billow brought him, and was glad<br +/> + Of such dear servitude, and where the land<br /> +Was virgin of all waters laid the lad<br /> + Upon the golden margent of the strand,<br /> +And like a lingering lover oft returned<br /> +To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire +burned,</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere the wet seas had quenched that +holocaust,<br /> + That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,<br +/> +Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost<br /> + <a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>Had withered up those lilies white and red<br /> +Which, while the boy would through the forest range,<br /> +Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, +hand-in-hand,<br /> + Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied<br /> +The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,<br /> + And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,<br +/> +And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade<br /> +Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Save one white girl, who deemed it would not +be<br /> + So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms<br +/> +Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,<br /> + And longed to listen to those subtle charms<br /> +Insidious lovers weave when they would win<br /> +Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it +sin</p> +<p class="poetry">To yield her treasure unto one so fair,<br /> + And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s +drouth,<br /> +Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,<br /> + And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth<br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Afraid +he might not wake, and then afraid<br /> +Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond +renegade,</p> +<p class="poetry">Returned to fresh assault, and all day long<br +/> + Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,<br /> +And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,<br /> + Then frowned to see how froward was the boy<br /> +Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,<br /> +Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on +Proserpine;</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,<br +/> + But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,<br +/> +He will awake at evening when the sun<br /> + Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;<br +/> +This sleep is but a cruel treachery<br /> +To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea</p> +<p class="poetry">Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s +line<br /> + Already a huge Triton blows his horn,<br /> +And weaves a garland from the crystalline<br /> + And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn<br /> +The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,<br /> +For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd +head,</p> +<p class="poetry">We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,<br /> + And a blue wave will be our canopy,<br /> +<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>And at +our feet the water-snakes will curl<br /> + In all their amethystine panoply<br /> +Of diamonded mail, and we will mark<br /> +The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered +bark,</p> +<p class="poetry">Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold<br /> + Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep<br +/> +His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,<br /> + And we will see the painted dolphins sleep<br /> +Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks<br /> +Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous +flocks.</p> +<p class="poetry">And tremulous opal-hued anemones<br /> + Will wave their purple fringes where we tread<br /> +Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies<br /> + Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread<br +/> +The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,<br /> +And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will +deck.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun<br /> + With gaudy pennon flying passed away<br /> +Into his brazen House, and one by one<br /> + The little yellow stars began to stray<br /> +Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed<br /> +She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon<br /> + Washes the trees with silver, and the wave<br /> +Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,<br /> + The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave<br /> +The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,<br /> +And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky +grass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,<br +/> + For in yon stream there is a little reed<br /> +That often whispers how a lovely boy<br /> + Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,<br /> +Who when his cruel pleasure he had done<br /> +Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still<br /> + With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir<br /> +Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill<br /> + Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher<br /> +Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen<br /> +The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery +sheen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,<br /> + And every morn a young and ruddy swain<br /> +Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,<br /> + And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>By all +the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;<br /> +But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove</p> +<p class="poetry">With little crimson feet, which with its +store<br /> + Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad<br /> +Had stolen from the lofty sycamore<br /> + At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had<br /> +Flown off in search of berried juniper<br /> +Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest +vintager</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency<br /> + So constant as this simple shepherd-boy<br /> +For my poor lips, his joyous purity<br /> + And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy<br /> +A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;<br /> +For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;</p> +<p class="poetry">His argent forehead, like a rising moon<br /> + Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,<br /> +Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon<br /> + Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse<br /> +For Cytheræa, the first silky down<br /> +Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and +brown;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds<br /> + Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,<br /> +And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds<br /> + Is in his homestead for the thievish fly<br /> +To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead<br /> +Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet I love him not; it was for thee<br /> + I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st +come<br /> +To rid me of this pallid chastity,<br /> + Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam<br /> +Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star<br /> +Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets +are!</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew that thou would’st come, for when +at first<br /> + The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring<br /> +Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst<br /> + To myriad multitudinous blossoming<br /> +Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons<br /> +That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ +rapturous tunes</p> +<p class="poetry">Startled the squirrel from its granary,<br /> + And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,<br /> +Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy<br /> + <a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein<br /> +Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,<br /> +And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s +maidenhood.</p> +<p class="poetry">The trooping fawns at evening came and laid<br +/> + Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,<br /> +And on my topmost branch the blackbird made<br /> + A little nest of grasses for his spouse,<br /> +And now and then a twittering wren would light<br /> +On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting +place,<br /> + Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,<br /> +And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase<br /> + The timorous girl, till tired out with play<br /> +She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,<br /> +And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful +snare.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then come away unto my ambuscade<br /> + Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy<br /> +For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade<br /> + Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify<br /> +The dearest rites of love; there in the cool<br /> +And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s +pasturage,<br /> + For round its rim great creamy lilies float<br /> +Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,<br /> + Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat<br /> +Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid<br /> +To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was +made</p> +<p class="poetry">For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,<br /> + One arm around her boyish paramour,<br /> +Strays often there at eve, and I have seen<br /> + The moon strip off her misty vestiture<br /> +For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,<br /> +The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating +brine,<br /> + Back to the boisterous billow let us go,<br /> +And walk all day beneath the hyaline<br /> + Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,<br /> +And watch the purple monsters of the deep<br /> +Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.</p> +<p class="poetry">For if my mistress find me lying here<br /> + She will not ruth or gentle pity show,<br /> +But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere<br /> + Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>And draw +the feathered notch against her breast,<br /> +And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the +quest</p> +<p class="poetry">I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, +awake,<br /> + Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at +least<br /> +Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake<br /> + My parchèd being with the nectarous feast<br +/> +Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come,<br /> +Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure +home.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering +trees<br /> + Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air<br /> +Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas<br /> + Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare<br /> +Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,<br /> +And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the +glade.</p> +<p class="poetry">And where the little flowers of her breast<br +/> + Just brake into their milky blossoming,<br /> +This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,<br /> + Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,<br /> +And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,<br /> +And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her +heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry<br /> + On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,<br /> +Sobbing for incomplete virginity,<br /> + And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,<br /> +And all the pain of things unsatisfied,<br /> +And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing +side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,<br /> + And very pitiful to see her die<br /> +Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known<br /> + The joy of passion, that dread mystery<br /> +Which not to know is not to live at all,<br /> +And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly +thrall.</p> +<p class="poetry">But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,<br /> + Who with Adonis all night long had lain<br /> +Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,<br /> + On team of silver doves and gilded wain<br /> +Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar<br /> +From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,</p> +<p class="poetry">And when low down she spied the hapless +pair,<br /> + And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,<br +/> +Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air<br /> + As though it were a viol, hastily<br /> +<a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>She bade +her pigeons fold each straining plume,<br /> +And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their +dolorous doom.</p> +<p class="poetry">For as a gardener turning back his head<br /> + To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows<br /> +With careless scythe too near some flower bed,<br /> + And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,<br /> +And with the flower’s loosened loneliness<br /> +Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness</p> +<p class="poetry">Driving his little flock along the mead<br /> + Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide<br /> +Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede<br /> + And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,<br /> +Treads down their brimming golden chalices<br /> +Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;</p> +<p class="poetry">Or as a schoolboy tired of his book<br /> + Flings himself down upon the reedy grass<br /> +And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,<br /> + And for a time forgets the hour glass,<br /> +Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,<br /> +And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis<br /> + Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,<br /> +Or else that mightier maid whose care it is<br /> + To guard her strong and stainless majesty<br /> +Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!<br /> +That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house +should pass.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl<br +/> + In the great golden waggon tenderly<br /> +(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl<br /> + Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry<br +/> +Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast<br /> +Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)</p> +<p class="poetry">And then each pigeon spread its milky van,<br +/> + The bright car soared into the dawning sky,<br /> +And like a cloud the aerial caravan<br /> + Passed over the Ægean silently,<br /> +Till the faint air was troubled with the song<br /> +From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night +long.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the doves had reached their wonted +goal<br /> + Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips<br +/> +Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul<br /> + Just shook the trembling petals of her lips<br /> +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>And +passed into the void, and Venus knew<br /> +That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,</p> +<p class="poetry">And bade her servants carve a cedar chest<br /> + With all the wonder of this history,<br /> +Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest<br /> + Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky<br /> +On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun<br /> +Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere<br /> + The morning bee had stung the daffodil<br /> +With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair<br /> + The waking stag had leapt across the rill<br /> +And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept<br /> +Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when day brake, within that silver +shrine<br /> + Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,<br /> +Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine<br /> + That she whose beauty made Death amorous<br /> +Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,<br /> +And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> melancholy +moonless Acheron,<br /> + Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day<br /> +Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun<br /> + Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May<br /> +Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,<br /> +Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,</p> +<p class="poetry">There by a dim and dark Lethæan well<br +/> + Young Charmides was lying; wearily<br /> +He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,<br /> + And with its little rifled treasury<br /> +Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,<br /> +And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a +dream,</p> +<p class="poetry">When as he gazed into the watery glass<br /> + And through his brown hair’s curly tangles +scanned<br /> +His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass<br /> + Across the mirror, and a little hand<br /> +<a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>Stole +into his, and warm lips timidly<br /> +Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a +sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,<br +/> + And ever nigher still their faces came,<br /> +And nigher ever did their young mouths draw<br /> + Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,<br /> +And longing arms around her neck he cast,<br /> +And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and +fast,</p> +<p class="poetry">And all his hoarded sweets were hers to +kiss,<br /> + And all her maidenhood was his to slay,<br /> +And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss<br /> + Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay<br +/> +To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!<br /> +Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too venturous poesy, O why essay<br /> + To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings<br /> +O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay<br /> + Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings<br +/> +Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,<br /> +Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden +quid!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Enough, enough that he whose life had been<br /> + A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,<br /> +Could in the loveless land of Hades glean<br /> + One scorching harvest from those fields of flame<br +/> +Where passion walks with naked unshod feet<br /> +And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could +meet</p> +<p class="poetry">In that wild throb when all existences<br /> + Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy<br /> +Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress<br /> + Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone<br /> +Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne<br /> +Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.</p> +<h3><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>FLOWERS OF GOLD</h3> +<h4><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>IMPRESSIONS</h4> +<h5>I<br /> +LES SILHOUETTES</h5> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> sea is flecked with bars of grey,<br /> + The dull dead wind is out of tune,<br /> + And like a withered leaf the moon<br /> +Is blown across the stormy bay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Etched clear upon the pallid +sand<br /> + Lies the black boat: a sailor boy<br /> + Clambers aboard in careless joy<br /> +With laughing face and gleaming hand.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And overhead the curlews +cry,<br /> + Where through the dusky upland grass<br /> + The young brown-throated reapers pass,<br /> +Like silhouettes against the sky.</p> +<h5><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>II<br /> +LA FUITE DE LA LUNE</h5> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">To</span> +outer senses there is peace,<br /> + A dreamy peace on either hand<br /> + Deep silence in the shadowy land,<br /> +Deep silence where the shadows cease.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Save for a cry that echoes +shrill<br /> + From some lone bird disconsolate;<br /> + A corncrake calling to its mate;<br /> +The answer from the misty hill.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And suddenly the moon +withdraws<br /> + Her sickle from the lightening skies,<br /> + And to her sombre cavern flies,<br /> +Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.</p> +<h4><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>THE +GRAVE OF KEATS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rid</span> of the +world’s injustice, and his pain,<br /> + He rests at last beneath God’s veil of +blue:<br /> + Taken from life when life and love were new<br /> +The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,<br /> +Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.<br /> + No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,<br /> + But gentle violets weeping with the dew<br /> +Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.<br /> +O proudest heart that broke for misery!<br /> + O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!<br /> + O poet-painter of our English Land!<br /> +Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand:<br /> + And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,<br +/> + As Isabella did her Basil-tree.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rome</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>THEOCRITUS</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A +VILLANELLE</span></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">singer</span> of +Persephone!<br /> + In the dim meadows desolate<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p class="poetry">Still through the ivy flits the bee<br /> + Where Amaryllis lies in state;<br /> +O Singer of Persephone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Simætha calls on Hecate<br /> + And hears the wild dogs at the gate;<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p class="poetry">Still by the light and laughing sea<br /> + Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;<br /> +O Singer of Persephone!</p> +<p class="poetry">And still in boyish rivalry<br /> + Young Daphnis challenges his mate;<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p class="poetry">Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,<br /> + For thee the jocund shepherds wait;<br /> +O Singer of Persephone!<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<h4><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>IN +THE GOLD ROOM</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A +HARMONY</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Her</span> ivory hands on +the ivory keys<br /> + Strayed in a fitful fantasy,<br /> +Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees<br /> + Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,<br /> +Or the drifting foam of a restless sea<br /> +When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold<br /> + Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun<br /> +On the burnished disk of the marigold,<br /> + Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun<br /> + When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,<br /> +And the spear of the lily is aureoled.</p> +<p class="poetry">And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine<br +/> + Burned like the ruby fire set<br /> +In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,<br /> + Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,<br /> + Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet<br /> +With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.</p> +<h4><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>BALLADE DE MARGUERITE</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">NORMANDE</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> weary of lying +within the chase<br /> +When the knights are meeting in market-place.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town<br /> +Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I would not go where the Squires ride,<br +/> +I would only walk by my Lady’s side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,<br /> +A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Will she love me the less that my Father is +seen<br /> +Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,<br /> +Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, if she is working the arras bright<br /> +I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>Perchance she is hunting of the deer,<br /> +How could you follow o’er hill and mere?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, if she is riding with the court,<br /> +I might run beside her and wind the morte.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,<br /> +(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,<br /> +I might swing the censer and ring the bell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,<br /> +The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who are these knights in bright array?<br +/> +Is it a pageant the rich folks play?</p> +<p class="poetry">’T is the King of England from over +sea,<br /> +Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But why does the curfew toll sae low?<br /> +And why do the mourners walk a-row?</p> +<p class="poetry">O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s +son<br /> +Who is lying stark, for his day is done.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,<br /> +It is no strong man who lies on the bier.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,<br +/> +I knew she would die at the autumn fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,<br +/> +Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">O ’t is none of our kith and none of our +kin,<br /> +(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)</p> +<p class="poetry">But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting +sweet,<br /> +‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,<br /> +And let the dead folk bury their dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">O mother, you know I loved her true:<br /> +O mother, hath one grave room for two?</p> +<h4><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>THE +DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">BRETON</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Seven</span> stars in the +still water,<br /> + And seven in the sky;<br /> +Seven sins on the King’s daughter,<br /> + Deep in her soul to lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Red roses are at her feet,<br /> + (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)<br /> +And O where her bosom and girdle meet<br /> + Red roses are hidden there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fair is the knight who lieth slain<br /> + Amid the rush and reed,<br /> +See the lean fishes that are fain<br /> + Upon dead men to feed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet is the page that lieth there,<br /> + (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)<br /> +See the black ravens in the air,<br /> + Black, O black as the night are they.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>What do they there so stark and dead?<br /> + (There is blood upon her hand)<br /> +Why are the lilies flecked with red?<br /> + (There is blood on the river sand.)</p> +<p class="poetry">There are two that ride from the south and +east,<br /> + And two from the north and west,<br /> +For the black raven a goodly feast,<br /> + For the King’s daughter rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is one man who loves her true,<br /> + (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)<br /> +He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,<br /> + (One grave will do for four.)</p> +<p class="poetry">No moon in the still heaven,<br /> + In the black water none,<br /> +The sins on her soul are seven,<br /> + The sin upon his is one.</p> +<h4><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>AMOR +INTELLECTUALIS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oft</span> have we trod the +vales of Castaly<br /> + And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown<br /> + From antique reeds to common folk unknown:<br /> +And often launched our bark upon that sea<br /> +Which the nine Muses hold in empery,<br /> + And ploughed free furrows through the wave and +foam,<br /> + Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home<br /> +Till we had freighted well our argosy.<br /> +Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,<br /> + Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line<br /> +Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine<br /> + Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,<br +/> +The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,<br /> + And grave-browed Milton’s solemn +harmonies.</p> +<h4><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>SANTA DECCA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Gods are dead: +no longer do we bring<br /> + To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!<br /> + Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of +sheaves,<br /> +And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,<br /> +For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning<br /> + By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:<br +/> + Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;<br /> +Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet—perchance in this +sea-trancèd isle,<br /> + Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,<br /> + Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.<br /> +Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well<br /> + For us to fly his anger: nay, but see,<br /> + The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Corfu</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>A +VISION</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Two</span> crownèd +Kings, and One that stood alone<br /> + With no green weight of laurels round his head,<br +/> + But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,<br /> +And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan<br /> +For sins no bleating victim can atone,<br /> + And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.<br /> + Girt was he in a garment black and red,<br /> +And at his feet I marked a broken stone<br /> + Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.<br /> +Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,<br /> +I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’<br /> +And she made answer, knowing well each name,<br /> + ‘Æschylos first, the second +Sophokles,<br /> + And last (wide stream of tears!) +Euripides.’</p> +<h4><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sea was sapphire +coloured, and the sky<br /> + Burned like a heated opal through the air;<br /> + We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair<br /> +For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.<br /> +From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye<br /> + Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,<br /> + Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,<br +/> +And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.<br /> + The flapping of the sail against the mast,<br /> + The ripple of the water on the side,<br /> +The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,<br /> +The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,<br /> + And a red sun upon the seas to ride,<br /> + I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Katakolo</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>THE +GRAVE OF SHELLEY</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Like</span> burnt-out +torches by a sick man’s bed<br /> + Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached +stone;<br /> + Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,<br +/> +And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.<br /> +And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,<br /> + In the still chamber of yon pyramid<br /> + Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,<br /> +Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb<br /> + Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,<br /> +But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb<br /> + In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,<br /> +Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom<br /> + Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rome</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>BY +THE ARNO</h4> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> oleander on the wall<br /> + Grows crimson in the dawning light,<br /> + Though the grey shadows of the night<br /> +Lie yet on Florence like a pall.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The dew is bright upon the +hill,<br /> + And bright the blossoms overhead,<br /> + But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,<br /> +The little Attic song is still.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Only the leaves are gently +stirred<br /> + By the soft breathing of the gale,<br /> + And in the almond-scented vale<br /> +The lonely nightingale is heard.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The day will make thee silent +soon,<br /> + O nightingale sing on for love!<br /> + While yet upon the shadowy grove<br /> +Splinter the arrows of the moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Before across the silent +lawn<br /> + In sea-green vest the morning steals,<br /> + And to love’s frightened eyes reveals<br /> +The long white fingers of the dawn</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page151"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 151</span>Fast climbing up the eastern sky<br +/> + To grasp and slay the shuddering night,<br /> + All careless of my heart’s delight,<br /> +Or if the nightingale should die.</p> +<h3><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE</h3> +<h4><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>FABIEN DEI FRANCHI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To my Friend +Henry Irving</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> silent room, the +heavy creeping shade,<br /> + The dead that travel fast, the opening door,<br /> + The murdered brother rising through the floor,<br /> +The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,<br /> +And then the lonely duel in the glade,<br /> + The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,<br +/> + Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is +o’er,—<br /> +These things are well enough,—but thou wert made<br /> + For more august creation! frenzied Lear<br /> + Should at thy bidding wander on the heath<br /> + With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo<br /> +For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear<br /> +Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—<br +/> +Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!</p> +<h4><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>PHÈDRE</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Sarah +Bernhardt</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> vain and dull +this common world must seem<br /> + To such a One as thou, who should’st have +talked<br /> +At Florence with Mirandola, or walked<br /> +Through the cool olives of the Academe:<br /> +Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream<br +/> + For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have +played<br /> + With the white girls in that Phæacian glade<br +/> +Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay<br /> + Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again<br /> + Back to this common world so dull and vain,<br /> +For thou wert weary of the sunless day,<br /> + The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,<br /> + The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.</p> +<h4><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>WRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE</h4> +<h5>I<br /> +PORTIA</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Ellen +Terry</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">marvel</span> not +Bassanio was so bold<br /> + To peril all he had upon the lead,<br /> + Or that proud Aragon bent low his head<br /> +Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:<br /> +For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold<br /> + Which is more golden than the golden sun<br /> + No woman Veronesé looked upon<br /> +Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.<br /> +Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield<br /> + The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,<br +/> +And would not let the laws of Venice yield<br /> + Antonio’s heart to that accursèd +Jew—<br /> + O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:<br /> +I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.</p> +<h5><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>II<br /> +QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Ellen +Terry</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the lone tent, +waiting for victory,<br /> + She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,<br +/> + Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:<br /> +The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,<br /> +War’s ruin, and the wreck of chivalry<br /> + To her proud soul no common fear can bring:<br /> + Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,<br /> +Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.<br /> +O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face<br /> + Made for the luring and the love of man!<br /> + With thee I do forget the toil and stress,<br /> +The loveless road that knows no resting place,<br /> + Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s +dread weariness,<br /> + My freedom, and my life republican!</p> +<h5><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>III<br /> +CAMMA</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Ellen +Terry</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> one who poring on +a Grecian urn<br /> + Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,<br +/> + God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,<br /> +And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn<br /> +And face the obvious day, must I not yearn<br /> + For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,<br /> + When in midmost shrine of Artemis<br /> +I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet—methinks I’d rather see +thee play<br /> + That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery<br /> +Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake<br /> + Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,<br +/> + I am grown sick of unreal passions, make<br /> +The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!</p> +<h3><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>PANTHEA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span><span class="smcap">Nay</span>, let us walk from fire +unto fire,<br /> + From passionate pain to deadlier delight,—<br +/> +I am too young to live without desire,<br /> + Too young art thou to waste this summer night<br /> +Asking those idle questions which of old<br /> +Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.</p> +<p class="poetry">For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,<br +/> + And wisdom is a childless heritage,<br /> +One pulse of passion—youth’s first fiery +glow,—<br /> + Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage:<br /> +Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy,<br /> +Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to +see!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost thou not hear the murmuring +nightingale,<br /> + Like water bubbling from a silver jar,<br /> +So soft she sings the envious moon is pale,<br /> + That high in heaven she is hung so far<br /> +<a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>She +cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,—<br /> +Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring +moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees +dream,<br /> + The fallen snow of petals where the breeze<br /> +Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam<br /> + Of boyish limbs in water,—are not these<br /> +Enough for thee, dost thou desire more?<br /> +Alas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal +store.</p> +<p class="poetry">For our high Gods have sick and wearied +grown<br /> + Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour<br /> +For wasted days of youth to make atone<br /> + By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never,<br /> +Hearken they now to either good or ill,<br /> +But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.</p> +<p class="poetry">They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease,<br +/> + Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine,<br +/> +They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees<br /> + Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine,<br /> +Mourning the old glad days before they knew<br /> +What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming +do.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>And far beneath the brazen floor they see<br /> + Like swarming flies the crowd of little men,<br /> +The bustle of small lives, then wearily<br /> + Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again<br /> +Kissing each others’ mouths, and mix more deep<br /> +The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded +sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">There all day long the golden-vestured sun,<br +/> + Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch ablaze,<br +/> +And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun<br /> + By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze<br +/> +Fresh from Endymion’s arms comes forth the moon,<br /> +And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon.</p> +<p class="poetry">There walks Queen Juno through some dewy +mead,<br /> + Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron +dust<br /> +Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede<br /> + Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must,<br /> +His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare<br /> +The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>There in the green heart of some garden close<br /> + Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side,<br /> +Her warm soft body like the briar rose<br /> + Which would be white yet blushes at its pride,<br /> +Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis<br /> +Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely +bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">There never does that dreary north-wind blow<br +/> + Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare,<br +/> +Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow,<br /> + Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare<br /> +To wake them in the silver-fretted night<br /> +When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead +delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! they know the far Lethæan +spring,<br /> + The violet-hidden waters well they know,<br /> +Where one whose feet with tired wandering<br /> + Are faint and broken may take heart and go,<br /> +And from those dark depths cool and crystalline<br /> +Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and +anodyne.</p> +<p class="poetry">But we oppress our natures, God or Fate<br /> + Is our enemy, we starve and feed<br /> +On vain repentance—O we are born too late!<br /> + What balm for us in bruisèd poppy seed<br /> +<a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>Who +crowd into one finite pulse of time<br /> +The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite +crime.</p> +<p class="poetry">O we are wearied of this sense of guilt,<br /> + Wearied of pleasure’s paramour despair,<br /> +Wearied of every temple we have built,<br /> + Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,<br /> +For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:<br /> +One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole<br /> + Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand,<br +/> +No little coin of bronze can bring the soul<br /> + Over Death’s river to the sunless land,<br /> +Victim and wine and vow are all in vain,<br /> +The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the dead rise not +again.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are resolved into the supreme air,<br /> + We are made one with what we touch and see,<br /> +With our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair,<br /> + With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree<br +/> +Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range<br /> +The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>With beat of systole and of diastole<br /> + One grand great life throbs through earth’s +giant heart,<br /> +And mighty waves of single Being roll<br /> + From nerveless germ to man, for we are part<br /> +Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,<br /> +One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we +kill.</p> +<p class="poetry">From lower cells of waking life we pass<br /> + To full perfection; thus the world grows old:<br /> +We who are godlike now were once a mass<br /> + Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,<br /> +Unsentient or of joy or misery,<br /> +And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept +sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">This hot hard flame with which our bodies +burn<br /> + Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil,<br /> +Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn<br /> + To water-lilies; the brown fields men till<br /> +Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,<br /> +Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death’s +despite.</p> +<p class="poetry">The boy’s first kiss, the +hyacinth’s first bell,<br /> + The man’s last passion, and the last red +spear<br /> +That from the lily leaps, the asphodel<br /> + Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear<br /> +<a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>Of too +much beauty, and the timid shame<br /> +Of the young bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these +with the same</p> +<p class="poetry">One sacrament are consecrate, the earth<br /> + Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,<br /> +The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth<br /> + At daybreak know a pleasure not less real<br /> +Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood,<br /> +We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is +good.</p> +<p class="poetry">So when men bury us beneath the yew<br /> + Thy crimson-stainèd mouth a rose will be,<br +/> +And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew,<br /> + And when the white narcissus wantonly<br /> +Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy<br /> +Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus without life’s conscious +torturing pain<br /> + In some sweet flower we will feel the sun,<br /> +And from the linnet’s throat will sing again,<br /> + And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes will run<br +/> +Over our graves, or as two tigers creep<br /> +Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>And give them battle! How my heart leaps up<br /> + To think of that grand living after death<br /> +In beast and bird and flower, when this cup,<br /> + Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for +breath,<br /> +And with the pale leaves of some autumn day<br /> +The soul earth’s earliest conqueror becomes earth’s +last great prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">O think of it! We shall inform +ourselves<br /> + Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun,<br /> +The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves<br /> + That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn<br +/> +Upon the meadows, shall not be more near<br /> +Than you and I to nature’s mysteries, for we shall hear</p> +<p class="poetry">The thrush’s heart beat, and the daisies +grow,<br /> + And the wan snowdrop sighing for the sun<br /> +On sunless days in winter, we shall know<br /> + By whom the silver gossamer is spun,<br /> +Who paints the diapered fritillaries,<br /> +On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle +flies.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows<br /> + If yonder daffodil had lured the bee<br /> +Into its gilded womb, or any rose<br /> + Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree!<br /> +<a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>Methinks +no leaf would ever bud in spring,<br /> +But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips +that sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is the light vanished from our golden sun,<br +/> + Or is this dædal-fashioned earth less fair,<br +/> +That we are nature’s heritors, and one<br /> + With every pulse of life that beats the air?<br /> +Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,<br /> +New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.</p> +<p class="poetry">And we two lovers shall not sit afar,<br /> + Critics of nature, but the joyous sea<br /> +Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star<br /> + Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be<br +/> +Part of the mighty universal whole,<br /> +And through all æons mix and mingle with the Kosmic +Soul!</p> +<p class="poetry">We shall be notes in that great Symphony<br /> + Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic +spheres,<br /> +And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be<br /> + One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years<br +/> +Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,<br /> +The Universe itself shall be our Immortality.</p> +<h3><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>THE +FOURTH MOVEMENT</h3> +<h4><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>IMPRESSION</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">LE +RÉVEILLON</span></p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> sky is laced with fitful red,<br /> + The circling mists and shadows flee,<br /> + The dawn is rising from the sea,<br /> +Like a white lady from her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And jagged brazen arrows +fall<br /> + Athwart the feathers of the night,<br /> + And a long wave of yellow light<br /> +Breaks silently on tower and hall,</p> +<p class="poetry"> And spreading wide across the +wold<br /> + Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,<br /> + And all the chestnut tops are stirred,<br /> +And all the branches streaked with gold.</p> +<h4><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>AT +VERONA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> steep the stairs +within Kings’ houses are<br /> + For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,<br /> + And O how salt and bitter is the bread<br /> +Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far<br /> +That I had died in the red ways of war,<br /> + Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,<br /> + Than to live thus, by all things comraded<br /> +Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Curse God and die: what better hope than +this?<br /> + He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss<br /> + Of his gold city, and eternal day’—<br +/> +Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars<br /> + I do possess what none can take away<br /> + My love, and all the glory of the stars.</p> +<h4><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>APOLOGIA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Is</span> it thy will that +I should wax and wane,<br /> + Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,<br /> +And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain<br /> + Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?</p> +<p class="poetry">Is it thy will—Love that I love so +well—<br /> + That my Soul’s House should be a tortured +spot<br /> +Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell<br /> + The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,<br /> + And sell ambition at the common mart,<br /> +And let dull failure be my vestiture,<br /> + And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance it may be better so—at least<br +/> + I have not made my heart a heart of stone,<br /> +Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,<br /> + Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>Many a man hath done so; sought to fence<br /> + In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,<br +/> +Trodden the dusty road of common sense,<br /> + While all the forest sang of liberty,</p> +<p class="poetry">Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight<br +/> + Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,<br /> +To where some steep untrodden mountain height<br /> + Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s +hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or how the little flower he trod upon,<br /> + The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,<br +/> +Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun<br /> + Content if once its leaves were aureoled.</p> +<p class="poetry">But surely it is something to have been<br /> + The best belovèd for a little while,<br /> +To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen<br /> + His purple wings flit once across thy smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion +feed<br /> + On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the +bars,<br /> +Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed<br /> + The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!</p> +<h4><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>QUIA +MULTUM AMAVI</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> Heart, I think +the young impassioned priest<br /> + When first he takes from out the hidden shrine<br /> +His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,<br /> + And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful +wine,</p> +<p class="poetry">Feels not such awful wonder as I felt<br /> + When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,<br /> +And all night long before thy feet I knelt<br /> + Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me +more,<br /> + Through all those summer days of joy and rain,<br /> +I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,<br /> + Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced +seneschal,<br /> + Tread on my heels with all his retinue,<br /> +I am most glad I loved thee—think of all<br /> + The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!</p> +<h4><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>SILENTIUM AMORIS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> often-times the +too resplendent sun<br /> + Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon<br /> +Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won<br /> + A single ballad from the nightingale,<br /> + So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,<br /> +And all my sweetest singing out of tune.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as at dawn across the level mead<br /> + On wings impetuous some wind will come,<br /> +And with its too harsh kisses break the reed<br /> + Which was its only instrument of song,<br /> + So my too stormy passions work me wrong,<br /> +And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.</p> +<p class="poetry">But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show<br /> + Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;<br /> +Else it were better we should part, and go,<br /> + Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,<br /> + And I to nurse the barren memory<br /> +Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.</p> +<h4><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>HER +VOICE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wild bee reels +from bough to bough<br /> + With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,<br /> +Now in a lily-cup, and now<br /> + Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,<br /> + In his +wandering;<br /> +Sit closer love: it was here I trow<br /> + I made that +vow,</p> +<p class="poetry">Swore that two lives should be like one<br /> + As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,<br /> +As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—<br /> + It shall be, I said, for eternity<br /> + ’Twixt you +and me!<br /> +Dear friend, those times are over and done;<br /> + Love’s web +is spun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Look upward where the poplar trees<br /> + Sway and sway in the summer air,<br /> +Here in the valley never a breeze<br /> + Scatters the thistledown, but there<br /> + Great winds blow +fair<br /> +From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,<br /> + And the +wave-lashed leas.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>Look upward where the white gull screams,<br /> + What does it see that we do not see?<br /> +Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams<br /> + On some outward voyaging argosy,—<br /> + Ah! can it be<br +/> +We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!<br /> + How sad it +seems.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet, there is nothing left to say<br /> + But this, that love is never lost,<br /> +Keen winter stabs the breasts of May<br /> + Whose crimson roses burst his frost,<br /> + Ships +tempest-tossed<br /> +Will find a harbour in some bay,<br /> + And so we +may.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there is nothing left to do<br /> + But to kiss once again, and part,<br /> +Nay, there is nothing we should rue,<br /> + I have my beauty,—you your Art,<br /> + Nay, do not +start,<br /> +One world was not enough for two<br /> + Like me and +you.</p> +<h4><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>MY +VOICE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Within</span> this +restless, hurried, modern world<br /> + We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You +and I,<br /> +And now the white sails of our ship are furled,<br /> + And spent the lading of our argosy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wherefore my cheeks before their time are +wan,<br /> + For very weeping is my gladness fled,<br /> +Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,<br /> + And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But all this crowded life has been to thee<br +/> + No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell<br /> +Of viols, or the music of the sea<br /> + That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.</p> +<h4><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>TÆDIUM VITÆ</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> stab my youth +with desperate knives, to wear<br /> +This paltry age’s gaudy livery,<br /> +To let each base hand filch my treasury,<br /> +To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,<br /> +And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom,—I swear<br /> +I love it not! these things are less to me<br /> +Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,<br /> +Less than the thistledown of summer air<br /> +Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof<br /> +Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life<br /> +Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof<br /> +Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,<br /> +Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife<br /> +Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.</p> +<h3><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>HUMANITAD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span><span class="smcap">It</span> is full winter now: the +trees are bare,<br /> + Save where the cattle huddle from the cold<br /> +Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear<br /> + The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold<br /> +Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true<br /> +To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew</p> +<p class="poetry">From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of +hay<br /> + Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain<br /> +Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day<br /> + From the low meadows up the narrow lane;<br /> +Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep<br /> +Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs +creep</p> +<p class="poetry">From the shut stable to the frozen stream<br /> + And back again disconsolate, and miss<br /> +The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;<br /> + And overhead in circling listlessness<br /> +The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,<br /> +Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools +crack</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds<br /> + And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,<br +/> +And hoots to see the moon; across the meads<br /> + Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;<br +/> +And a stray seamew with its fretful cry<br /> +Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings<br /> + His load of faggots from the chilly byre,<br /> +And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings<br /> + The sappy billets on the waning fire,<br /> +And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare<br /> +His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the +air;</p> +<p class="poetry">Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,<br /> + And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom +again<br /> +With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,<br /> + For with the first warm kisses of the rain<br /> +The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,<br /> +And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit +peers</p> +<p class="poetry">From the dark warren where the fir-cones +lie,<br /> + And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs<br /> +<a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>Over the +mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly<br /> + Across our path at evening, and the suns<br /> +Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see<br /> +Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery</p> +<p class="poetry">Dance through the hedges till the early +rose,<br /> + (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)<br /> +Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose<br /> + The little quivering disk of golden fire<br /> +Which the bees know so well, for with it come<br /> +Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in +bloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and down the field the sower goes,<br +/> + While close behind the laughing younker scares<br /> +With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,<br /> + And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,<br /> +And on the grass the creamy blossom falls<br /> +In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals</p> +<p class="poetry">Steal from the bluebells’ nodding +carillons<br /> + Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,<br /> +That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons<br /> + With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine<br /> +<a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>In dusty +velvets clad usurp the bed<br /> +And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed</p> +<p class="poetry">Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,<br /> + And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,<br /> +Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy<br /> + Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,<br /> +And violets getting overbold withdraw<br /> +From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless +haw.</p> +<p class="poetry">O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!<br /> + Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock<br /> +And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,<br /> + Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock<br /> +Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon<br /> +Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at +noon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon will the glade be bright with +bellamour,<br /> + The flower which wantons love, and those sweet +nuns<br /> +Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture<br /> + Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations<br /> +With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,<br /> +And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars +will bind.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,<br /> + That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d +kine,<br /> +And to the kid its little horns, and bring<br /> + The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,<br /> +Where is that old nepenthe which of yore<br /> +Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a time when any common bird<br /> + Could make me sing in unison, a time<br /> +When all the strings of boyish life were stirred<br /> + To quick response or more melodious rhyme<br /> +By every forest idyll;—do I change?<br /> +Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce +range?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who +seek<br /> + To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,<br /> +And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek<br /> + Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;<br /> +Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare<br /> +To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched +soul<br /> + Takes discontent to be its paramour,<br /> +And gives its kingdom to the rude control<br /> + <a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>Of what should be its servitor,—for sure<br /> +Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea<br /> +Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in +me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect<br +/> + In natural honour, not to bend the knee<br /> +In profitless prostrations whose effect<br /> + Is by itself condemned, what alchemy<br /> +Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed<br /> +Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?</p> +<p class="poetry">The minor chord which ends the harmony,<br /> + And for its answering brother waits in vain<br /> +Sobbing for incompleted melody,<br /> + Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of +pain,<br /> +A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,<br /> +Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">The quenched-out torch, the lonely +cypress-gloom,<br /> + The little dust stored in the narrow urn,<br /> +The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic +tomb,—<br /> + Were not these better far than to return<br /> +To my old fitful restless malady,<br /> +Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god<br /> + Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed<br /> +Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod<br /> + Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,<br /> +Death is too rude, too obvious a key<br /> +To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Love! that noble madness, whose august<br +/> + And inextinguishable might can slay<br /> +The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must<br /> + From such sweet ruin play the runaway,<br /> +Although too constant memory never can<br /> +Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian</p> +<p class="poetry">Which for a little season made my youth<br /> + So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence<br /> +That all the chiding of more prudent Truth<br /> + Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence<br +/> +Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!<br /> +Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no +more,—<br /> + Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow<br +/> +Back to the troubled waters of this shore<br /> + Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now<br /> +<a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>The +chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,<br /> +Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more +austere.</p> +<p class="poetry">More barren—ay, those arms will never +lean<br /> + Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul<br +/> +In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;<br /> + Some other head must wear that aureole,<br /> +For I am hers who loves not any man<br /> +Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,<br /> + And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,<br /> +With net and spear and hunting equipage<br /> + Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,<br /> +But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell<br /> +Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy<br +/> + Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud<br /> +Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy<br /> + And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed<br /> +In wonder at her feet, not for the sake<br /> +Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!<br /> + And, if my lips be musicless, inspire<br /> +At least my life: was not thy glory hymned<br /> + By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre<br /> +Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,<br /> +And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a +son!</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet I cannot tread the Portico<br /> + And live without desire, fear and pain,<br /> +Or nurture that wise calm which long ago<br /> + The grave Athenian master taught to men,<br /> +Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,<br /> +To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,<br +/> + Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,<br /> +Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse<br /> + Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne<br /> +Is childless; in the night which she had made<br /> +For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath +strayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor much with Science do I care to climb,<br /> + Although by strange and subtle witchery<br /> +She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time<br /> + Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry<br /> +<a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>To no +less eager eyes; often indeed<br /> +In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read</p> +<p class="poetry">How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war<br /> + Against a little town, and panoplied<br /> +In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,<br /> + White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede<br /> +Between the waving poplars and the sea<br /> +Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ</p> +<p class="poetry">Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,<br +/> + And on the nearer side a little brood<br /> +Of careless lions holding festival!<br /> + And stood amazèd at such hardihood,<br /> +And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,<br /> +And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight +o’er</p> +<p class="poetry">Some unfrequented height, and coming down<br /> + The autumn forests treacherously slew<br /> +What Sparta held most dear and was the crown<br /> + Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew<br /> +How God had staked an evil net for him<br /> +In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows +dim,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel<br /> + With such a goodly time too out of tune<br /> +To love it much: for like the Dial’s wheel<br /> + That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon<br +/> +Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes<br /> +Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.</p> +<p class="poetry">O for one grand unselfish simple life<br /> + To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills<br /> +Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife<br /> + Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,<br +/> +Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly<br /> +Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!</p> +<p class="poetry">Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he<br /> + Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul<br /> +Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty<br /> + Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal<br +/> +Where love and duty mingle! Him at least<br /> +The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s +feast;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>But we are Learning’s changelings, know by +rote<br /> + The clarion watchword of each Grecian school<br /> +And follow none, the flawless sword which smote<br /> + The pagan Hydra is an effete tool<br /> +Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now<br /> +Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence +bow?</p> +<p class="poetry">One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!<br /> + Gone is that last dear son of Italy,<br /> +Who being man died for the sake of God,<br /> + And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,<br /> +O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,<br /> +Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or<br /> + The Arno with its tawny troubled gold<br /> +O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror<br /> + Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old<br /> +When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty<br /> +Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery</p> +<p class="poetry">Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell<br +/> + With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,<br /> +Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell<br /> + <a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +199</span>With which oblivion buries dynasties<br /> +Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,<br /> +As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.</p> +<p class="poetry">He knew the holiest heart and heights of +Rome,<br /> + He drave the base wolf from the lion’s +lair,<br /> +And now lies dead by that empyreal dome<br /> + Which overtops Valdarno hung in air<br /> +By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene<br /> +Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!</p> +<p class="poetry">Breathe through the tragic stops such +melodies<br /> + That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the +Nine<br /> +Forget awhile their discreet emperies,<br /> + Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest +shrine<br /> +Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,<br /> +And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!</p> +<p class="poetry">O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s +tower!<br /> + Let some young Florentine each eventide<br /> +Bring coronals of that enchanted flower<br /> + Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,<br /> +And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies<br /> +Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span>Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,<br /> + Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim<br /> +Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings<br /> + Of the eternal chanting Cherubim<br /> +Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away<br /> +Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and +clay,</p> +<p class="poetry">He is not dead, the immemorial Fates<br /> + Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.<br /> +Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!<br /> + Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain<br /> +For the vile thing he hated lurks within<br /> +Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still what avails it that she sought her +cave<br /> + That murderous mother of red harlotries?<br /> +At Munich on the marble architrave<br /> + The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas<br /> +Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness<br /> +Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless</p> +<p class="poetry">For lack of our ideals, if one star<br /> + Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust<br /> +Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war<br /> + Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust<br /> +<a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>Which +was Mazzini once! rich Niobe<br /> +For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,</p> +<p class="poetry">What Easter Day shall make her children +rise,<br /> + Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet<br /> +Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes<br /> + Shall see them bodily? O it were meet<br /> +To roll the stone from off the sepulchre<br /> +And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,</p> +<p class="poetry">Our Italy! our mother visible!<br /> + Most blessed among nations and most sad,<br /> +For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell<br /> + That day at Aspromonte and was glad<br /> +That in an age when God was bought and sold<br /> +One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,</p> +<p class="poetry">See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves<br /> + Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty<br /> +Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives<br /> + Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,<br /> +And no word said:—O we are wretched men<br /> +Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword<br /> + Which slew its master righteously? the years<br /> +Have lost their ancient leader, and no word<br /> + Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:<br /> +While as a ruined mother in some spasm<br /> +Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm</p> +<p class="poetry">Genders unlawful children, Anarchy<br /> + Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal<br /> +Licence who steals the gold of Liberty<br /> + And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real<br /> +One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp<br /> +That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp</p> +<p class="poetry">Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed<br /> + For whose dull appetite men waste away<br /> +Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed<br /> + Of things which slay their sower, these each day<br +/> +Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet<br /> +Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.</p> +<p class="poetry">What even Cromwell spared is desecrated<br /> + By weed and worm, left to the stormy play<br /> +Of wind and beating snow, or renovated<br /> + <a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>By more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay<br +/> +Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,<br /> +But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing<br +/> + Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air<br +/> +Seems from such marble harmonies to ring<br /> + With sweeter song than common lips can dare<br /> +To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now<br /> +The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches +bow</p> +<p class="poetry">For Southwell’s arch, and carved the +House of One<br /> + Who loved the lilies of the field with all<br /> +Our dearest English flowers? the same sun<br /> + Rises for us: the seasons natural<br /> +Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:<br /> +The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed +away.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet perchance it may be better so,<br /> + For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,<br /> +Murder her brother is her bedfellow,<br /> + And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene<br /> +And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set;<br /> +Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>For gentle brotherhood, the harmony<br /> + Of living in the healthful air, the swift<br /> +Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free<br /> + And women chaste, these are the things which lift<br +/> +Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s<br /> +Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human +woes,</p> +<p class="poetry">Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair<br +/> + White as her own sweet lily and as tall,<br /> +Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—<br /> + Ah! somehow life is bigger after all<br /> +Than any painted angel, could we see<br /> +The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity</p> +<p class="poetry">Which curbs the passion of that level line<br +/> + Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes<br /> +And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrine<br /> + And mirror her divine economies,<br /> +And balanced symmetry of what in man<br /> +Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the +span</p> +<p class="poetry">Between our mother’s kisses and the +grave<br /> + Might so inform our lives, that we could win<br /> +Such mighty empires that from her cave<br /> + Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin<br /> +<a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>Would +walk ashamed of his adulteries,<br /> +And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled +eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">To make the body and the spirit one<br /> + With all right things, till no thing live in vain<br +/> +From morn to noon, but in sweet unison<br /> + With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain<br /> +The soul in flawless essence high enthroned,<br /> +Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,</p> +<p class="poetry">Mark with serene impartiality<br /> + The strife of things, and yet be comforted,<br /> +Knowing that by the chain causality<br /> + All separate existences are wed<br /> +Into one supreme whole, whose utterance<br /> +Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance</p> +<p class="poetry">Of Life in most august omnipresence,<br /> + Through which the rational intellect would find<br +/> +In passion its expression, and mere sense,<br /> + Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,<br /> +And being joined with it in harmony<br /> +More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>Strike from their several tones one octave chord<br /> + Whose cadence being measureless would fly<br /> +Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord<br /> + Return refreshed with its new empery<br /> +And more exultant power,—this indeed<br /> +Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect +creed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! it was easy when the world was young<br /> + To keep one’s life free and inviolate,<br /> +From our sad lips another song is rung,<br /> + By our own hands our heads are desecrate,<br /> +Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed<br /> +Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has +flown,<br /> + And of all men we are most wretched who<br /> +Must live each other’s lives and not our own<br /> + For very pity’s sake and then undo<br /> +All that we lived for—it was otherwise<br /> +When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies.</p> +<p class="poetry">But we have left those gentle haunts to pass<br +/> + With weary feet to the new Calvary,<br /> +Where we behold, as one who in a glass<br /> + <a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,<br /> +And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze<br /> +Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.</p> +<p class="poetry">O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with +thorn!<br /> + O chalice of all common miseries!<br /> +Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne<br /> + An agony of endless centuries,<br /> +And we were vain and ignorant nor knew<br /> +That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we +slew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds,<br /> + The night that covers and the lights that fade,<br +/> +The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds,<br /> + The lips betraying and the life betrayed;<br /> +The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we<br /> +Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is this the end of all that primal force<br /> + Which, in its changes being still the same,<br /> +From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,<br /> + <a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame,<br +/> +Till the suns met in heaven and began<br /> +Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was +Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though<br +/> + The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain<br +/> +Loosen the nails—we shall come down I know,<br /> + Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole +again,<br /> +No need have we of hyssop-laden rod,<br /> +That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God.</p> +<h3><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>FLOWER OF LOVE</h3> +<h4><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ +ΕΡΩΣ</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, I blame you +not, for mine the fault<br /> + was, had I not been made of common clay<br /> +I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed<br /> + yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.</p> +<p class="poetry">From the wildness of my wasted passion I had<br +/> + struck a better, clearer song,<br /> +Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled<br /> + with some Hydra-headed wrong.</p> +<p class="poetry">Had my lips been smitten into music by the<br +/> + kisses that but made them bleed,<br /> +You had walked with Bice and the angels on<br /> + that verdant and enamelled mead.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had trod the road which Dante treading saw<br +/> + the suns of seven circles shine,<br /> +Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,<br /> + as they opened to the Florentine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the mighty nations would have crowned<br /> + me, who am crownless now and without name,<br /> +<a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>And some +orient dawn had found me kneeling<br /> + on the threshold of the House of Fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had sat within that marble circle where +the<br /> + oldest bard is as the young,<br /> +And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the<br /> + lyre’s strings are ever strung.</p> +<p class="poetry">Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from +out<br /> + the poppy-seeded wine,<br /> +With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,<br /> + clasped the hand of noble love in mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms +brush<br /> + the burnished bosom of the dove,<br /> +Two young lovers lying in an orchard would<br /> + have read the story of our love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Would have read the legend of my passion,<br /> + known the bitter secret of my heart,<br /> +Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as<br /> + we two are fated now to part.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the crimson flower of our life is eaten +by<br /> + the cankerworm of truth,<br /> +And no hand can gather up the fallen withered<br /> + petals of the rose of youth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what<br +/> + else had I a boy to do,—<br /> +For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the<br /> + silent-footed years pursue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and<br +/> + when once the storm of youth is past,<br /> +Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death<br /> + the silent pilot comes at last.</p> +<p class="poetry">And within the grave there is no pleasure, +for<br /> + the blindworm battens on the root,<br /> +And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of<br /> + Passion bears no fruit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! what else had I to do but love you, +God’s<br /> + own mother was less dear to me,<br /> +And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an<br /> + argent lily from the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have made my choice, have lived my poems,<br +/> + and, though youth is gone in wasted days,<br /> +I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better<br /> + than the poet’s crown of bays.</p> +<h2><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>UNCOLLECTED POEMS</h2> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>FROM +SPRING DAYS TO WINTER</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">FOR +MUSIC</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the glad +springtime when leaves were green,<br /> + O merrily the throstle sings!<br /> +I sought, amid the tangled sheen,<br /> +Love whom mine eyes had never seen,<br /> + O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the blossoms red and white,<br /> + O merrily the throstle sings!<br /> +My love first came into my sight,<br /> +O perfect vision of delight,<br /> + O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow apples glowed like fire,<br /> + O merrily the throstle sings!<br /> +O Love too great for lip or lyre,<br /> +Blown rose of love and of desire,<br /> + O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span>But now with snow the tree is grey,<br /> + Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!<br /> +My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,<br /> +See at her silent feet I lay<br /> + A dove with broken wings!<br /> + Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain—<br +/> +Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!</p> +<h3><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>TRISTITÆ</h3> +<p style="text-align: +center"><i>Αἴλινον</i>, +<i>αἴλινον +εἰπέ</i>, <i>τὸ δ’ +εὖ νικάτω</i></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">well</span> for him who +lives at ease<br /> + With garnered gold in wide domain,<br /> + Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,<br /> +The crashing down of forest trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">O well for him who ne’er hath known<br /> + The travail of the hungry years,<br /> + A father grey with grief and tears,<br /> +A mother weeping all alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">But well for him whose foot hath trod<br /> + The weary road of toil and strife,<br /> + Yet from the sorrows of his life.<br /> +Builds ladders to be nearer God.</p> +<h3><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>THE +TRUE KNOWLEDGE</h3> +<p class="poetry">. . . +<i>ἀναyκαίως +δ’ ἔχει</i><br /> +<i>Βίον +θερίζειν +ὥστε +κάρπιμον +στάχυν</i>,<br /> +<i>καὶ τὸν yὲν +εἶναι τὸν δὲ +yή</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> knowest all; I +seek in vain<br /> + What lands to till or sow with seed—<br /> + The land is black with briar and weed,<br /> +Nor cares for falling tears or rain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou knowest all; I sit and wait<br /> + With blinded eyes and hands that fail,<br /> + Till the last lifting of the veil<br /> +And the first opening of the gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou knowest all; I cannot see.<br /> + I trust I shall not live in vain,<br /> + I know that we shall meet again<br /> +In some divine eternity.</p> +<h3><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>IMPRESSIONS</h3> +<h4>I<br /> +LE JARDIN</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> lily’s +withered chalice falls<br /> + Around its rod of dusty gold,<br /> + And from the beech-trees on the wold<br /> +The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gaudy leonine sunflower<br /> + Hangs black and barren on its stalk,<br /> + And down the windy garden walk<br /> +The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pale privet-petals white as milk<br /> + Are blown into a snowy mass:<br /> + The roses lie upon the grass<br /> +Like little shreds of crimson silk.</p> +<h4><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span>II<br /> +LA MER</h4> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">white</span> mist drifts +across the shrouds,<br /> + A wild moon in this wintry sky<br /> + Gleams like an angry lion’s eye<br /> +Out of a mane of tawny clouds.</p> +<p class="poetry">The muffled steersman at the wheel<br /> + Is but a shadow in the gloom;—<br /> + And in the throbbing engine-room<br /> +Leap the long rods of polished steel.</p> +<p class="poetry">The shattered storm has left its trace<br /> + Upon this huge and heaving dome,<br /> + For the thin threads of yellow foam<br /> +Float on the waves like ravelled lace.</p> +<h3><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>UNDER THE BALCONY</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">beautiful</span> star +with the crimson mouth!<br /> + O moon with the brows of gold!<br /> +Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!<br /> + And light for my love her way,<br +/> + Lest her little feet should +stray<br /> + On the windy hill and the wold!<br /> +O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!<br /> + O moon with the brows of gold!</p> +<p class="poetry">O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!<br /> + O ship with the wet, white sail!<br /> +Put in, put in, to the port to me!<br /> + For my love and I would go<br /> + To the land where the daffodils +blow<br /> + In the heart of a violet dale!<br /> +O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!<br /> + O ship with the wet, white sail!</p> +<p class="poetry">O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!<br +/> + O bird that sits on the spray!<br /> +Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!<br /> + And my love in her little bed<br +/> + Will listen, and lift her head<br +/> + <a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>From the pillow, and come my way!<br /> +O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!<br /> + O bird that sits on the spray!</p> +<p class="poetry">O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!<br +/> + O blossom with lips of snow!<br /> +Come down, come down, for my love to wear!<br /> + You will die on her head in a +crown,<br /> + You will die in a fold of her +gown,<br /> + To her little light heart you will go!<br /> +O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!<br /> + O blossom with lips of snow!</p> +<h3><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>THE +HARLOT’S HOUSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> caught the tread +of dancing feet,<br /> +We loitered down the moonlit street,<br /> +And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inside, above the din and fray,<br /> +We heard the loud musicians play<br /> +The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like strange mechanical grotesques,<br /> +Making fantastic arabesques,<br /> +The shadows raced across the blind.</p> +<p class="poetry">We watched the ghostly dancers spin<br /> +To sound of horn and violin,<br /> +Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like wire-pulled automatons,<br /> +Slim silhouetted skeletons<br /> +Went sidling through the slow quadrille,</p> +<p class="poetry">Then took each other by the hand,<br /> +And danced a stately saraband;<br /> +Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed<br /> +A phantom lover to her breast,<br /> +Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes a horrible marionette<br /> +Came out, and smoked its cigarette<br /> +Upon the steps like a live thing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, turning to my love, I said,<br /> +‘The dead are dancing with the dead,<br /> +The dust is whirling with the dust.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But she—she heard the violin,<br /> +And left my side, and entered in:<br /> +Love passed into the house of lust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then suddenly the tune went false,<br /> +The dancers wearied of the waltz,<br /> +The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.</p> +<p class="poetry">And down the long and silent street,<br /> +The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,<br /> +Crept like a frightened girl.</p> +<h3><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>LE +JARDIN DES TUILERIES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> winter air is +keen and cold,<br /> + And keen and cold this winter sun,<br /> + But round my chair the children run<br /> +Like little things of dancing gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes about the painted kiosk<br /> + The mimic soldiers strut and stride,<br /> + Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide<br /> +In the bleak tangles of the bosk.</p> +<p class="poetry">And sometimes, while the old nurse cons<br /> + Her book, they steal across the square,<br /> + And launch their paper navies where<br /> +Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now in mimic flight they flee,<br /> + And now they rush, a boisterous band—<br /> + And, tiny hand on tiny hand,<br /> +Climb up the black and leafless tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,<br /> + And children climbed me, for their sake<br /> + Though it be winter I would break<br /> +Into spring blossoms white and blue!</p> +<h3><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>ON +THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> are the +letters which Endymion wrote<br /> + To one he loved in secret, and apart.<br /> + And now the brawlers of the auction mart<br /> +Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,<br /> +Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote<br /> + The merchant’s price. I think they love +not art<br /> + Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart<br /> +That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is it not said that many years ago,<br /> + In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran<br /> + With torches through the midnight, and began<br /> +To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw<br /> + Dice for the garments of a wretched man,<br /> +Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?</p> +<h3><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>THE +NEW REMORSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sin was mine; I +did not understand.<br /> + So now is music prisoned in her cave,<br /> + Save where some ebbing desultory wave<br /> +Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.<br /> +And in the withered hollow of this land<br /> + Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,<br /> + That hardly can the leaden willow crave<br /> +One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who is this who cometh by the shore?<br /> +(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this<br /> + Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?<br /> +It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss<br /> + The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,<br /> +And I shall weep and worship, as before.</p> +<h3><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>FANTAISIES DÉCORATIVES</h3> +<h4>I<br /> +LE PANNEAU</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Under</span> the +rose-tree’s dancing shade<br /> + There stands a little ivory girl,<br /> + Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl<br /> +With pale green nails of polished jade.</p> +<p class="poetry">The red leaves fall upon the mould,<br /> + The white leaves flutter, one by one,<br /> + Down to a blue bowl where the sun,<br /> +Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">The white leaves float upon the air,<br /> + The red leaves flutter idly down,<br /> + Some fall upon her yellow gown,<br /> +And some upon her raven hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">She takes an amber lute and sings,<br /> + And as she sings a silver crane<br /> + Begins his scarlet neck to strain,<br /> +And flap his burnished metal wings.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>She takes a lute of amber bright,<br /> + And from the thicket where he lies<br /> + Her lover, with his almond eyes,<br /> +Watches her movements in delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now she gives a cry of fear,<br /> + And tiny tears begin to start:<br /> + A thorn has wounded with its dart<br /> +The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now she laughs a merry note:<br /> + There has fallen a petal of the rose<br /> + Just where the yellow satin shows<br /> +The blue-veined flower of her throat.</p> +<p class="poetry">With pale green nails of polished jade,<br /> + Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,<br /> + There stands a little ivory girl<br /> +Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.</p> +<h4><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span>II<br /> +LES BALLONS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Against</span> these turbid +turquoise skies<br /> + The light and luminous balloons<br /> + Dip and drift like satin moons,<br /> +Drift like silken butterflies;</p> +<p class="poetry">Reel with every windy gust,<br /> + Rise and reel like dancing girls,<br /> + Float like strange transparent pearls,<br /> +Fall and float like silver dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now to the low leaves they cling,<br /> + Each with coy fantastic pose,<br /> + Each a petal of a rose<br /> +Straining at a gossamer string.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then to the tall trees they climb,<br /> + Like thin globes of amethyst,<br /> + Wandering opals keeping tryst<br /> +With the rubies of the lime.</p> +<h3><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>CANZONET</h3> +<p class="poetry"> I <span +class="smcap">have</span> no store<br /> +Of gryphon-guarded gold;<br /> + Now, as before,<br /> +Bare is the shepherd’s fold.<br /> + Rubies nor pearls<br /> +Have I to gem thy throat;<br /> + Yet woodland girls<br /> +Have loved the shepherd’s note.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then pluck a reed<br /> +And bid me sing to thee,<br /> + For I would feed<br /> +Thine ears with melody,<br /> + Who art more fair<br /> +Than fairest fleur-de-lys,<br /> + More sweet and rare<br /> +Than sweetest ambergris.</p> +<p class="poetry"> What dost thou fear?<br /> +Young Hyacinth is slain,<br /> + Pan is not here,<br /> +And will not come again.<br /> + <a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>No hornèd Faun<br /> +Treads down the yellow leas,<br /> + No God at dawn<br /> +Steals through the olive trees.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hylas is dead,<br /> +Nor will he e’er divine<br /> + Those little red<br /> +Rose-petalled lips of thine.<br /> + On the high hill<br /> +No ivory dryads play,<br /> + Silver and still<br /> +Sinks the sad autumn day.</p> +<h3><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>SYMPHONY IN YELLOW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">An</span> omnibus across +the bridge<br /> + Crawls like a yellow butterfly,<br /> + And, here and there, a passer-by<br /> +Shows like a little restless midge.</p> +<p class="poetry">Big barges full of yellow hay<br /> + Are moored against the shadowy wharf,<br /> + And, like a yellow silken scarf,<br /> +The thick fog hangs along the quay.</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow leaves begin to fade<br /> + And flutter from the Temple elms,<br /> + And at my feet the pale green Thames<br /> +Lies like a rod of rippled jade.</p> +<h3><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>IN +THE FOREST</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Out</span> of the +mid-wood’s twilight<br /> + Into the meadow’s dawn,<br /> +Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,<br /> + Flashes my Faun!</p> +<p class="poetry">He skips through the copses singing,<br /> + And his shadow dances along,<br /> +And I know not which I should follow,<br /> + Shadow or song!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Hunter, snare me his shadow!<br /> + O Nightingale, catch me his strain!<br /> +Else moonstruck with music and madness<br /> + I track him in vain!</p> +<h3><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>TO +MY WIFE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WITH A COPY +OF MY POEMS</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">can</span> write no +stately proem<br /> + As a prelude to my lay;<br /> +From a poet to a poem<br /> + I would dare to say.</p> +<p class="poetry">For if of these fallen petals<br /> + One to you seem fair,<br /> +Love will waft it till it settles<br /> + On your hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when wind and winter harden<br /> + All the loveless land,<br /> +It will whisper of the garden,<br /> + You will understand.</p> +<h3><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>WITH +A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Go</span>, little book,<br +/> +To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,<br /> +Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:<br /> +And bid him look<br /> +Into thy pages: it may hap that he<br /> +May find that golden maidens dance through thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>ROSES AND RUE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(To L. L.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Could</span> we dig up this +long-buried treasure,<br /> + Were it worth the pleasure,<br /> +We never could learn love’s song,<br /> + We are parted too long.</p> +<p class="poetry">Could the passionate past that is fled<br /> + Call back its dead,<br /> +Could we live it all over again,<br /> + Were it worth the pain!</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember we used to meet<br /> + By an ivied seat,<br /> +And you warbled each pretty word<br /> + With the air of a bird;</p> +<p class="poetry">And your voice had a quaver in it,<br /> + Just like a linnet,<br /> +And shook, as the blackbird’s throat<br /> + With its last big note;</p> +<p class="poetry">And your eyes, they were green and grey<br /> + Like an April day,<br /> +But lit into amethyst<br /> + When I stooped and kissed;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span>And your mouth, it would never smile<br /> + For a long, long while,<br /> +Then it rippled all over with laughter<br /> + Five minutes after.</p> +<p class="poetry">You were always afraid of a shower,<br /> + Just like a flower:<br /> +I remember you started and ran<br /> + When the rain began.</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember I never could catch you,<br /> + For no one could match you,<br /> +You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,<br /> + Little wings to your feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember your hair—did I tie it?<br /> + For it always ran riot—<br /> +Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:<br /> + These things are old.</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember so well the room,<br /> + And the lilac bloom<br /> +That beat at the dripping pane<br /> + In the warm June rain;</p> +<p class="poetry">And the colour of your gown,<br /> + It was amber-brown,<br /> +And two yellow satin bows<br /> + From your shoulders rose.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>And the handkerchief of French lace<br /> + Which you held to your face—<br /> +Had a small tear left a stain?<br /> + Or was it the rain?</p> +<p class="poetry">On your hand as it waved adieu<br /> + There were veins of blue;<br /> +In your voice as it said good-bye<br /> + Was a petulant cry,</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You have only wasted your +life.’<br /> + (Ah, that was the knife!)<br /> +When I rushed through the garden gate<br /> + It was all too late.</p> +<p class="poetry">Could we live it over again,<br /> + Were it worth the pain,<br /> +Could the passionate past that is fled<br /> + Call back its dead!</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, if my heart must break,<br /> + Dear love, for your sake,<br /> +It will break in music, I know,<br /> + Poets’ hearts break so.</p> +<p class="poetry">But strange that I was not told<br /> + That the brain can hold<br /> +In a tiny ivory cell<br /> + God’s heaven and hell.</p> +<h3><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span>DÉSESPOIR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> seasons send +their ruin as they go,<br /> +For in the spring the narciss shows its head<br /> +Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,<br /> +And in the autumn purple violets blow,<br /> +And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;<br /> +Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again<br /> +And this grey land grow green with summer rain<br /> +And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.</p> +<p class="poetry">But what of life whose bitter hungry sea<br /> +Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night<br /> +Covers the days which never more return?<br /> +Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn<br /> +We lose too soon, and only find delight<br /> +In withered husks of some dead memory.</p> +<h3><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>PAN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">DOUBLE +VILLANELLE</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I</p> +<p class="poetry">O goat-foot God of Arcady!<br /> +This modern world is grey and old,<br /> +And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">No more the shepherd lads in glee<br /> +Throw apples at thy wattled fold,<br /> +O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor through the laurels can one see<br /> +Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,<br /> +And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">And dull and dead our Thames would be,<br /> +For here the winds are chill and cold,<br /> +O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then keep the tomb of Helice,<br /> +Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,<br /> +And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">Though many an unsung elegy<br /> +Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,<br /> +O goat-foot God of Arcady!<br /> +Ah, what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>II</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,<br /> +Thy satyrs and their wanton play,<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">No nymph or Faun indeed have we,<br /> +For Faun and nymph are old and grey,<br /> +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">This is the land where liberty<br /> +Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of ancient chivalry<br /> +Where gentle Sidney saw the day,<br /> +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">This fierce sea-lion of the sea,<br /> +This England lacks some stronger lay,<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then blow some trumpet loud and free,<br /> +And give thine oaten pipe away,<br /> +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<h2><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>THE +SPHINX</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br +/> +MARCEL SCHWOB<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">IN FRIENDSHIP</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">IN ADMIRATION</span></p> +<h3><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>THE +SPHINX</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> a dim corner of +my room for longer than my fancy thinks<br /> +A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting +gloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she +does not stir<br /> +For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns +that reel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Red follows grey across the air, the waves of +moonlight ebb and flow<br /> +But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is +there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and all +the while this curious cat<br /> +Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with +gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the +tawny throat of her<br /> +Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her pointed +ears.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +248</span>Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, so +statuesque!<br /> +Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman and half +animal!</p> +<p class="poetry">Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and put +your head upon my knee!<br /> +And let me stroke your throat and see your body spotted like the +Lynx!</p> +<p class="poetry">And let me touch those curving claws of yellow +ivory and grasp<br /> +The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round your heavy velvet +paws!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +249</span>A <span class="smcap">thousand</span> weary centuries +are thine while I have hardly seen<br /> +Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy +liveries.</p> +<p class="poetry">But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the great +sandstone obelisks,<br /> +And you have talked with Basilisks, and you have looked on +Hippogriffs.</p> +<p class="poetry">O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to +Osiris knelt?<br /> +And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union for Antony</p> +<p class="poetry">And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend her +head in mimic awe<br /> +To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny from the +brine?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +250</span>And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon on his +catafalque?<br /> +And did you follow Amenalk, the God of Heliopolis?</p> +<p class="poetry">And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear +the moon-horned Io weep?<br /> +And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped +Pyramid?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span><span class="smcap">Lift</span> up your large black +satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks!<br /> +Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your +memories!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered with +the Holy Child,<br /> +And how you led them through the wild, and how they slept beneath +your shade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing to me of that odorous green eve when +crouching by the marge<br /> +You heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the laughter of +Antinous</p> +<p class="poetry">And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and +watched with hot and hungry stare<br /> +The ivory body of that rare young slave with his pomegranate +mouth!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the +twi-formed bull was stalled!<br /> +Sing to me of the night you crawled across the temple’s +granite plinth</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +252</span>When through the purple corridors the screaming scarlet +Ibis flew<br /> +In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the moaning +Mandragores,</p> +<p class="poetry">And the great torpid crocodile within the tank +shed slimy tears,<br /> +And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered back into the +Nile,</p> +<p class="poetry">And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms +as in your claws you seized their snake<br /> +And crept away with it to slake your passion by the shuddering +palms.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +253</span><span class="smcap">Who</span> were your lovers? who +were they who wrestled for you in the dust?<br /> +Which was the vessel of your Lust? What Leman had you, +every day?</p> +<p class="poetry">Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you on +the reedy banks?<br /> +Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on you in your trampled +couch?</p> +<p class="poetry">Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward +you in the mist?<br /> +Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with passion as you +passed them by?</p> +<p class="poetry">And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what +horrible Chimera came<br /> +With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed new wonders from +your womb?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +254</span><span class="smcap">Or</span> had you shameful secret +quests and did you harry to your home<br /> +Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious rock crystal +breasts?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you treading through the froth call to +the brown Sidonian<br /> +For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or Behemoth?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you when the sun was set climb up the +cactus-covered slope<br /> +To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was of polished jet?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped +down the grey Nilotic flats<br /> +At twilight and the flickering bats flew round the temple’s +triple glyphs</p> +<p class="poetry">Steal to the border of the bar and swim across +the silent lake<br /> +And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid your +lúpanar</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +255</span>Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the painted +swathèd dead?<br /> +Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned Tragelaphos?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you love the god of flies who plagued +the Hebrews and was splashed<br /> +With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had green beryls for her +eyes?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more +amorous than the dove<br /> +Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the Assyrian</p> +<p class="poetry">Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, +rose high above his hawk-faced head,<br /> +Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with rods of +Oreichalch?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and lay +before your feet<br /> +Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured nenuphar?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +256</span><span class="smcap">How</span> subtle-secret is your +smile! Did you love none then? Nay, I know<br /> +Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with you beside the +Nile!</p> +<p class="poetry">The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when +they saw him come<br /> +Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with spikenard and with +thyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">He came along the river bank like some tall +galley argent-sailed,<br /> +He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters +sank.</p> +<p class="poetry">He strode across the desert sand: he reached +the valley where you lay:<br /> +He waited till the dawn of day: then touched your black breasts +with his hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you +made the hornèd god your own:<br /> +You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret +name.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +257</span>You whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his +ears:<br /> +With blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous +miracles.</p> +<p class="poetry">White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your +chamber was the steaming Nile!<br /> +And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come +and go.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +258</span><span class="smcap">With</span> Syrian oils his brows +were bright: and wide-spread as a tent at noon<br /> +His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent the day a larger +light.</p> +<p class="poetry">His long hair was nine cubits’ span and +coloured like that yellow gem<br /> +Which hidden in their garment’s hem the merchants bring +from Kurdistan.</p> +<p class="poetry">His face was as the must that lies upon a vat +of new-made wine:<br /> +The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure of his +eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">His thick soft throat was white as milk and +threaded with thin veins of blue:<br /> +And curious pearls like frozen dew were broidered on his flowing +silk.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span><span class="smcap">On</span> pearl and porphyry +pedestalled he was too bright to look upon:<br /> +For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous +ocean-emerald,</p> +<p class="poetry">That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of +the Colchian caves<br /> +Had found beneath the blackening waves and carried to the +Colchian witch.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before his gilded galiot ran naked +vine-wreathed corybants,<br /> +And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his +chariot,</p> +<p class="poetry">And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter +as he rode<br /> +Down the great granite-paven road between the nodding +peacock-fans.</p> +<p class="poetry">The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon +in their painted ships:<br /> +The meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a +chrysolite.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +260</span>The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich apparel +bound with cords:<br /> +His train was borne by Memphian lords: young kings were glad to +be his guests.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to +Ammon’s altar day and night,<br /> +Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through Ammon’s +carven house—and now</p> +<p class="poetry">Foul snake and speckled adder with their young +ones crawl from stone to stone<br /> +For ruined is the house and prone the great rose-marble +monolith!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches +in the mouldering gates:<br /> +Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the fallen fluted +drums.</p> +<p class="poetry">And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced +ape of Horus sits<br /> +And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars of the +peristyle</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +261</span><span class="smcap">The</span> god is scattered here +and there: deep hidden in the windy sand<br /> +I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in impotent +despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many a wandering caravan of stately negroes +silken-shawled,<br /> +Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the neck that none can +span.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his +yellow-striped burnous<br /> +To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was thy paladin.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span><span class="smcap">Go</span>, seek his fragments on +the moor and wash them in the evening dew,<br /> +And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour!</p> +<p class="poetry">Go, seek them where they lie alone and from +their broken pieces make<br /> +Thy bruisèd bedfellow! And wake mad passions in the +senseless stone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved +your body! oh, be kind,<br /> +Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls of linen round +his limbs!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wind round his head the figured coins! stain +with red fruits those pallid lips!<br /> +Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren +loins!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +263</span><span class="smcap">Away</span> to Egypt! Have no +fear. Only one God has ever died.<br /> +Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier’s +spear.</p> +<p class="poetry">But these, thy lovers, are not dead. +Still by the hundred-cubit gate<br /> +Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon +strains his lidless eyes<br /> +Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto +thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his +black and oozy bed<br /> +And till thy coming will not spread his waters on the withering +corn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your lovers are not dead, I know. They +will rise up and hear your voice<br /> +And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your +mouth! And so,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +264</span>Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to your +ebon car!<br /> +Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of dead +divinities</p> +<p class="poetry">Follow some roving lion’s spoor across +the copper-coloured plain,<br /> +Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid him be your +paramour!</p> +<p class="poetry">Couch by his side upon the grass and set your +white teeth in his throat<br /> +And when you hear his dying note lash your long flanks of +polished brass</p> +<p class="poetry">And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber +sides are flecked with black,<br /> +And ride upon his gilded back in triumph through the Theban +gate,</p> +<p class="poetry">And toy with him in amorous jests, and when he +turns, and snarls, and gnaws,<br /> +O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your +agate breasts!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +265</span><span class="smcap">Why</span> are you tarrying? +Get hence! I weary of your sullen ways,<br /> +I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light +flicker in the lamp,<br /> +And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful dews of night and +death.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver +in some stagnant lake,<br /> +Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic +tunes,</p> +<p class="poetry">Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your +black throat is like the hole<br /> +Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are +hurrying through the Western gate!<br /> +Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver +cars!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +266</span>See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled +towers, and the rain<br /> +Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs with tears the wannish +day.</p> +<p class="poetry">What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with +uncouth gestures and unclean,<br /> +Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a +student’s cell?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +267</span><span class="smcap">What</span> songless tongueless +ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night,<br /> +And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter +in?</p> +<p class="poetry">Are there not others more accursed, whiter with +leprosies than I?<br /> +Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your +thirst?</p> +<p class="poetry">Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous +animal, get hence!<br /> +You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not +be.</p> +<p class="poetry">You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul +dreams of sensual life,<br /> +And Atys with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing +I am.</p> +<p class="poetry">False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By +reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his oar,<br /> +Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave me to my +crucifix,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span>Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world +with wearied eyes,<br /> +And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in +vain.</p> +<h2><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>THE +BALLAD OF READING GAOL</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page271"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 271</span><span class="GutSmall">IN +MEMORIAM</span><br /> +C. T. W.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SOMETIME TROOPER OF THE ROYAL HORSE +GUARDS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OBIIT H.M. PRISON, READING, +BERKSHIRE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JULY</span> 7, 1896</p> +<h3><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>THE +BALLAD OF READING GAOL</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> did not wear his +scarlet coat,<br /> + For blood and wine are red,<br /> +And blood and wine were on his hands<br /> + When they found him with the dead,<br /> +The poor dead woman whom he loved,<br /> + And murdered in her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">He walked amongst the Trial Men<br /> + In a suit of shabby grey;<br /> +A cricket cap was on his head,<br /> + And his step seemed light and gay;<br /> +But I never saw a man who looked<br /> + So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">I never saw a man who looked<br /> + With such a wistful eye<br /> +Upon that little tent of blue<br /> + Which prisoners call the sky,<br /> +And at every drifting cloud that went<br /> + With sails of silver by.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +274</span>I walked, with other souls in pain,<br /> + Within another ring,<br /> +And was wondering if the man had done<br /> + A great or little thing,<br /> +When a voice behind me whispered low,<br /> + ‘<i>That fellow’s got to +swing</i>.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear Christ! the very prison walls<br /> + Suddenly seemed to reel,<br /> +And the sky above my head became<br /> + Like a casque of scorching steel;<br /> +And, though I was a soul in pain,<br /> + My pain I could not feel.</p> +<p class="poetry">I only knew what hunted thought<br /> + Quickened his step, and why<br /> +He looked upon the garish day<br /> + With such a wistful eye;<br /> +The man had killed the thing he loved,<br /> + And so he had to die.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p274b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p274s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Yet each man kills the thing he loves,<br /> + By each let this be heard,<br /> +Some do it with a bitter look,<br /> + Some with a flattering word,<br /> +The coward does it with a kiss,<br /> + The brave man with a sword!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +275</span>Some kill their love when they are young,<br /> + And some when they are old;<br /> +Some strangle with the hands of Lust,<br /> + Some with the hands of Gold:<br /> +The kindest use a knife, because<br /> + The dead so soon grow cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some love too little, some too long,<br /> + Some sell, and others buy;<br /> +Some do the deed with many tears,<br /> + And some without a sigh:<br /> +For each man kills the thing he loves,<br /> + Yet each man does not die.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not die a death of shame<br /> + On a day of dark disgrace,<br /> +Nor have a noose about his neck,<br /> + Nor a cloth upon his face,<br /> +Nor drop feet foremost through the floor<br /> + Into an empty space.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p275.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p275.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">He does not sit with silent men<br /> + Who watch him night and day;<br /> +Who watch him when he tries to weep,<br /> + And when he tries to pray;<br /> +Who watch him lest himself should rob<br /> + The prison of its prey.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +276</span>He does not wake at dawn to see<br /> + Dread figures throng his room,<br /> +The shivering Chaplain robed in white,<br /> + The Sheriff stern with gloom,<br /> +And the Governor all in shiny black,<br /> + With the yellow face of Doom.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not rise in piteous haste<br /> + To put on convict-clothes,<br /> +While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes<br /> + Each new and nerve-twitched pose,<br /> +Fingering a watch whose little ticks<br /> + Are like horrible hammer-blows.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not know that sickening thirst<br /> + That sands one’s throat, before<br /> +The hangman with his gardener’s gloves<br /> + Slips through the padded door,<br /> +And binds one with three leathern thongs,<br /> + That the throat may thirst no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not bend his head to hear<br /> + The Burial Office read,<br /> +Nor, while the terror of his soul<br /> + Tells him he is not dead,<br /> +Cross his own coffin, as he moves<br /> + Into the hideous shed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span>He does not stare upon the air<br /> + Through a little roof of glass:<br /> +He does not pray with lips of clay<br /> + For his agony to pass;<br /> +Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek<br /> + The kiss of Caiaphas.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>II</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Six</span> weeks our +guardsman walked the yard,<br /> + In the suit of shabby grey:<br /> +His cricket cap was on his head,<br /> + And his step seemed light and gay,<br /> +But I never saw a man who looked<br /> + So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">I never saw a man who looked<br /> + With such a wistful eye<br /> +Upon that little tent of blue<br /> + Which prisoners call the sky,<br /> +And at every wandering cloud that trailed<br /> + Its ravelled fleeces by.</p> +<p class="poetry">He did not wring his hands, as do<br /> + Those witless men who dare<br /> +To try to rear the changeling Hope<br /> + In the cave of black Despair:<br /> +He only looked upon the sun,<br /> + And drank the morning air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>He did not wring his hands nor weep,<br /> + Nor did he peek or pine,<br /> +But he drank the air as though it held<br /> + Some healthful anodyne;<br /> +With open mouth he drank the sun<br /> + As though it had been wine!</p> +<p class="poetry">And I and all the souls in pain,<br /> + Who tramped the other ring,<br /> +Forgot if we ourselves had done<br /> + A great or little thing,<br /> +And watched with gaze of dull amaze<br /> + The man who had to swing.</p> +<p class="poetry">And strange it was to see him pass<br /> + With a step so light and gay,<br /> +And strange it was to see him look<br /> + So wistfully at the day,<br /> +And strange it was to think that he<br /> + Had such a debt to pay.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p279.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p279.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">For oak and elm have pleasant leaves<br /> + That in the springtime shoot:<br /> +But grim to see is the gallows-tree,<br /> + With its adder-bitten root,<br /> +And, green or dry, a man must die<br /> + Before it bears its fruit!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +280</span>The loftiest place is that seat of grace<br /> + For which all worldlings try:<br /> +But who would stand in hempen band<br /> + Upon a scaffold high,<br /> +And through a murderer’s collar take<br /> + His last look at the sky?</p> +<p class="poetry">It is sweet to dance to violins<br /> + When Love and Life are fair:<br /> +To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes<br /> + Is delicate and rare:<br /> +But it is not sweet with nimble feet<br /> + To dance upon the air!</p> +<p class="poetry">So with curious eyes and sick surmise<br /> + We watched him day by day,<br /> +And wondered if each one of us<br /> + Would end the self-same way,<br /> +For none can tell to what red Hell<br /> + His sightless soul may stray.</p> +<p class="poetry">At last the dead man walked no more<br /> + Amongst the Trial Men,<br /> +And I knew that he was standing up<br /> + In the black dock’s dreadful pen,<br /> +And that never would I see his face<br /> + In God’s sweet world again.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +281</span>Like two doomed ships that pass in storm<br /> + We had crossed each other’s way:<br /> +But we made no sign, we said no word,<br /> + We had no word to say;<br /> +For we did not meet in the holy night,<br /> + But in the shameful day.</p> +<p class="poetry">A prison wall was round us both,<br /> + Two outcast men we were:<br /> +The world had thrust us from its heart,<br /> + And God from out His care:<br /> +And the iron gin that waits for Sin<br /> + Had caught us in its snare.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Debtors’ +Yard the stones are hard,<br /> + And the dripping wall is high,<br /> +So it was there he took the air<br /> + Beneath the leaden sky,<br /> +And by each side a Warder walked,<br /> + For fear the man might die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or else he sat with those who watched<br /> + His anguish night and day;<br /> +Who watched him when he rose to weep,<br /> + And when he crouched to pray;<br /> +Who watched him lest himself should rob<br /> + Their scaffold of its prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Governor was strong upon<br /> + The Regulations Act:<br /> +The Doctor said that Death was but<br /> + A scientific fact:<br /> +And twice a day the Chaplain called,<br /> + And left a little tract.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>And twice a day he smoked his pipe,<br /> + And drank his quart of beer:<br /> +His soul was resolute, and held<br /> + No hiding-place for fear;<br /> +He often said that he was glad<br /> + The hangman’s hands were near.</p> +<p class="poetry">But why he said so strange a thing<br /> + No Warder dared to ask:<br /> +For he to whom a watcher’s doom<br /> + Is given as his task,<br /> +Must set a lock upon his lips,<br /> + And make his face a mask.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or else he might be moved, and try<br /> + To comfort or console:<br /> +And what should Human Pity do<br /> + Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?<br /> +What word of grace in such a place<br /> + Could help a brother’s soul?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p283.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p283.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">With slouch and swing around the ring<br /> + We trod the Fools’ Parade!<br /> +We did not care: we knew we were<br /> + The Devil’s Own Brigade:<br /> +And shaven head and feet of lead<br /> + Make a merry masquerade.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +284</span>We tore the tarry rope to shreds<br /> + With blunt and bleeding nails;<br /> +We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,<br /> + And cleaned the shining rails:<br /> +And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,<br /> + And clattered with the pails.</p> +<p class="poetry">We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,<br /> + We turned the dusty drill:<br /> +We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,<br /> + And sweated on the mill:<br /> +But in the heart of every man<br /> + Terror was lying still.</p> +<p class="poetry">So still it lay that every day<br /> + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:<br /> +And we forgot the bitter lot<br /> + That waits for fool and knave,<br /> +Till once, as we tramped in from work,<br /> + We passed an open grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">With yawning mouth the yellow hole<br /> + Gaped for a living thing;<br /> +The very mud cried out for blood<br /> + To the thirsty asphalte ring:<br /> +And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair<br /> + Some prisoner had to swing.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span>Right in we went, with soul intent<br /> + On Death and Dread and Doom:<br /> +The hangman, with his little bag,<br /> + Went shuffling through the gloom:<br /> +And each man trembled as he crept<br /> + Into his numbered tomb.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p285.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p285.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">That night the empty corridors<br /> + Were full of forms of Fear,<br /> +And up and down the iron town<br /> + Stole feet we could not hear,<br /> +And through the bars that hide the stars<br /> + White faces seemed to peer.</p> +<p class="poetry">He lay as one who lies and dreams<br /> + In a pleasant meadow-land,<br /> +The watchers watched him as he slept,<br /> + And could not understand<br /> +How one could sleep so sweet a sleep<br /> + With a hangman close at hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there is no sleep when men must weep<br /> + Who never yet have wept:<br /> +So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—<br /> + That endless vigil kept,<br /> +And through each brain on hands of pain<br /> + Another’s terror crept.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +286</span>Alas! it is a fearful thing<br /> + To feel another’s guilt!<br /> +For, right within, the sword of Sin<br /> + Pierced to its poisoned hilt,<br /> +And as molten lead were the tears we shed<br /> + For the blood we had not spilt.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Warders with their shoes of felt<br /> + Crept by each padlocked door,<br /> +And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,<br /> + Grey figures on the floor,<br /> +And wondered why men knelt to pray<br /> + Who never prayed before.</p> +<p class="poetry">All through the night we knelt and prayed,<br +/> + Mad mourners of a corse!<br /> +The troubled plumes of midnight were<br /> + The plumes upon a hearse:<br /> +And bitter wine upon a sponge<br /> + Was the savour of Remorse.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry">The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,<br /> + But never came the day:<br /> +And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,<br /> + In the corners where we lay:<br /> +And each evil sprite that walks by night<br /> + Before us seemed to play.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +287</span>They glided past, they glided fast,<br /> + Like travellers through a mist:<br /> +They mocked the moon in a rigadoon<br /> + Of delicate turn and twist,<br /> +And with formal pace and loathsome grace<br /> + The phantoms kept their tryst.</p> +<p class="poetry">With mop and mow, we saw them go,<br /> + Slim shadows hand in hand:<br /> +About, about, in ghostly rout<br /> + They trod a saraband:<br /> +And the damned grotesques made arabesques,<br /> + Like the wind upon the sand!</p> +<p class="poetry">With the pirouettes of marionettes,<br /> + They tripped on pointed tread:<br /> +But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,<br /> + As their grisly masque they led,<br /> +And loud they sang, and long they sang,<br /> + For they sang to wake the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Oho</i>!’ <i>they cried</i>, +‘<i>The world is wide</i>,<br /> + <i>But fettered limbs go lame</i>!<br /> +<i>And once</i>, <i>or twice</i>, <i>to throw the dice</i><br /> + <i>Is a gentlemanly game</i>,<br /> +<i>But he does not win who plays with Sin</i><br /> + <i>In the secret House of Shame</i>.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +288</span>No things of air these antics were,<br /> + That frolicked with such glee:<br /> +To men whose lives were held in gyves,<br /> + And whose feet might not go free,<br /> +Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,<br /> + Most terrible to see.</p> +<p class="poetry">Around, around, they waltzed and wound;<br /> + Some wheeled in smirking pairs;<br /> +With the mincing step of a demirep<br /> + Some sidled up the stairs:<br /> +And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,<br /> + Each helped us at our prayers.</p> +<p class="poetry">The morning wind began to moan,<br /> + But still the night went on:<br /> +Through its giant loom the web of gloom<br /> + Crept till each thread was spun:<br /> +And, as we prayed, we grew afraid<br /> + Of the Justice of the Sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moaning wind went wandering round<br /> + The weeping prison-wall:<br /> +Till like a wheel of turning steel<br /> + We felt the minutes crawl:<br /> +O moaning wind! what had we done<br /> + To have such a seneschal?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +289</span>At last I saw the shadowed bars,<br /> + Like a lattice wrought in lead,<br /> +Move right across the whitewashed wall<br /> + That faced my three-plank bed,<br /> +And I knew that somewhere in the world<br /> + God’s dreadful dawn was red.</p> +<p class="poetry">At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,<br +/> + At seven all was still,<br /> +But the sough and swing of a mighty wing<br /> + The prison seemed to fill,<br /> +For the Lord of Death with icy breath<br /> + Had entered in to kill.</p> +<p class="poetry">He did not pass in purple pomp,<br /> + Nor ride a moon-white steed.<br /> +Three yards of cord and a sliding board<br /> + Are all the gallows’ need:<br /> +So with rope of shame the Herald came<br /> + To do the secret deed.</p> +<p class="poetry">We were as men who through a fen<br /> + Of filthy darkness grope:<br /> +We did not dare to breathe a prayer,<br /> + Or to give our anguish scope:<br /> +Something was dead in each of us,<br /> + And what was dead was Hope.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +290</span>For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,<br /> + And will not swerve aside:<br /> +It slays the weak, it slays the strong,<br /> + It has a deadly stride:<br /> +With iron heel it slays the strong,<br /> + The monstrous parricide!</p> +<p class="poetry">We waited for the stroke of eight:<br /> + Each tongue was thick with thirst:<br /> +For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate<br /> + That makes a man accursed,<br /> +And Fate will use a running noose<br /> + For the best man and the worst.</p> +<p class="poetry">We had no other thing to do,<br /> + Save to wait for the sign to come:<br /> +So, like things of stone in a valley lone,<br /> + Quiet we sat and dumb:<br /> +But each man’s heart beat thick and quick,<br /> + Like a madman on a drum!</p> +<p class="poetry">With sudden shock the prison-clock<br /> + Smote on the shivering air,<br /> +And from all the gaol rose up a wail<br /> + Of impotent despair,<br /> +Like the sound that frightened marshes hear<br /> + From some leper in his lair.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +291</span>And as one sees most fearful things<br /> + In the crystal of a dream,<br /> +We saw the greasy hempen rope<br /> + Hooked to the blackened beam,<br /> +And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare<br /> + Strangled into a scream.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all the woe that moved him so<br /> + That he gave that bitter cry,<br /> +And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,<br /> + None knew so well as I:<br /> +For he who lives more lives than one<br /> + More deaths than one must die.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>IV</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is no chapel +on the day<br /> + On which they hang a man:<br /> +The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,<br /> + Or his face is far too wan,<br /> +Or there is that written in his eyes<br /> + Which none should look upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">So they kept us close till nigh on noon,<br /> + And then they rang the bell,<br /> +And the Warders with their jingling keys<br /> + Opened each listening cell,<br /> +And down the iron stair we tramped,<br /> + Each from his separate Hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out into God’s sweet air we went,<br /> + But not in wonted way,<br /> +For this man’s face was white with fear,<br /> + And that man’s face was grey,<br /> +And I never saw sad men who looked<br /> + So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +293</span>I never saw sad men who looked<br /> + With such a wistful eye<br /> +Upon that little tent of blue<br /> + We prisoners called the sky,<br /> +And at every careless cloud that passed<br /> + In happy freedom by.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there were those amongst us all<br /> + Who walked with downcast head,<br /> +And knew that, had each got his due,<br /> + They should have died instead:<br /> +He had but killed a thing that lived,<br /> + Whilst they had killed the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">For he who sins a second time<br /> + Wakes a dead soul to pain,<br /> +And draws it from its spotted shroud,<br /> + And makes it bleed again,<br /> +And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,<br /> + And makes it bleed in vain!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p293.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p293.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb<br /> + With crooked arrows starred,<br /> +Silently we went round and round<br /> + The slippery asphalte yard;<br /> +Silently we went round and round,<br /> + And no man spoke a word.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +294</span>Silently we went round and round,<br /> + And through each hollow mind<br /> +The Memory of dreadful things<br /> + Rushed like a dreadful wind,<br /> +And Horror stalked before each man,<br /> + And Terror crept behind.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p294.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p294.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">The Warders strutted up and down,<br /> + And kept their herd of brutes,<br /> +Their uniforms were spick and span,<br /> + And they wore their Sunday suits,<br /> +But we knew the work they had been at,<br /> + By the quicklime on their boots.</p> +<p class="poetry">For where a grave had opened wide,<br /> + There was no grave at all:<br /> +Only a stretch of mud and sand<br /> + By the hideous prison-wall,<br /> +And a little heap of burning lime,<br /> + That the man should have his pall.</p> +<p class="poetry">For he has a pall, this wretched man,<br /> + Such as few men can claim:<br /> +Deep down below a prison-yard,<br /> + Naked for greater shame,<br /> +He lies, with fetters on each foot,<br /> + Wrapt in a sheet of flame!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +295</span>And all the while the burning lime<br /> + Eats flesh and bone away,<br /> +It eats the brittle bone by night,<br /> + And the soft flesh by day,<br /> +It eats the flesh and bone by turns,<br /> + But it eats the heart alway.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p295.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p295.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">For three long years they will not sow<br /> + Or root or seedling there:<br /> +For three long years the unblessed spot<br /> + Will sterile be and bare,<br /> +And look upon the wondering sky<br /> + With unreproachful stare.</p> +<p class="poetry">They think a murderer’s heart would +taint<br /> + Each simple seed they sow.<br /> +It is not true! God’s kindly earth<br /> + Is kindlier than men know,<br /> +And the red rose would but blow more red,<br /> + The white rose whiter blow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out of his mouth a red, red rose!<br /> + Out of his heart a white!<br /> +For who can say by what strange way,<br /> + Christ brings His will to light,<br /> +Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore<br /> + Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +296</span>But neither milk-white rose nor red<br /> + May bloom in prison-air;<br /> +The shard, the pebble, and the flint,<br /> + Are what they give us there:<br /> +For flowers have been known to heal<br /> + A common man’s despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">So never will wine-red rose or white,<br /> + Petal by petal, fall<br /> +On that stretch of mud and sand that lies<br /> + By the hideous prison-wall,<br /> +To tell the men who tramp the yard<br /> + That God’s Son died for all.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p296.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p296.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Yet though the hideous prison-wall<br /> + Still hems him round and round,<br /> +And a spirit may not walk by night<br /> + That is with fetters bound,<br /> +And a spirit may but weep that lies<br /> + In such unholy ground,</p> +<p class="poetry">He is at peace—this wretched +man—<br /> + At peace, or will be soon:<br /> +There is no thing to make him mad,<br /> + Nor does Terror walk at noon,<br /> +For the lampless Earth in which he lies<br /> + Has neither Sun nor Moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +297</span>They hanged him as a beast is hanged:<br /> + They did not even toll<br /> +A requiem that might have brought<br /> + Rest to his startled soul,<br /> +But hurriedly they took him out,<br /> + And hid him in a hole.</p> +<p class="poetry">They stripped him of his canvas clothes,<br /> + And gave him to the flies:<br /> +They mocked the swollen purple throat,<br /> + And the stark and staring eyes:<br /> +And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud<br /> + In which their convict lies.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Chaplain would not kneel to pray<br /> + By his dishonoured grave:<br /> +Nor mark it with that blessed Cross<br /> + That Christ for sinners gave,<br /> +Because the man was one of those<br /> + Whom Christ came down to save.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet all is well; he has but passed<br /> + To Life’s appointed bourne:<br /> +And alien tears will fill for him<br /> + Pity’s long-broken urn,<br /> +For his mourners will be outcast men,<br /> + And outcasts always mourn</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>V</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">know</span> not whether +Laws be right,<br /> + Or whether Laws be wrong;<br /> +All that we know who lie in gaol<br /> + Is that the wall is strong;<br /> +And that each day is like a year,<br /> + A year whose days are long.</p> +<p class="poetry">But this I know, that every Law<br /> + That men have made for Man,<br /> +Since first Man took his brother’s life,<br /> + And the sad world began,<br /> +But straws the wheat and saves the chaff<br /> + With a most evil fan.</p> +<p class="poetry">This too I know—and wise it were<br /> + If each could know the same—<br /> +That every prison that men build<br /> + Is built with bricks of shame,<br /> +And bound with bars lest Christ should see<br /> + How men their brothers maim.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +299</span>With bars they blur the gracious moon,<br /> + And blind the goodly sun:<br /> +And they do well to hide their Hell,<br /> + For in it things are done<br /> +That Son of God nor son of Man<br /> + Ever should look upon!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p299.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p299.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">The vilest deeds like poison weeds,<br /> + Bloom well in prison-air;<br /> +It is only what is good in Man<br /> + That wastes and withers there:<br /> +Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,<br /> + And the Warder is Despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">For they starve the little frightened child<br +/> + Till it weeps both night and day:<br /> +And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,<br /> + And gibe the old and grey,<br /> +And some grow mad, and all grow bad,<br /> + And none a word may say.</p> +<p class="poetry">Each narrow cell in which we dwell<br /> + Is a foul and dark latrine,<br /> +And the fetid breath of living Death<br /> + Chokes up each grated screen,<br /> +And all, but Lust, is turned to dust<br /> + In Humanity’s machine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page300"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +300</span>The brackish water that we drink<br /> + Creeps with a loathsome slime,<br /> +And the bitter bread they weigh in scales<br /> + Is full of chalk and lime,<br /> +And Sleep will not lie down, but walks<br /> + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p300.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p300.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">But though lean Hunger and green Thirst<br /> + Like asp with adder fight,<br /> +We have little care of prison fare,<br /> + For what chills and kills outright<br /> +Is that every stone one lifts by day<br /> + Becomes one’s heart by night.</p> +<p class="poetry">With midnight always in one’s heart,<br +/> + And twilight in one’s cell,<br /> +We turn the crank, or tear the rope,<br /> + Each in his separate Hell,<br /> +And the silence is more awful far<br /> + Than the sound of a brazen bell.</p> +<p class="poetry">And never a human voice comes near<br /> + To speak a gentle word:<br /> +And the eye that watches through the door<br /> + Is pitiless and hard:<br /> +And by all forgot, we rot and rot,<br /> + With soul and body marred.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +301</span>And thus we rust Life’s iron chain<br /> + Degraded and alone:<br /> +And some men curse, and some men weep,<br /> + And some men make no moan:<br /> +But God’s eternal Laws are kind<br /> + And break the heart of stone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p301.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p301.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">And every human heart that breaks,<br /> + In prison-cell or yard,<br /> +Is as that broken box that gave<br /> + Its treasure to the Lord,<br /> +And filled the unclean leper’s house<br /> + With the scent of costliest nard.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! happy they whose hearts can break<br /> + And peace of pardon win!<br /> +How else may man make straight his plan<br /> + And cleanse his soul from Sin?<br /> +How else but through a broken heart<br /> + May Lord Christ enter in?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p301.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p301.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">And he of the swollen purple throat,<br /> + And the stark and staring eyes,<br /> +Waits for the holy hands that took<br /> + The Thief to Paradise;<br /> +And a broken and a contrite heart<br /> + The Lord will not despise.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +302</span>The man in red who reads the Law<br /> + Gave him three weeks of life,<br /> +Three little weeks in which to heal<br /> + His soul of his soul’s strife,<br /> +And cleanse from every blot of blood<br /> + The hand that held the knife.</p> +<p class="poetry">And with tears of blood he cleansed the +hand,<br /> + The hand that held the steel:<br /> +For only blood can wipe out blood,<br /> + And only tears can heal:<br /> +And the crimson stain that was of Cain<br /> + Became Christ’s snow-white seal.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>VI</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Reading gaol by +Reading town<br /> + There is a pit of shame,<br /> +And in it lies a wretched man<br /> + Eaten by teeth of flame,<br /> +In a burning winding-sheet he lies,<br /> + And his grave has got no name.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there, till Christ call forth the dead,<br +/> + In silence let him lie:<br /> +No need to waste the foolish tear,<br /> + Or heave the windy sigh:<br /> +The man had killed the thing he loved,<br /> + And so he had to die.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all men kill the thing they love,<br /> + By all let this be heard,<br /> +Some do it with a bitter look,<br /> + Some with a flattering word,<br /> +The coward does it with a kiss,<br /> + The brave man with a sword!</p> +<h2><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +305</span>RAVENNA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Newdigate Prize Poem</i><br /> +Recited in the Sheldonian Theatre<br /> +Oxford<br /> +June 26th, 1878</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO MY +FRIEND</span><br /> +GEORGE FLEMING<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘THE NILE NOVEL’ AND +‘MIRAGE’</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page306"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 306</span><i>Ravenna</i>, <i>March</i> 1877<br +/> +<i>Oxford</i>, <i>March</i> 1878</p> +<h3><a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +307</span>RAVENNA</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">year</span> ago I +breathed the Italian air,—<br /> +And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,—<br /> +These fields made golden with the flower of March,<br /> +The throstle singing on the feathered larch,<br /> +The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,<br /> +The little clouds that race across the sky;<br /> +And fair the violet’s gentle drooping head,<br /> +The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,<br /> +The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,<br /> +The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire<br /> +Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);<br /> +And all the flowers of our English Spring,<br /> +Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil.<br /> +Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,<br /> +And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;<br /> +And down the river, like a flame of blue,<br /> +Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,<br /> +While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.<br /> +A year ago!—it seems a little time<br /> +Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,<br /> +<a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>Where +flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,<br /> +And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.<br /> +Full Spring it was—and by rich flowering vines,<br /> +Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,<br /> +I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet,<br /> +The white road rang beneath my horse’s feet,<br /> +And musing on Ravenna’s ancient name,<br /> +I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame,<br /> +The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O how my heart with boyish +passion burned,<br /> +When far away across the sedge and mere<br /> +I saw that Holy City rising clear,<br /> +Crowned with her crown of towers!—On and on<br /> +I galloped, racing with the setting sun,<br /> +And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,<br /> +I stood within Ravenna’s walls at last!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">II.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How strangely still! no sound +of life or joy<br /> +Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy<br /> +Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day<br /> +Comes the glad sound of children at their play:<br /> +O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here<br /> +A man might dwell apart from troublous fear,<br /> +Watching the tide of seasons as they flow<br /> +From amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow,<br /> +<a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>And have +no thought of sorrow;—here, indeed,<br /> +Are Lethe’s waters, and that fatal weed<br /> +Which makes a man forget his fatherland.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost +thou stand,<br /> +Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head,<br /> +Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.<br /> +For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased,<br /> +Thy noble dead are with thee!—they at least<br /> +Are faithful to thine honour:—guard them well,<br /> +O childless city! for a mighty spell,<br /> +To wake men’s hearts to dreams of things sublime,<br /> +Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">III.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yon lonely pillar, rising on +the plain,<br /> +Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain,—<br /> +The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war,<br /> +Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star<br /> +Led him against thy city, and he fell,<br /> +As falls some forest-lion fighting well.<br /> +Taken from life while life and love were new,<br /> +He lies beneath God’s seamless veil of blue;<br /> +Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o’er his head,<br /> +And oleanders bloom to deeper red,<br /> +<a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 310</span>Where +his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Look farther north unto that +broken mound,—<br /> +There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb<br /> +Raised by a daughter’s hand, in lonely gloom,<br /> +Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king,<br /> +Sleeps after all his weary conquering.<br /> +Time hath not spared his ruin,—wind and rain<br /> +Have broken down his stronghold; and again<br /> +We see that Death is mighty lord of all,<br /> +And king and clown to ashen dust must fall</p> +<p class="poetry"> Mighty indeed <i>their</i> +glory! yet to me<br /> +Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry,<br /> +Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain,<br /> +Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain.<br /> +His gilded shrine lies open to the air;<br /> +And cunning sculptor’s hands have carven there<br /> +The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn,<br /> +The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn,<br /> +The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell,<br /> +The almond-face which Giotto drew so well,<br /> +The weary face of Dante;—to this day,<br /> +Here in his place of resting, far away<br /> +From Arno’s yellow waters, rushing down<br /> +Through the wide bridges of that fairy town,<br /> +Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise<br /> +A marble lily under sapphire skies!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +311</span>Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain<br /> +Of meaner lives,—the exile’s galling chain,<br /> +How steep the stairs within kings’ houses are,<br /> +And all the petty miseries which mar<br /> +Man’s nobler nature with the sense of wrong.<br /> +Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song;<br /> +Our nations do thee homage,—even she,<br /> +That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,<br /> +Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow,<br /> +Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now,<br /> +And begs in vain the ashes of her son.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O mightiest exile! all thy +grief is done:<br /> +Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice;<br /> +Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How lone this palace is; how +grey the walls!<br /> +No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.<br /> +The broken chain lies rusting on the door,<br /> +And noisome weeds have split the marble floor:<br /> +Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run<br /> +By the stone lions blinking in the sun.<br /> +Byron dwelt here in love and revelry<br /> +For two long years—a second Anthony,<br /> +<a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>Who of +the world another Actium made!<br /> +Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade,<br /> +Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen,<br /> +’Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.<br /> +For from the East there came a mighty cry,<br /> +And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty,<br /> +And called him from Ravenna: never knight<br /> +Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!<br /> +None fell more bravely on ensanguined field,<br /> +Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield!<br /> +O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride,<br /> +Thy day of might, remember him who died<br /> +To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain:<br /> +O Salamis! O lone Platæan plain!<br /> +O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea!<br /> +O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylæ!<br /> +He loved you well—ay, not alone in word,<br /> +Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword,<br /> +Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon:</p> +<p class="poetry"> And England, too, shall glory +in her son,<br /> +Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight.<br /> +No longer now shall Slander’s venomed spite<br /> +Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,<br /> +Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.</p> +<p class="poetry"> For as the olive-garland of +the race,<br /> +Which lights with joy each eager runner’s face,<br /> +<a name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>As the +red cross which saveth men in war,<br /> +As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far<br /> +By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,—<br /> +Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Byron, thy crowns are ever +fresh and green:<br /> +Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene<br /> +Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee,<br /> +In hidden glades by lonely Castaly;<br /> +The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine,<br /> +And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">V.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The pine-tops rocked before +the evening breeze<br /> +With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas,<br /> +And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;—<br /> +I wandered through the wood in wild delight,<br /> +Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet,<br /> +Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet,<br /> +Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay,<br /> +And small birds sang on every twining spray.<br /> +O waving trees, O forest liberty!<br /> +Within your haunts at least a man is free,<br /> +And half forgets the weary world of strife:<br /> +The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life<br /> +<a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 314</span>Wakes +i’ the quickening veins, while once again<br /> +The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain.<br /> +Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see<br /> +Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy<br /> +Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid<br /> +In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade,<br /> +The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face<br /> +Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase,<br /> +White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride,<br /> +And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side!<br /> +Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O idle heart! O fond +Hellenic dream!<br /> +Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell,<br /> +The evening chimes, the convent’s vesper bell,<br /> +Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.<br /> +Alas! alas! these sweet and honied hours<br /> +Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea,<br /> +And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">VI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O lone Ravenna! many a tale +is told<br /> +Of thy great glories in the days of old:<br /> +Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see<br /> +Cæsar ride forth to royal victory.<br /> +<a name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>Mighty +thy name when Rome’s lean eagles flew<br /> +From Britain’s isles to far Euphrates blue;<br /> +And of the peoples thou wast noble queen,<br /> +Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen.<br /> +Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea,<br /> +Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery!<br /> +No longer now upon thy swelling tide,<br /> +Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride!<br /> +For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float,<br /> +The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note;<br /> +And the white sheep are free to come and go<br /> +Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O fair! O sad! O +Queen uncomforted!<br /> +In ruined loveliness thou liest dead,<br /> +Alone of all thy sisters; for at last<br /> +Italia’s royal warrior hath passed<br /> +Rome’s lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown<br /> +In the high temples of the Eternal Town!<br /> +The Palatine hath welcomed back her king,<br /> +And with his name the seven mountains ring!</p> +<p class="poetry"> And Naples hath outlived her +dream of pain,<br /> +And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again,<br /> +New risen from the waters! and the cry<br /> +Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,<br /> +Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where<br /> +The marble spires of Milan wound the air,<br /> +<a name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>Rings +from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,<br /> +And Dante’s dream is now a dream no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But thou, Ravenna, better +loved than all,<br /> +Thy ruined palaces are but a pall<br /> +That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name<br /> +Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame<br /> +Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun<br /> +Of new Italia! for the night is done,<br /> +The night of dark oppression, and the day<br /> +Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away<br /> +The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land,<br /> +Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand<br /> +Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy,<br /> +From the far West unto the Eastern sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I know, indeed, that sons of +thine have died<br /> +In Lissa’s waters, by the mountain-side<br /> +Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,—<br /> +Nor have thy children died for thee in vain:<br /> +And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine<br /> +From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine,<br /> +Thou hast not followed that immortal Star<br /> +Which leads the people forth to deeds of war.<br /> +Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep,<br /> +As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,<br /> +Careless of all the hurrying hours that run,<br /> +Mourning some day of glory, for the sun<br /> +<a name="page317"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 317</span>Of +Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,<br /> +And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet wake not from thy +slumbers,—rest thee well,<br /> +Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel,<br /> +Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest thee there,<br /> +To mock all human greatness: who would dare<br /> +To vent the paltry sorrows of his life<br /> +Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife<br /> +Of kings’ ambition, and the barren pride<br /> +Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride<br /> +Of the wild Lord of Adria’s stormy sea!<br /> +The Queen of double Empires! and to thee<br /> +Were not the nations given as thy prey!<br /> +And now—thy gates lie open night and day,<br /> +The grass grows green on every tower and hall,<br /> +The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;<br /> +And where thy mailèd warriors stood at rest<br /> +The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.<br /> +O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate,<br /> +O city trammelled in the toils of Fate,<br /> +Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days,<br /> +But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet who beneath this night of +wars and fears,<br /> +From tranquil tower can watch the coming years;<br /> +Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring,<br /> +Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?<br /> +<a name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 318</span>Thou, +even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose<br /> +To crimson splendour from its grave of snows;<br /> +As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold<br /> +From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter’s cold;<br /> +As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!</p> +<p class="poetry"> O much-loved city! I +have wandered far<br /> +From the wave-circled islands of my home;<br /> +Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome<br /> +Rise slowly from the drear Campagna’s way,<br /> +Clothed in the royal purple of the day:<br /> +I from the city of the violet crown<br /> +Have watched the sun by Corinth’s hill go down,<br /> +And marked the ‘myriad laughter’ of the sea<br /> +From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady;<br /> +Yet back to thee returns my perfect love,<br /> +As to its forest-nest the evening dove.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O poet’s city! one who +scarce has seen<br /> +Some twenty summers cast their doublets green<br /> +For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain<br /> +To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,<br /> +Or tell thy days of glory;—poor indeed<br /> +Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed,<br /> +Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky,<br /> +And flame across the heavens! and to try<br /> +Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know<br /> +That never felt my heart a nobler glow<br /> +<a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 319</span>Than +when I woke the silence of thy street<br /> +With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet,<br /> +And saw the city which now I try to sing,<br /> +After long days of weary travelling.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Adieu, Ravenna! but a year +ago,<br /> +I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow<br /> +From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:<br /> +The sky was as a shield that caught the stain<br /> +Of blood and battle from the dying sun,<br /> +And in the west the circling clouds had spun<br /> +A royal robe, which some great God might wear,<br /> +While into ocean-seas of purple air<br /> +Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet here the gentle stillness +of the night<br /> +Brings back the swelling tide of memory,<br /> +And wakes again my passionate love for thee:<br /> +Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come<br /> +On meadow and tree the Summer’s lordly bloom;<br /> +And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow,<br /> +And send up lilies for some boy to mow.<br /> +Then before long the Summer’s conqueror,<br /> +Rich Autumn-time, the season’s usurer,<br /> +Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,<br /> +<a name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 320</span>And see +it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;<br /> +And after that the Winter cold and drear.<br /> +So runs the perfect cycle of the year.<br /> +And so from youth to manhood do we go,<br /> +And fall to weary days and locks of snow.<br /> +Love only knows no winter; never dies:<br /> +Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies<br /> +And mine for thee shall never pass away,<br /> +Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Adieu! Adieu! yon +silent evening star,<br /> +The night’s ambassador, doth gleam afar,<br /> +And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.<br /> +Perchance before our inland seas of gold<br /> +Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves,<br /> +Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,<br /> +I may behold thy city; and lay down<br /> +Low at thy feet the poet’s laurel crown.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Adieu! Adieu! yon +silver lamp, the moon,<br /> +Which turns our midnight into perfect noon,<br /> +Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well<br /> +Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.</p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1057-h.htm or 1057-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/5/1057 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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