summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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<a href="#startoftext">Poems, by Oscar Wilde</a>
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Title: Poems

Author: Oscar Wilde

Release Date: October, 1997  [EBook #1057]
[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997]
[Most recently updated: August 8, 2003]

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Language: English

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<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h1>POEMS BY OSCAR WILDE</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: H&eacute;las!</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>To drift with every passion till my soul<br />Is a stringed lute
on which all winds can play,<br />Is it for this that I have given away<br />Mine
ancient wisdom, and austere control?<br />Methinks my life is a twice-written
scroll<br />Scrawled over on some boyish holiday<br />With idle songs
for pipe and virelay,<br />Which do but mar the secret of the whole.<br />Surely
there was a time I might have trod<br />The sunlit heights, and from
life&rsquo;s dissonance<br />Struck one clear chord to reach the ears
of God:<br />Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod<br />I did but
touch the honey of romance&mdash;<br />And must I lose a soul&rsquo;s
inheritance?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Sonnet To Liberty</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Not 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,&mdash;<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&mdash;!&nbsp; 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&mdash;and
yet, and yet,<br />These Christs that die upon the barricades,<br />God
knows it I am with them, in some things.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Ave Imperatrix</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Set 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>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>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>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>The strong sea-lion of England&rsquo;s wars<br />Hath left his sapphire
cave of sea,<br />To battle with the storm that mars<br />The stars
of England&rsquo;s chivalry.</p>
<p>The brazen-throated clarion blows<br />Across the Pathan&rsquo;s
reedy fen,<br />And the high steeps of Indian snows<br />Shake to the
tread of arm&egrave;d men.</p>
<p>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>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>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>O lonely Himalayan height,<br />Grey pillar of the Indian sky,<br />Where
saw&rsquo;st thou last in clanging flight<br />Our wing&egrave;d dogs
of Victory?</p>
<p>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>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>And that dread city of Cabool<br />Set at the mountain&rsquo;s scarp&egrave;d
feet,<br />Whose marble tanks are ever full<br />With water for the
noonday heat:</p>
<p>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,&mdash;</p>
<p>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&mdash;she
hath no delight.</p>
<p>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>And many a moon and sun will see<br />The lingering wistful children
wait<br />To climb upon their father&rsquo;s knee;<br />And in each
house made desolate</p>
<p>Pale women who have lost their lord<br />Will kiss the relics of
the slain&mdash;<br />Some tarnished epaulette&mdash;some sword&mdash;<br />Poor
toys to soothe such anguished pain.</p>
<p>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>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>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>O wandering graves!&nbsp; O restless sleep!<br />O silence of the
sunless day!<br />O still ravine!&nbsp; O stormy deep!<br />Give up
your prey!&nbsp; Give up your prey!</p>
<p>And thou whose wounds are never healed,<br />Whose weary race is
never won,<br />O Cromwell&rsquo;s England! must thou yield<br />For
every inch of ground a son?</p>
<p>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>Wave and wild wind and foreign shore<br />Possess the flower of English
land&mdash;<br />Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,<br />Hands that
shall never clasp thy hand.</p>
<p>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>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>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>O loved ones lying far away,<br />What word of love can dead lips
send!<br />O wasted dust!&nbsp; O senseless clay!<br />Is this the end!
is this the end!</p>
<p>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: To Milton</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Milton!&nbsp; 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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Louis Napoleon</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Eagle 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>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>Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place<br />The better laurels
of a soldier&rsquo;s crown,<br />That not dishonoured should thy soul
go down<br />To tell the mighty Sire of thy race</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Christ, 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&rsquo;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Quantum Mutata</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>There was a time in Europe long ago<br />When no man died for freedom
anywhere,<br />But England&rsquo;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&rsquo;s heritors.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Libertatis Sacra Fames</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Albeit 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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Theoretikos</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>This 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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Garden Of Eros</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It 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&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;s
messenger</p>
<p>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,&mdash;ah! methinks
it is a place</p>
<p>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>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&rsquo;s-smock,&mdash;but
let them bloom alone, and leave</p>
<p>Yon spir&egrave;d 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>Their painted wings beside it,&mdash;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 />And pluck that amorous flower
which blooms alone,<br />Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses
not its own.</p>
<p>The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus<br />So dear to maidens, creamy
meadow-sweet<br />Whiter than Juno&rsquo;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,&mdash;pluck these, and those fond flowers
which are</p>
<p>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 Cytheraea&rsquo;s
lips and make<br />Adonis jealous,&mdash;these for thy head,&mdash;and
for thy girdle take</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s bird,</p>
<p>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>Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet<br />As thou thyself,
my soul&rsquo;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>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>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 />When the fleet swallow sleeps,
and rich men feast,<br />And why the laurel trembles when she sees the
lightening east.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s abyss!</p>
<p>And then I&rsquo;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>And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,<br />We may behold Her
face who long ago<br />Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,<br />And whose
sad house with pillaged portico<br />And friezeless wall and columns
toppled down<br />Looms o&rsquo;er the ruins of that fair and violet
cinctured town.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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 />Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none
can play<br />The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.</p>
<p>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>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>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 tusk&egrave;d 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>And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,<br />And sung the Galilaean&rsquo;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>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&mdash;<br />O tarry with us still! for through the long
and common night,</p>
<p>Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer&rsquo;s child,<br />Dear heritor
of Spenser&rsquo;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>We know them all, Gudrun the strong men&rsquo;s bride,<br />Aslaug
and Olafson we know them all,<br />How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd
died,<br />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>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&mdash;how oft, in some cool
grassy field</p>
<p>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>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&rsquo;s red ruin, for the
singer is divine;</p>
<p>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>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>For One at least there is,&mdash;He bears his name<br />From Dante
and the seraph Gabriel,&mdash;<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&rsquo;s snare,<br />And the white feet of
angels coming down the golden stair,</p>
<p>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;&mdash;such is the empery</p>
<p>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>But they are few, and all romance has flown,<br />And men can prophesy
about the sun,<br />And lecture on his arrows&mdash;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 &rsquo;mid English reeds a Naiad
shows her head.</p>
<p>Methinks these new Actaeons 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>What profit if this scientific age<br />Burst through our gates with
all its retinue<br />Of modern miracles!&nbsp; Can it assuage<br />One
lover&rsquo;s breaking heart? what can it do<br />To make one life more
beautiful, one day<br />More godlike in its period? but now the Age
of Clay</p>
<p>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>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>Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away<br />Her visage from the
God, and Hecate&rsquo;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&rsquo;s palsied fingers count in vain his
rosary of suns!</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s white wrist,<br />Sleeps on that
snowy primrose of the night,<br />Which &rsquo;gins to flush with crimson
shame, and die beneath the light.</p>
<p>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>Scatters the pearl&egrave;d 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&rsquo;ertops the expectant hills! it is the God!
for love of him</p>
<p>Already the shrill lark is out of sight,<br />Flooding with waves
of song this silent dell,&mdash;<br />Ah! there is something more in
that bird&rsquo;s flight<br />Than could be tested in a crucible!&mdash;<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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Requiescat</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Tread lightly, she is near<br />Under the snow,<br />Speak gently,
she can hear<br />The daisies grow.</p>
<p>All her bright golden hair<br />Tarnished with rust,<br />She that
was young and fair<br />Fallen to dust.</p>
<p>Lily-like, white as snow,<br />She hardly knew<br />She was a woman,
so<br />Sweetly she grew.</p>
<p>Coffin-board, heavy stone,<br />Lie on her breast,<br />I vex my
heart alone,<br />She is at rest.</p>
<p>Peace, Peace, she cannot hear<br />Lyre or sonnet,<br />All my life&rsquo;s
buried here,<br />Heap earth upon it.</p>
<p>AVIGNON</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Sonnet On Approaching Italy</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned,<br />Italia, my Italia,
at thy name:<br />And when from out the mountain&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>TURIN.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: San Miniato</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>See, 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>And throned upon the crescent moon<br />The Virginal white Queen
of Grace,&mdash;<br />Mary! could I but see thy face<br />Death could
not come at all too soon.</p>
<p>O crowned by God with thorns and pain!<br />Mother of Christ!&nbsp;
O mystic wife!<br />My heart is weary of this life<br />And over-sad
to sing again.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Ave Maria Gratia Plena</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Was this His coming!&nbsp; 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&rsquo;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>FLORENCE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Italia</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Italia! 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!&nbsp; O
Strong and Fair in vain!<br />Look southward where Rome&rsquo;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>VENICE.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Holy Week At Genoa</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I wandered through Scoglietto&rsquo;s far retreat,<br />The oranges
on each o&rsquo;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&rsquo; the sun, and life seemed very
sweet.<br />Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,<br />&lsquo;Jesus
the son of Mary has been slain,<br />O come and fill His sepulchre with
flowers.&rsquo;<br />Ah, God!&nbsp; 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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Rome Unvisited</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The 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&rsquo;s mountains fled.</p>
<p>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>II.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>And 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>And wandering through the tangled pines<br />That break the gold
of Arno&rsquo;s stream,<br />To see the purple mist and gleam<br />Of
morning on the Apennines</p>
<p>By many a vineyard-hidden home,<br />Orchard and olive-garden grey,<br />Till
from the drear Campagna&rsquo;s way<br />The seven hills bear up the
dome!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>III.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>A pilgrim from the northern seas&mdash;<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>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>IV.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>For 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>Before yon field of trembling gold<br />Is garnered into dusty sheaves,<br />Or
ere the autumn&rsquo;s scarlet leaves<br />Flutter as birds adown the
wold,</p>
<p>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>ARONA.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Urbs Sacra Aeterna</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Rome! 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&rsquo;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>MONTRE MARIO.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Nay, 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&rsquo;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Easter Day</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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 />&lsquo;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.&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: E Tenebris</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Come 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&rsquo;s
throne should stand.<br />&lsquo;He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the
chase,<br />Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name<br />From
morn to noon on Carmel&rsquo;s smitten height.&rsquo;<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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Vita Nuova</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I stood 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 />&lsquo;Alas!&rsquo; I cried, &lsquo;my life is
full of pain,<br />And who can garner fruit or golden grain<br />From
these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!&rsquo;<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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Madonna Mia</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A lily-girl, not made for this world&rsquo;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&rsquo;ershadowed by the wings of awe,<br />Like
Dante, when he stood with Beatrice<br />Beneath the flaming Lion&rsquo;s
breast, and saw<br />The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The New Helen</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Where 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
chivalry and might<br />Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!</p>
<p>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 />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 Calp&eacute; and the cliffs of Herakles!</p>
<p>No! thou art Helen, and none other one!<br />It was for thee that
young Sarped&ocirc;n died,<br />And Memn&ocirc;n&rsquo;s manhood was
untimely spent;<br />It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried<br />With
Thetis&rsquo; 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>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&rsquo;s red had
changed to withered grey?<br />Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean
stream<br />Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,<br />The crash of
broken spears, the fiery gleam<br />From shivered helm, the Grecian
battle-cry?</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s intolerable
pain,<br />Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,<br />Only the
bitterness of child-bearing.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;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>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>O Helen!&nbsp; 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>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 />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>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&rsquo;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Burden Of Itys</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>This 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,&mdash;God is likelier there<br />Than hidden in that crystal-hearted
star the pale monks bear!</p>
<p>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,&mdash;he
is some mitred old<br />Bishop in <i>partibus</i>! look at those gaudy
scales all green and gold.</p>
<p>The wind the restless prisoner of the trees<br />Does well for Palaestrina,
one would say<br />The mighty master&rsquo;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>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>Is not yon lingering orange after-glow<br />That stays to vex the
moon more fair than all<br />Rome&rsquo;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&mdash;those common poppies in
the wheat seem twice as fine.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s body from the common fruit
of corn and vine.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>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-tranc&egrave;d day<br />Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,<br />While
far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.</p>
<p>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>Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,<br />Though what thou sing&rsquo;st
be thine own requiem!<br />Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler<br />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>Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose<br />Which all day long
in vales AEolian<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>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>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 />For Cytheraea&rsquo;s
brows are hidden here<br />Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing
steer</p>
<p>There is a tiny yellow daffodil,<br />The butterfly can see it from
afar,<br />Although one summer evening&rsquo;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>As if Jove&rsquo;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>Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,<br />Or poor Arachne&rsquo;s
silver tapestry,&mdash;<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>Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where<br />On the clear river&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;s own sake to leave the other&rsquo;s side<br />Yet killing
love by staying; memories<br />Of Oreads peeping through the leaves
of silent moonlit trees,</p>
<p>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 Maeonia&rsquo;s bard</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s plume,<br />And far away the moil,
the shout, the groan,<br />As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax
hurled the stone;</p>
<p>Of wing&egrave;d 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>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 &rsquo;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>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&rsquo; spring,&mdash;</p>
<p>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,&mdash;</p>
<p>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>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>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 />While at his side the wanton
Bassarid<br />Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain
kid!</p>
<p>Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,<br />And steal the moon&egrave;d
wings of Ashtaroth,<br />Upon whose icy chariot we could win<br />Cithaeron
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>Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,<br />And warned the bat
to close its filmy vans,<br />Some Maenad 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>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 horn&egrave;d
master sits in state<br />Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a
wicker crate!</p>
<p>Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face<br />Through the cool
leaves Apollo&rsquo;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>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>Cry out aloud on Itys! memory<br />That foster-brother of remorse
and pain<br />Drops poison in mine ear,&mdash;O to be free,<br />To
burn one&rsquo;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>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 />And sheds such wondrous dews
at eve that she<br />Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian
sea,</p>
<p>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>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>Sing on! sing on!&nbsp; 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>Sing on! sing on!&nbsp; 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>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>O Memory cast down thy wreath&egrave;d 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>Cease, cease, or if &rsquo;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 />Ah!
cease and let the north wind bear thy lay<br />Back to the rocky hills
of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.</p>
<p>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>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>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>Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,<br />To shade those
slumberous eyelids&rsquo; 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>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 wing&egrave;d
Marsyas complain,<br />Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs
of pain!</p>
<p>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>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 />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>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>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>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 />And
starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,<br />And the dim lengthening
shadows flit like swallows up the hill.</p>
<p>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>She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,<br />She knows
Endymion is not far away;<br />&rsquo;Tis I, &rsquo;tis I, whose soul
is as the reed<br />Which has no message of its own to play,<br />So
pipes another&rsquo;s bidding, it is I,<br />Drifting with every wind
on the wide sea of misery.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s small wing<br />Wander
and wheel above the pines, or tell<br />Each tiny dew-drop dripping
from the bluebell&rsquo;s brimming cell.</p>
<p>And far away across the lengthening wold,<br />Across the willowy
flats and thickets brown,<br />Magdalen&rsquo;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 ! &rsquo;t is the curfew
booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Impression Du Matin</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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>The yellow fog came creeping down<br />The bridges, till the houses&rsquo;
walls<br />Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul&rsquo;s<br />Loomed
like a bubble o&rsquo;er the town.</p>
<p>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>But one pale woman all alone,<br />The daylight kissing her wan hair,<br />Loitered
beneath the gas lamps&rsquo; flare,<br />With lips of flame and heart
of stone.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Magdalen Walks</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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>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&rsquo;s glad birth,<br />Hopping from
branch to branch on the rocking trees.</p>
<p>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>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&rsquo;s hollow is lit with the iris sheen<br />Of
the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Athanasia</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>To 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&rsquo;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>But when they had unloosed the linen band<br />Which swathed the
Egyptian&rsquo;s body,&mdash;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>With such strange arts this flower did allure<br />That all forgotten
was the asphodel,<br />And the brown bee, the lily&rsquo;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>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>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>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>But when o&rsquo;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>Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years<br />Seemed but the
lingering of a summer&rsquo;s day,<br />It never knew the tide of cankering
fears<br />Which turn a boy&rsquo;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>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>We mar our lordly strength in barren strife<br />With the world&rsquo;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&rsquo;s wasting sovereignty,<br />It is the child of all eternity.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Serenade (For Music)</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The western wind is blowing fair<br />Across the dark AEgean 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>She will not come, I know her well,<br />Of lover&rsquo;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&rsquo;s toy,<br />They never
know the lover&rsquo;s pain,<br />And I who loved as loves a boy<br />Must
love in vain, must love in vain.</p>
<p>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 />Good
sailor come and tell me now<br />Is that my Lady&rsquo;s lily hand?<br />Or
is it but the gleaming prow,<br />Or is it but the silver sand?</p>
<p>No! no! &rsquo;tis not the tangled dew,<br />&rsquo;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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Endymion (For Music)</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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!&nbsp; O Lady moon!<br />Be you my lover&rsquo;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&rsquo;s crook
doth bear,<br />And he is soft as any dove,<br />And brown and curly
is his hair.</p>
<p>The turtle now has ceased to call<br />Upon her crimson-footed groom,<br />The
grey wolf prowls about the stall,<br />The lily&rsquo;s singing seneschal<br />Sleeps
in the lily-bell, and all<br />The violet hills are lost in gloom.<br />O
risen moon!&nbsp; 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&rsquo;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>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!&nbsp; False moon!&nbsp; O waning moon!<br />Where is my own true
lover gone,<br />Where are the lips vermilion,<br />The shepherd&rsquo;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>My limbs are wasted with a flame,<br />My feet are sore with travelling,<br />For,
calling on my Lady&rsquo;s name,<br />My lips have now forgot to sing.</p>
<p>O Linnet in the wild-rose brake<br />Strain for my Love thy melody,<br />O
Lark sing louder for love&rsquo;s sake,<br />My gentle Lady passeth
by.</p>
<p>She is too fair for any man<br />To see or hold his heart&rsquo;s
delight,<br />Fairer than Queen or courtesan<br />Or moonlit water in
the night.</p>
<p>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>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>Her neck is like white melilote<br />Flushing for pleasure of the
sun,<br />The throbbing of the linnet&rsquo;s throat<br />Is not so
sweet to look upon.</p>
<p>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>O twining hands!&nbsp; O delicate<br />White body made for love and
pain!<br />O House of love!&nbsp; O desolate<br />Pale flower beaten
by the rain!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Chanson</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A ring 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>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Charmides</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>He was a Grecian lad, who coming home<br />With pulpy figs and wine
from Sicily<br />Stood at his galley&rsquo;s prow, and let the foam<br />Blow
through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,<br />And holding wave and
wind in boy&rsquo;s despite<br />Peered from his dripping seat across
the wet and stormy night.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;west
gale, and all day long<br />Held on his way, and marked the rowers&rsquo;
time with measured song.</p>
<p>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 />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>And a rich robe stained with the fishers&rsquo; 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>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>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 />And then the clear-voiced
maidens &rsquo;gan to sing,<br />And to the altar each man brought some
goodly offering,</p>
<p>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>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>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>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 entranc&egrave;d swoon<br />Till through the open
roof above the full and brimming moon</p>
<p>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>Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled<br />The Gorgon&rsquo;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>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 />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>And guilty lovers in their venery<br />Forgat a little while their
stolen sweets,<br />Deeming they heard dread Dian&rsquo;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>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>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&rsquo;s young shepherd prince had seen so
wonderful a sight.</p>
<p>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>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>Those who have never known a lover&rsquo;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,&mdash;O listen
yet awhile.</p>
<p>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 />Fed on her lips, and round the
towered neck<br />He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion&rsquo;s
will to check.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>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>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>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 />The tangled curls from off
his forehead, while<br />He on the running water gazed with strange
and secret smile.</p>
<p>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>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>Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,<br />&lsquo;It is young
Hylas, that false runaway<br />Who with a Naiad now would make his bed<br />Forgetting
Herakles,&rsquo; but others, &lsquo;Nay,<br />It is Narcissus, his own
paramour,<br />Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And when they nearer came a third one cried,<br />&lsquo;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.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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>Save when the neat-herd&rsquo;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>A little girl ran laughing from the farm,<br />Not thinking of love&rsquo;s
secret mysteries,<br />And when she saw the white and gleaming arm<br />And
all his manlihood, with longing eyes<br />Whose passion mocked her sweet
virginity<br />Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.</p>
<p>Far off he heard the city&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;s nest,
from bough to bough<br />Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise
crept across the slough.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s
glass,<br />Which scarce had caught again its imagery<br />Ere from
its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.</p>
<p>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 &rsquo;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>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>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>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>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&rsquo;s sword, dread
Mars himself fled down the steep,</p>
<p>And the moon hid behind a tawny mask<br />Of drifting cloud, and
from the ocean&rsquo;s marge<br />Rose the red plume, the huge and horn&egrave;d
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>To the dull sailors&rsquo; sight her loosened looks<br />Seemed like
the jagged storm-rack, and her feet<br />Only the spume that floats
on hidden rocks,<br />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>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 &lsquo;I come&rsquo;<br />Leapt
from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.</p>
<p>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>II.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare<br />The boy&rsquo;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>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>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 />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>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&mdash;else at the first
break of day</p>
<p>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&rsquo;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>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,&mdash;and
yet, it is a spot</p>
<p>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,&mdash;within an hour<br />A sailor boy, were he but
rude enow<br />To land and pluck a garland for his galley&rsquo;s painted
prow,</p>
<p>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>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>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 />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>And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,<br />Threaded the
bosky dell, their satyr spied<br />The boy&rsquo;s pale body stretched
upon the sand,<br />And feared Poseidon&rsquo;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>Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be<br />So dread a thing
to feel a sea-god&rsquo;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 fenc&egrave;d fortress, and
stole back again, nor thought it sin</p>
<p>To yield her treasure unto one so fair,<br />And lay beside him,
thirsty with love&rsquo;s drouth,<br />Called him soft names, played
with his tangled hair,<br />And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth<br />Afraid
he might not wake, and then afraid<br />Lest he might wake too soon,
fled back, and then, fond renegade,</p>
<p>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>Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,<br />But said, &lsquo;He
will awake, I know him well,<br />He will awake at evening when the
sun<br />Hangs his red shield on Corinth&rsquo;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>Deeper than ever falls the fisher&rsquo;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 crown&egrave;d
head,</p>
<p>We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,<br />And a blue wave will
be our canopy,<br />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>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>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.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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>And cried, &lsquo;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>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>Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still<br />With great Apollo&rsquo;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&rsquo;s silvery sheen.</p>
<p>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 />By all the gifts the gentle
wood-nymphs love;<br />But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged
dove</p>
<p>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>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>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 Cytheraea, the first
silky down<br />Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are
strong and brown;</p>
<p>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>And yet I love him not; it was for thee<br />I kept my love; I knew
that thou would&rsquo;st come<br />To rid me of this pallid chastity,<br />Thou
fairest flower of the flowerless foam<br />Of all the wide AEgean, brightest
star<br />Of ocean&rsquo;s azure heavens where the mirrored planets
are!</p>
<p>I knew that thou would&rsquo;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&rsquo; rapturous tunes</p>
<p>Startled the squirrel from its granary,<br />And cuckoo flowers fringed
the narrow lane,<br />Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy<br />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&rsquo;s
maidenhood.</p>
<p>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>I was the Attic shepherd&rsquo;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>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>The ouzel&rsquo;s haunt, the wild bee&rsquo;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,&mdash;be not afraid<br />To leave this wan and wave-kissed
shore, surely the place was made</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s eyes;
be not afraid,<br />The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret
glade.</p>
<p>Nay if thou will&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>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 />And draw the feathered notch against
her breast,<br />And loose the arch&egrave;d cord; aye, even now upon
the quest</p>
<p>I hear her hurrying feet,&mdash;awake, awake,<br />Thou laggard in
love&rsquo;s battle! once at least<br />Let me drink deep of passion&rsquo;s
wine, and slake<br />My parch&egrave;d being with the nectarous feast<br />Which
even gods affect!&nbsp; O come, Love, come,<br />Still we have time
to reach the cavern of thine azure home.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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 barb&egrave;d
reed flew whizzing down the glade.</p>
<p>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 wing&egrave;d
death her heart.</p>
<p>Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry<br />On the boy&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;s most deadly
thrall.</p>
<p>But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,<br />Who with Adonis all night
long had lain<br />Within some shepherd&rsquo;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>And when low down she spied the hapless pair,<br />And heard the
Oread&rsquo;s faint despairing cry,<br />Whose cadence seemed to play
upon the air<br />As though it were a viol, hastily<br />She bade her
pigeons fold each straining plume,<br />And dropt to earth, and reached
the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s
loosened loneliness<br />Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd
lad in wantonness</p>
<p>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>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>And Venus cried, &lsquo;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,&mdash;alas!<br />That they who loved so well unloved into
Death&rsquo;s house should pass.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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&rsquo;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>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 AEgean 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>But when the doves had reached their wonted goal<br />Where the wide
stair of orb&egrave;d marble dips<br />Its snows into the sea, her fluttering
soul<br />Just shook the trembling petals of her lips<br />And passed
into the void, and Venus knew<br />That one fair maid the less would
walk amid her retinue,</p>
<p>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>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>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&rsquo;s icy
ford.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>III</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>In 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>There by a dim and dark Lethaean 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>When as he gazed into the watery glass<br />And through his brown
hair&rsquo;s curly tangles scanned<br />His own wan face, a shadow seemed
to pass<br />Across the mirror, and a little hand<br />Stole into his,
and warm lips timidly<br />Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their
secret forth into a sigh.</p>
<p>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>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,&mdash;O why essay<br />To pipe again of love,
too venturous reed!<br />Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that
flowerless mead.</p>
<p>Too venturous poesy, O why essay<br />To pipe again of passion! fold
thy wings<br />O&rsquo;er daring Icarus and bid thy lay<br />Sleep hidden
in the lyre&rsquo;s silent strings<br />Till thou hast found the old
Castalian rill,<br />Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho&rsquo;s
golden quid!</p>
<p>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,&mdash;ah! enough that
once their lips could meet</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Les Silhouettes</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: La Fuite De La Lune</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>To 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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Grave Of Keats</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Rid of the world&rsquo;s injustice, and his pain,<br />He rests at
last beneath God&rsquo;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&mdash;it shall
stand:<br />And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,<br />As
Isabella did her Basil-tree.</p>
<p>ROME.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Theocritus&mdash;A Villanelle</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>O singer of Persephone!<br />In the dim meadows desolate<br />Dost
thou remember Sicily?</p>
<p>Still through the ivy flits the bee<br />Where Amaryllis lies in
state;<br />O Singer of Persephone!</p>
<p>Simaetha calls on Hecate<br />And hears the wild dogs at the gate;<br />Dost
thou remember Sicily?</p>
<p>Still by the light and laughing sea<br />Poor Polypheme bemoans his
fate;<br />O Singer of Persephone!</p>
<p>And still in boyish rivalry<br />Young Daphnis challenges his mate;<br />Dost
thou remember Sicily?</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: In The Gold Room&mdash;A Harmony</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Her 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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I am weary of lying within the chase<br />When the knights are meeting
in market-place.</p>
<p>Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town<br />Lest the hoofs of the
war-horse tread thee down.</p>
<p>But I would not go where the Squires ride,<br />I would only walk
by my Lady&rsquo;s side.</p>
<p>Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,<br />A Forester&rsquo;s son
may not eat off gold.</p>
<p>Will she love me the less that my Father is seen<br />Each Martinmas
day in a doublet green?</p>
<p>Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,<br />Spindle and loom are not
meet for thee.</p>
<p>Ah, if she is working the arras bright<br />I might ravel the threads
by the fire-light.</p>
<p>Perchance she is hunting of the deer,<br />How could you follow o&rsquo;er
hill and mere?</p>
<p>Ah, if she is riding with the court,<br />I might run beside her
and wind the morte.</p>
<p>Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,<br />(On her soul may our
Lady have gramercy!)</p>
<p>Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,<br />I might swing the censer
and ring the bell.</p>
<p>Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,<br />The father shall fill
thee a stoup of ale.</p>
<p>But who are these knights in bright array?<br />Is it a pageant the
rich folks play?</p>
<p>&rsquo;T is the King of England from over sea,<br />Who has come
unto visit our fair countrie.</p>
<p>But why does the curfew toll sae low?<br />And why do the mourners
walk a-row?</p>
<p>O &rsquo;t is Hugh of Amiens my sister&rsquo;s son<br />Who is lying
stark, for his day is done.</p>
<p>Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,<br />It is no strong man
who lies on the bier.</p>
<p>O &rsquo;t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,<br />I knew
she would die at the autumn fall.</p>
<p>Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,<br />Old Jeannette was
not a maiden fair.</p>
<p>O &rsquo;t is none of our kith and none of our kin,<br />(Her soul
may our Lady assoil from sin!)</p>
<p>But I hear the boy&rsquo;s voice chaunting sweet,<br />&lsquo;Elle
est morte, la Marguerite.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,<br />And let the dead folk bury
their dead.</p>
<p>O mother, you know I loved her true:<br />O mother, hath one grave
room for two?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Dole Of The King&rsquo;s Daughter (Breton)</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Seven stars in the still water,<br />And seven in the sky;<br />Seven
sins on the King&rsquo;s daughter,<br />Deep in her soul to lie.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>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&rsquo;s daughter rest.</p>
<p>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Amor Intellectualis</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Oft 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 despoil&egrave;d treasures these remain,<br />Sordello&rsquo;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&rsquo;s solemn harmonies.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Santa Decca</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring<br />To grey-eyed Pallas
crowns of olive-leaves!<br />Demeter&rsquo;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&rsquo;er:<br />Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;<br />Great
Pan is dead, and Mary&rsquo;s son is King.</p>
<p>And yet&mdash;perchance in this sea-tranc&egrave;d 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>CORFU.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: A Vision</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Two crown&egrave;d 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&rsquo;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 Beatric&eacute;,
&lsquo;Who are these?&rsquo;<br />And she made answer, knowing well
each name,<br />&lsquo;AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,<br />And
last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Impression De Voyage</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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&rsquo;s
cliff, Lycaon&rsquo;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&rsquo; laughter
at the stern,<br />The only sounds:- when &rsquo;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>KATAKOLO.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Grave Of Shelley</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Like burnt-out torches by a sick man&rsquo;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>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>ROME.</p>
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<h2>Poem: By The Arno</h2>
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<p>The 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>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>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>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>Before across the silent lawn<br />In sea-green vest the morning
steals,<br />And to love&rsquo;s frightened eyes reveals<br />The long
white fingers of the dawn</p>
<p>Fast climbing up the eastern sky<br />To grasp and slay the shuddering
night,<br />All careless of my heart&rsquo;s delight,<br />Or if the
nightingale should die.</p>
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<h2>Poem: Fabien Dei Franchi</h2>
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<p>(To my Friend Henry Irving)</p>
<p>The 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;er,&mdash;<br />These
things are well enough,&mdash;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&rsquo;s recreant dagger from its
sheath&mdash;<br />Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare&rsquo;s lips to
blow!</p>
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<h2>Poem: Ph&egrave;dre</h2>
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<p>(To Sarah Bernhardt)</p>
<p>How vain and dull this common world must seem<br />To such a One
as thou, who should&rsquo;st have talked<br />At Florence with Mirandola,
or walked<br />Through the cool olives of the Academe:<br />Thou should&rsquo;st
have gathered reeds from a green stream<br />For Goat-foot Pan&rsquo;s
shrill piping, and have played<br />With the white girls in that Phaeacian
glade<br />Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.</p>
<p>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>
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<h2>Poem: Portia</h2>
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<p>(To Ellen Terry)</p>
<p>I marvel 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&rsquo;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 Verones&eacute; 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&rsquo;s gown
you donned,<br />And would not let the laws of Venice yield<br />Antonio&rsquo;s
heart to that accurs&egrave;d Jew&mdash;<br />O Portia! take my heart:
it is thy due:<br />I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.</p>
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<h2>Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria</h2>
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<p>(To Ellen Terry)</p>
<p>In 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&rsquo;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!&nbsp; O Crimson
Lips!&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s straitened pulse, the soul&rsquo;s
dread weariness,<br />My freedom, and my life republican!</p>
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<h2>Poem: Camma</h2>
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<p>(To Ellen Terry)</p>
<p>As 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&rsquo;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>And yet&mdash;methinks I&rsquo;d rather see thee play<br />That serpent
of old Nile, whose witchery<br />Made Emperors drunken,&mdash;come,
great Egypt, shake<br />Our stage with all thy mimic pageants!&nbsp;
Nay,<br />I am grown sick of unreal passions, make<br />The world thine
Actium, me thine Anthony!</p>
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<h2>Poem: Panthea</h2>
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<p>Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,<br />From passionate pain to
deadlier delight,&mdash;<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>For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,<br />And wisdom is a
childless heritage,<br />One pulse of passion&mdash;youth&rsquo;s first
fiery glow,&mdash;<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>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 />She cannot hear that love-enraptured
tune,&mdash;<br />Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late
and labouring moon.</p>
<p>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,&mdash;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>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>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>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&rsquo;
mouths, and mix more deep<br />The poppy-seeded draught which brings
soft purple-lidded sleep.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s arms comes forth the moon,<br />And the immortal
Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon.</p>
<p>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>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>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>Alas! they know the far Lethaean 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>But we oppress our natures, God or Fate<br />Is our enemy, we starve
and feed<br />On vain repentance&mdash;O we are born too late!<br />What
balm for us in bruis&egrave;d poppy seed<br />Who crowd into one finite
pulse of time<br />The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite
crime.</p>
<p>O we are wearied of this sense of guilt,<br />Wearied of pleasure&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;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>We are resolved into the supreme air,<br />We are made one with what
we touch and see,<br />With our heart&rsquo;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>With beat of systole and of diastole<br />One grand great life throbs
through earth&rsquo;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>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>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&rsquo;s despite.</p>
<p>The boy&rsquo;s first kiss, the hyacinth&rsquo;s first bell,<br />The
man&rsquo;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 />Of too much beauty, and the timid shame<br />Of the young
bridegroom at his lover&rsquo;s eyes,&mdash;these with the same</p>
<p>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>So when men bury us beneath the yew<br />Thy crimson-stain&egrave;d
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>And thus without life&rsquo;s conscious torturing pain<br />In some
sweet flower we will feel the sun,<br />And from the linnet&rsquo;s
throat will sing again,<br />And as two gorgeous-mail&egrave;d 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>And give them battle!&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s
earliest conqueror becomes earth&rsquo;s last great prey.</p>
<p>O think of it!&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s
mysteries, for we shall hear</p>
<p>The thrush&rsquo;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>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 />Methinks no leaf would ever
bud in spring,<br />But for the lovers&rsquo; lips that kiss, the poets&rsquo;
lips that sing.</p>
<p>Is the light vanished from our golden sun,<br />Or is this daedal-fashioned
earth less fair,<br />That we are nature&rsquo;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>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!&nbsp; We shall be<br />Part of the mighty universal
whole,<br />And through all aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!</p>
<p>We shall be notes in that great Symphony<br />Whose cadence circles
through the rhythmic spheres,<br />And all the live World&rsquo;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>
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<h2>Poem: Impression&mdash;Le R&eacute;veillon</h2>
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<p>The 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>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>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>
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<h2>Poem: At Verona</h2>
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<p>How steep the stairs within Kings&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s table,&mdash;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>&lsquo;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&rsquo;&mdash;<br />Nay
peace: behind my prison&rsquo;s blinded bars<br />I do possess what
none can take away<br />My love, and all the glory of the stars.</p>
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<h2>Poem: Apologia</h2>
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<p>Is 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>Is it thy will&mdash;Love that I love so well&mdash;<br />That my
Soul&rsquo;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>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>Perchance it may be better so&mdash;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>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>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&rsquo;s hair.</p>
<p>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>But surely it is something to have been<br />The best belov&egrave;d
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>Ay! though the gorg&egrave;d asp of passion feed<br />On my boy&rsquo;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>
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<h2>Poem: Quia Multum Amavi</h2>
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<p>Dear 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>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>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&rsquo;s
heritor,<br />Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.</p>
<p>Yet, though remorse, youth&rsquo;s white-faced seneschal,<br />Tread
on my heels with all his retinue,<br />I am most glad I loved thee&mdash;think
of all<br />The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!</p>
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<h2>Poem: Silentium Amoris</h2>
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<p>As 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>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>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>
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<h2>Poem: Her Voice</h2>
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<p>The 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>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,&mdash;<br />It
shall be, I said, for eternity<br />&rsquo;Twixt you and me!<br />Dear
friend, those times are over and done;<br />Love&rsquo;s web is spun.</p>
<p>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>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,&mdash;<br />Ah! can it be<br />We have
lived our lives in a land of dreams!<br />How sad it seems.</p>
<p>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>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,&mdash;you
your Art,<br />Nay, do not start,<br />One world was not enough for
two<br />Like me and you.</p>
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<h2>Poem: My Voice</h2>
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<p>Within this restless, hurried, modern world<br />We took our hearts&rsquo;
full pleasure&mdash;You and I,<br />And now the white sails of our ship
are furled,<br />And spent the lading of our argosy.</p>
<p>Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,<br />For very weeping
is my gladness fled,<br />Sorrow has paled my young mouth&rsquo;s vermilion,<br />And
Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.</p>
<p>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>
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<h2>Poem: Taedium Vitae</h2>
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<p>To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear<br />This paltry
age&rsquo;s gaudy livery,<br />To let each base hand filch my treasury,<br />To
mesh my soul within a woman&rsquo;s hair,<br />And be mere Fortune&rsquo;s
lackeyed groom,&mdash;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>
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<h2>Poem: Humanitad</h2>
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<p>It 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&rsquo;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>From Saturn&rsquo;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&rsquo;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>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>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>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,&mdash;the spring is in the air;</p>
<p>Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,<br />And soon yon blanch&egrave;d
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&rsquo;s icy sorrow
breaks to tears,<br />And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes
the rabbit peers</p>
<p>From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,<br />And treads one
snowdrop under foot, and runs<br />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>Dance through the hedges till the early rose,<br />(That sweet repentance
of the thorny briar!)<br />Burst from its sheath&egrave;d 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&rsquo;s-love, sops-in-wine,
and daffadillies all in bloom.</p>
<p>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>Steal from the bluebells&rsquo; 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 />In dusty velvets clad usurp
the bed<br />And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed</p>
<p>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>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>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&rsquo;s-joy each
hedge with yellow stars will bind.</p>
<p>Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,<br />That canst give
increase to the sweet-breath&rsquo;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>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;&mdash;do
I change?<br />Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce
range?</p>
<p>Nay, nay, thou art the same: &rsquo;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>Thou art the same: &rsquo;tis I whose wretched soul<br />Takes discontent
to be its paramour,<br />And gives its kingdom to the rude control<br />Of
what should be its servitor,&mdash;for sure<br />Wisdom is somewhere,
though the stormy sea<br />Contain it not, and the huge deep answer
&lsquo;&rsquo;Tis not in me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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>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&rsquo;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>The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,<br />The little
dust stored in the narrow urn,<br />The gentle &Chi;&Alpha;&Iota;&Rho;&Epsilon;
of the Attic tomb,&mdash;<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>Nay! for perchance that poppy-crown&egrave;d god<br />Is like the
watcher by a sick man&rsquo;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&rsquo;s philosophy.</p>
<p>And Love! that noble madness, whose august<br />And inextinguishable
might can slay<br />The soul with honeyed drugs,&mdash;alas! I must<br />From
such sweet ruin play the runaway,<br />Although too constant memory
never can<br />Forget the arch&egrave;d splendour of those brows Olympian</p>
<p>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,&mdash;O hence<br />Thou huntress deadlier
than Artemis!<br />Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous
bliss.</p>
<p>My lips have drunk enough,&mdash;no more, no more,&mdash;<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 />The
chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,<br />Hence!&nbsp; Hence!&nbsp;
I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.</p>
<p>More barren&mdash;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>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>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>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 AEschylos at well-fought
Marathon,<br />And died to show that Milton&rsquo;s England still could
bear a son!</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s vain phantasies
go by with unbowed head.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s owl itself
hath strayed.</p>
<p>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 />To no less eager eyes; often indeed<br />In
the great epic of Polymnia&rsquo;s scroll I love to read</p>
<p>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 Thermopylae</p>
<p>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 amaz&egrave;d 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&rsquo;er</p>
<p>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,&mdash;and yet, the page
grows dim,</p>
<p>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&rsquo;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>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>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!&nbsp;
Him at least<br />The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom&rsquo;s
feast;</p>
<p>But we are Learning&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;s tower,<br />Thou marble lily of the lily town! let
not the lour</p>
<p>Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or<br />The Arno with its tawny
troubled gold<br />O&rsquo;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>Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell<br />With an old man
who grabbled rusty keys,<br />Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell<br />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>He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,<br />He drave the
base wolf from the lion&rsquo;s lair,<br />And now lies dead by that
empyreal dome<br />Which overtops Valdarno hung in air<br />By Brunelleschi&mdash;O
Melpomene<br />Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!</p>
<p>Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies<br />That Joy&rsquo;s
self may grow jealous, and the Nine<br />Forget awhile their discreet
emperies,<br />Mourning for him who on Rome&rsquo;s lordliest shrine<br />Lit
for men&rsquo;s lives the light of Marathon,<br />And bare to sun-forgotten
fields the fire of the sun!</p>
<p>O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto&rsquo;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>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,&mdash;and yet, though he is dust and
clay,</p>
<p>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>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 AEgina fret in
loneliness<br />Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless</p>
<p>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 />Which was Mazzini once!
rich Niobe<br />For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,</p>
<p>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?&nbsp; 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>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>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>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>Genders unlawful children, Anarchy<br />Freedom&rsquo;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>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>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 />By
more destructful hands: Time&rsquo;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>Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing<br />Through Lincoln&rsquo;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>For Southwell&rsquo;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>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>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&rsquo;s<br />Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o&rsquo;er
the scroll of human woes,</p>
<p>Or Titian&rsquo;s little maiden on the stair<br />White as her own
sweet lily and as tall,<br />Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,&mdash;<br />Ah!
somehow life is bigger after all<br />Than any painted angel, could
we see<br />The God that is within us!&nbsp; The old Greek serenity</p>
<p>Which curbs the passion of that level line<br />Of marble youths,
who with untroubled eyes<br />And chastened limbs ride round Athena&rsquo;s
shrine<br />And mirror her divine economies,<br />And balanced symmetry
of what in man<br />Would else wage ceaseless warfare,&mdash;this at
least within the span</p>
<p>Between our mother&rsquo;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 />Would walk
ashamed of his adulteries,<br />And Passion creep from out the House
of Lust with startled eyes.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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,&mdash;this indeed<br />Could we but reach it were to
find the last, the perfect creed.</p>
<p>Ah! it was easy when the world was young<br />To keep one&rsquo;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>Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,<br />And of all
men we are most wretched who<br />Must live each other&rsquo;s lives
and not our own<br />For very pity&rsquo;s sake and then undo<br />All
that we lived for&mdash;it was otherwise<br />When soul and body seemed
to blend in mystic symphonies.</p>
<p>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 />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>O smitten mouth!&nbsp; 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>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>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 />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>Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though<br />The bloody sweat
falls from our brows like rain<br />Loosen the nails&mdash;we shall
come down I know,<br />Staunch the red wounds&mdash;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: &Gamma;&Lambda;&Upsilon;&Kappa;&Upsilon;&Pi;&Iota;&Kappa;&Rho;&Omicron;&Sigma;
&Epsilon;&Rho;&Omega;&Sigma;</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Sweet, 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>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>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>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>And the mighty nations would have crowned<br />me, who am crownless
now and without name,<br />And some orient dawn had found me kneeling<br />on
the threshold of the House of Fame.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s
strings are ever strung.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>Yet I am not sorry that I loved you&mdash;ah! what<br />else had
I a boy to do,&mdash;<br />For the hungry teeth of time devour, and
the<br />silent-footed years pursue.</p>
<p>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>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>Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God&rsquo;s<br />own mother
was less dear to me,<br />And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an<br />argent
lily from the sea.</p>
<p>I have made my choice, have lived my poems,<br />and, though youth
is gone in wasted days,<br />I have found the lover&rsquo;s crown of
myrtle better<br />than the poet&rsquo;s crown of bays.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>In 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>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>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>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&mdash;<br />Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Tristiti&aelig;</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>&Alpha;&iota;&lambda;&iota;&nu;&omicron;&nu;, &alpha;&iota;&lambda;&iota;&nu;&omicron;&nu;
&epsilon;&iota;&pi;&epsilon;, &tau;&omicron; &delta;&rsquo; &epsilon;&upsilon;
&nu;&iota;&kappa;&alpha;&tau;&omega;</p>
<p>O well 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>O well for him who ne&rsquo;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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The True Knowledge</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>. . . &alpha;&nu;&alpha;y&kappa;&alpha;&iota;&omega;&sigmaf; &delta;&rsquo;
&epsilon;&chi;&epsilon;&iota;<br />&Beta;&iota;&omicron;&nu; &theta;&epsilon;&rho;&iota;&zeta;&epsilon;&iota;&nu;
&omega;&sigma;&tau;&epsilon; &kappa;&alpha;&rho;&pi;&iota;&mu;&omicron;&nu;
&sigma;&tau;&alpha;&chi;&upsilon;&nu;,<br />&kappa;&alpha;&iota; &tau;&omicron;&nu;
y&epsilon;&nu; &epsilon;&iota;&nu;&alpha;&iota; &tau;&omicron;&nu; &delta;&epsilon;
y&eta;.</p>
<p>Thou knowest all; I seek in vain<br />What lands to till or sow with
seed&mdash;<br />The land is black with briar and weed,<br />Nor cares
for falling tears or rain.</p>
<p>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Le Jardin</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The lily&rsquo;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>The gaudy leonine sunflower<br />Hangs black and barren on its stalk,<br />And
down the windy garden walk<br />The dead leaves scatter,&mdash;hour
by hour.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: La Mer</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A white mist drifts across the shrouds,<br />A wild moon in this
wintry sky<br />Gleams like an angry lion&rsquo;s eye<br />Out of a
mane of tawny clouds.</p>
<p>The muffled steersman at the wheel<br />Is but a shadow in the gloom;&mdash;<br />And
in the throbbing engine-room<br />Leap the long rods of polished steel.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Under The Balcony</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>O beautiful 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>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>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 />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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Harlot&rsquo;s House</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>We caught the tread of dancing feet,<br />We loitered down the moonlit
street,<br />And stopped beneath the harlot&rsquo;s house.</p>
<p>Inside, above the din and fray,<br />We heard the loud musicians
play<br />The &lsquo;Treues Liebes Herz&rsquo; of Strauss.</p>
<p>Like strange mechanical grotesques,<br />Making fantastic arabesques,<br />The
shadows raced across the blind.</p>
<p>We watched the ghostly dancers spin<br />To sound of horn and violin,<br />Like
black leaves wheeling in the wind.</p>
<p>Like wire-pulled automatons,<br />Slim silhouetted skeletons<br />Went
sidling through the slow quadrille,</p>
<p>Then took each other by the hand,<br />And danced a stately saraband;<br />Their
laughter echoed thin and shrill.</p>
<p>Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed<br />A phantom lover to her
breast,<br />Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.</p>
<p>Sometimes a horrible marionette<br />Came out, and smoked its cigarette<br />Upon
the steps like a live thing.</p>
<p>Then, turning to my love, I said,<br />&lsquo;The dead are dancing
with the dead,<br />The dust is whirling with the dust.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But she&mdash;she heard the violin,<br />And left my side, and entered
in:<br />Love passed into the house of lust.</p>
<p>Then suddenly the tune went false,<br />The dancers wearied of the
waltz,<br />The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.</p>
<p>And down the long and silent street,<br />The dawn, with silver-sandalled
feet,<br />Crept like a frightened girl.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Le Jardin Des Tuileries</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>This 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>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>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>And now in mimic flight they flee,<br />And now they rush, a boisterous
band&mdash;<br />And, tiny hand on tiny hand,<br />Climb up the black
and leafless tree.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: On The Sale By Auction Of Keats&rsquo; Love Letters</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>These 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&rsquo;s price.&nbsp; I think they
love not art<br />Who break the crystal of a poet&rsquo;s heart<br />That
small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s wonder, or His woe?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The New Remorse</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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&rsquo;s hand.</p>
<p>But who is this who cometh by the shore?<br />(Nay, love, look up
and wonder!)&nbsp; 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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Le Panneau</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Under the rose-tree&rsquo;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>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>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>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>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>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>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>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&rsquo;s dancing shade.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Les Ballons</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Against these turbid turquoise skies<br />The light and luminous
balloons<br />Dip and drift like satin moons,<br />Drift like silken
butterflies;</p>
<p>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Canzonet</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I have no store<br />Of gryphon-guarded gold;<br />Now, as before,<br />Bare
is the shepherd&rsquo;s fold.<br />Rubies nor pearls<br />Have I to
gem thy throat;<br />Yet woodland girls<br />Have loved the shepherd&rsquo;s
note.</p>
<p>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>What dost thou fear?<br />Young Hyacinth is slain,<br />Pan is not
here,<br />And will not come again.<br />No horn&egrave;d Faun<br />Treads
down the yellow leas,<br />No God at dawn<br />Steals through the olive
trees.</p>
<p>Hylas is dead,<br />Nor will he e&rsquo;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Symphony In Yellow</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>An 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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: In The Forest</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Out of the mid-wood&rsquo;s twilight<br />Into the meadow&rsquo;s
dawn,<br />Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,<br />Flashes my Faun!</p>
<p>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: To My Wife&mdash;With A Copy Of My Poems</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I can 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>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>And when wind and winter harden<br />All the loveless land,<br />It
will whisper of the garden,<br />You will understand.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: With A Copy Of &lsquo;A House Of Pomegranates&rsquo;</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Go, 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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Roses And Rue</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>(To L. L.)</p>
<p>Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,<br />Were it worth the
pleasure,<br />We never could learn love&rsquo;s song,<br />We are parted
too long.</p>
<p>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>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>And your voice had a quaver in it,<br />Just like a linnet,<br />And
shook, as the blackbird&rsquo;s throat<br />With its last big note;</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>I remember your hair&mdash;did I tie it?<br />For it always ran riot&mdash;<br />Like
a tangled sunbeam of gold:<br />These things are old.</p>
<p>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>And the colour of your gown,<br />It was amber-brown,<br />And two
yellow satin bows<br />From your shoulders rose.</p>
<p>And the handkerchief of French lace<br />Which you held to your face&mdash;<br />Had
a small tear left a stain?<br />Or was it the rain?</p>
<p>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>&lsquo;You have only wasted your life.&rsquo;<br />(Ah, that was
the knife!)<br />When I rushed through the garden gate<br />It was all
too late.</p>
<p>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>Well, if my heart must break,<br />Dear love, for your sake,<br />It
will break in music, I know,<br />Poets&rsquo; hearts break so.</p>
<p>But strange that I was not told<br />That the brain can hold<br />In
a tiny ivory cell<br />God&rsquo;s heaven and hell.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: D&eacute;sespoir</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The 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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Pan&mdash;Double Villanelle</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I</p>
<p>O goat-foot God of Arcady!<br />This modern world is grey and old,<br />And
what remains to us of thee?</p>
<p>No more the shepherd lads in glee<br />Throw apples at thy wattled
fold,<br />O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p>
<p>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>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>Then keep the tomb of Helice,<br />Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad
wold,<br />And what remains to us of thee?</p>
<p>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>II</p>
<p>Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,<br />Thy satyrs and their wanton play,<br />This
modern world hath need of thee.</p>
<p>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>This is the land where liberty<br />Lit grave-browed Milton on his
way,<br />This modern world hath need of thee!</p>
<p>A land of ancient chivalry<br />Where gentle Sidney saw the day,<br />Ah,
leave the hills of Arcady!</p>
<p>This fierce sea-lion of the sea,<br />This England lacks some stronger
lay,<br />This modern world hath need of thee!</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Sphinx</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration)</p>
<p>In a dim corner of my room for longer than<br />my fancy thinks<br />A
beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me<br />through the shifting
gloom.</p>
<p>Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she<br />does not stir<br />For
silver moons are naught to her and naught<br />to her the suns that
reel.</p>
<p>Red follows grey across the air, the waves of<br />moonlight ebb
and flow<br />But with the Dawn she does not go and in the<br />night-time
she is there.</p>
<p>Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and<br />all the while this
curious cat<br />Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of<br />satin
rimmed with gold.</p>
<p>Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the<br />tawny throat of her<br />Flutters
the soft and silky fur or ripples to her<br />pointed ears.</p>
<p>Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent,<br />so statuesque!<br />Come
forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman<br />and half animal!</p>
<p>Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and<br />put your head upon
my knee!<br />And let me stroke your throat and see your<br />body spotted
like the Lynx!</p>
<p>And let me touch those curving claws of yellow<br />ivory and grasp<br />The
tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round<br />your heavy velvet paws!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>A thousand weary centuries are thine<br />while I have hardly seen<br />Some
twenty summers cast their green for<br />Autumn&rsquo;s gaudy liveries.</p>
<p>But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the<br />great sandstone obelisks,<br />And
you have talked with Basilisks, and you<br />have looked on Hippogriffs.</p>
<p>O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to<br />Osiris knelt?<br />And
did you watch the Egyptian melt her union<br />for Antony</p>
<p>And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend<br />her head in mimic
awe<br />To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny<br />from the
brine?</p>
<p>And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon<br />on his catafalque?<br />And
did you follow Amenalk, the God of<br />Heliopolis?</p>
<p>And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear<br />the moon-horned
Io weep?<br />And know the painted kings who sleep beneath<br />the
wedge-shaped Pyramid?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Lift up your large black satin eyes which are<br />like cushions
where one sinks!<br />Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me<br />all
your memories!</p>
<p>Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered<br />with the Holy Child,<br />And
how you led them through the wild, and<br />how they slept beneath your
shade.</p>
<p>Sing to me of that odorous green eve when<br />crouching by the marge<br />You
heard from Adrian&rsquo;s gilded barge the<br />laughter of Antinous</p>
<p>And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and<br />watched with hot
and hungry stare<br />The ivory body of that rare young slave with<br />his
pomegranate mouth!</p>
<p>Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-<br />formed bull was
stalled!<br />Sing to me of the night you crawled across the<br />temple&rsquo;s
granite plinth</p>
<p>When through the purple corridors the screaming<br />scarlet Ibis
flew<br />In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the<br />moaning
Mandragores,</p>
<p>And the great torpid crocodile within the tank<br />shed slimy tears,<br />And
tare the jewels from his ears and staggered<br />back into the Nile,</p>
<p>And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as<br />in your claws
you seized their snake<br />And crept away with it to slake your passion
by<br />the shuddering palms.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Who were your lovers? who were they<br />who wrestled for you in
the dust?<br />Which was the vessel of your Lust?&nbsp; What<br />Leman
had you, every day?</p>
<p>Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you<br />on the reedy banks?<br />Did
Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on<br />you in your trampled couch?</p>
<p>Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward<br />you in the mist?<br />Did
gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with<br />passion as you passed
them by?</p>
<p>And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what<br />horrible Chimera came<br />With
fearful heads and fearful flame to breed<br />new wonders from your
womb?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Or had you shameful secret quests and did<br />you harry to your
home<br />Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious<br />rock crystal
breasts?</p>
<p>Or did you treading through the froth call to<br />the brown Sidonian<br />For
tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or<br />Behemoth?</p>
<p>Or did you when the sun was set climb up the<br />cactus-covered
slope<br />To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was<br />of polished
jet?</p>
<p>Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped<br />down the grey Nilotic
flats<br />At twilight and the flickering bats flew round<br />the temple&rsquo;s
triple glyphs</p>
<p>Steal to the border of the bar and swim across<br />the silent lake<br />And
slink into the vault and make the Pyramid<br />your l&uacute;panar</p>
<p>Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the<br />painted swath&egrave;d
dead?<br />Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned<br />Tragelaphos?</p>
<p>Or did you love the god of flies who plagued<br />the Hebrews and
was splashed<br />With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had<br />green
beryls for her eyes?</p>
<p>Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more<br />amorous than the
dove<br />Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the<br />Assyrian</p>
<p>Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose<br />high above
his hawk-faced head,<br />Painted with silver and with red and ribbed
with<br />rods of Oreichalch?</p>
<p>Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and<br />lay before your
feet<br />Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-<br />coloured nenuphar?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>How subtle-secret is your smile!&nbsp; Did you<br />love none then?&nbsp;
Nay, I know<br />Great Ammon was your bedfellow!&nbsp; He lay with<br />you
beside the Nile!</p>
<p>The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when<br />they saw him come<br />Odorous
with Syrian galbanum and smeared with<br />spikenard and with thyme.</p>
<p>He came along the river bank like some tall<br />galley argent-sailed,<br />He
strode across the waters, mailed in beauty,<br />and the waters sank.</p>
<p>He strode across the desert sand: he reached<br />the valley where
you lay:<br />He waited till the dawn of day: then touched<br />your
black breasts with his hand.</p>
<p>You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:<br />you made the horn&egrave;d
god your own:<br />You stood behind him on his throne: you called<br />him
by his secret name.</p>
<p>You whispered monstrous oracles into the<br />caverns of his ears:<br />With
blood of goats and blood of steers you<br />taught him monstrous miracles.</p>
<p>White Ammon was your bedfellow!&nbsp; Your<br />chamber was the steaming
Nile!<br />And with your curved archaic smile you watched<br />his passion
come and go.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>With Syrian oils his brows were bright:<br />and wide-spread as a
tent at noon<br />His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent<br />the
day a larger light.</p>
<p>His long hair was nine cubits&rsquo; span and coloured<br />like
that yellow gem<br />Which hidden in their garment&rsquo;s hem the<br />merchants
bring from Kurdistan.</p>
<p>His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of<br />new-made wine:<br />The
seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure<br />of his eyes.</p>
<p>His thick soft throat was white as milk and<br />threaded with thin
veins of blue:<br />And curious pearls like frozen dew were<br />broidered
on his flowing silk.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was<br />too bright to look
upon:<br />For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous<br />ocean-emerald,</p>
<p>That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of<br />the Colchian caves<br />Had
found beneath the blackening waves and<br />carried to the Colchian
witch.</p>
<p>Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed<br />corybants,<br />And
lines of swaying elephants knelt down to<br />draw his chariot,</p>
<p>And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter<br />as he rode<br />Down
the great granite-paven road between the<br />nodding peacock-fans.</p>
<p>The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon<br />in their painted
ships:<br />The meanest cup that touched his lips was<br />fashioned
from a chrysolite.</p>
<p>The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich<br />apparel bound
with cords:<br />His train was borne by Memphian lords: young<br />kings
were glad to be his guests.</p>
<p>Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon&rsquo;s<br />altar day
and night,<br />Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through<br />Ammon&rsquo;s
carven house&mdash;and now</p>
<p>Foul snake and speckled adder with their young<br />ones crawl from
stone to stone<br />For ruined is the house and prone the great<br />rose-marble
monolith!</p>
<p>Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches<br />in the mouldering
gates:<br />Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the<br />fallen
fluted drums.</p>
<p>And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced<br />ape of Horus sits<br />And
gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars<br />of the peristyle</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The god is scattered here and there: deep<br />hidden in the windy
sand<br />I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in<br />impotent
despair.</p>
<p>And many a wandering caravan of stately<br />negroes silken-shawled,<br />Crossing
the desert, halts appalled before the<br />neck that none can span.</p>
<p>And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his<br />yellow-striped burnous<br />To
gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was<br />thy paladin.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Go, seek his fragments on the moor and<br />wash them in the evening
dew,<br />And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated<br />paramour!</p>
<p>Go, seek them where they lie alone and from<br />their broken pieces
make<br />Thy bruis&egrave;d bedfellow!&nbsp; And wake mad passions<br />in
the senseless stone!</p>
<p>Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved<br />your body! oh,
be kind,<br />Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls<br />of
linen round his limbs!</p>
<p>Wind round his head the figured coins! stain<br />with red fruits
those pallid lips!<br />Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple<br />for
his barren loins!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Away to Egypt!&nbsp; Have no fear.&nbsp; Only one<br />God has ever
died.<br />Only one God has let His side be wounded by a<br />soldier&rsquo;s
spear.</p>
<p>But these, thy lovers, are not dead.&nbsp; Still by the<br />hundred-cubit
gate<br />Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies<br />for
thy head.</p>
<p>Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon<br />strains his lidless
eyes<br />Across the empty land, and cries each yellow<br />morning
unto thee.</p>
<p>And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black<br />and oozy bed<br />And
till thy coming will not spread his waters on<br />the withering corn.</p>
<p>Your lovers are not dead, I know.&nbsp; They will<br />rise up and
hear your voice<br />And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to<br />kiss
your mouth!&nbsp; And so,</p>
<p>Set wings upon your argosies!&nbsp; Set horses to<br />your ebon
car!<br />Back to your Nile!&nbsp; Or if you are grown sick of<br />dead
divinities</p>
<p>Follow some roving lion&rsquo;s spoor across the copper-<br />coloured
plain,<br />Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid<br />him be your
paramour!</p>
<p>Couch by his side upon the grass and set your<br />white teeth in
his throat<br />And when you hear his dying note lash your<br />long
flanks of polished brass</p>
<p>And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber<br />sides are flecked
with black,<br />And ride upon his gilded back in triumph<br />through
the Theban gate,</p>
<p>And toy with him in amorous jests, and when<br />he turns, and snarls,
and gnaws,<br />O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise<br />him
with your agate breasts!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Why are you tarrying?&nbsp; Get hence!&nbsp; I<br />weary of your
sullen ways,<br />I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent<br />magnificence.</p>
<p>Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light<br />flicker in the
lamp,<br />And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful<br />dews of
night and death.</p>
<p>Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver<br />in some stagnant
lake,<br />Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances<br />to fantastic
tunes,</p>
<p>Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your<br />black throat is
like the hole<br />Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic<br />tapestries.</p>
<p>Away!&nbsp; The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying<br />through
the Western gate!<br />Away!&nbsp; Or it may be too late to climb their
silent<br />silver cars!</p>
<p>See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled<br />towers, and
the rain<br />Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs<br />with tears
the wannish day.</p>
<p>What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with<br />uncouth gestures
and unclean,<br />Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you<br />to
a student&rsquo;s cell?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept<br />through the curtains
of the night,<br />And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked,<br />and
bade you enter in?</p>
<p>Are there not others more accursed, whiter with<br />leprosies than
I?<br />Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here<br />to slake
your thirst?</p>
<p>Get hence, you loathsome mystery!&nbsp; Hideous<br />animal, get
hence!<br />You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me<br />what
I would not be.</p>
<p>You make my creed a barren sham, you wake<br />foul dreams of sensual
life,<br />And Atys with his blood-stained knife were<br />better than
the thing I am.</p>
<p>False Sphinx!&nbsp; False Sphinx!&nbsp; By reedy Styx<br />old Charon,
leaning on his oar,<br />Waits for my coin.&nbsp; Go thou before, and
leave<br />me to my crucifix,</p>
<p>Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches<br />the world with
wearied eyes,<br />And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps<br />for
every soul in vain.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: The Ballad Of Reading Gaol</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>(In memoriam<br />C. T. W.<br />Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse
Guards<br />obiit H.M. prison, Reading, Berkshire<br />July 7, 1896)</p>
<p>I</p>
<p>He 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>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>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>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 />&lsquo;<i>That fellow&rsquo;s
got to swing</i>.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>He does not rise in piteous haste<br />To put on convict-clothes,<br />While
some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,<br />and notes<br />Each new and
nerve-twitched pose,<br />Fingering a watch whose little ticks<br />Are
like horrible hammer-blows.</p>
<p>He does not know that sickening thirst<br />That sands one&rsquo;s
throat, before<br />The hangman with his gardener&rsquo;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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>II</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Six 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>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>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>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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&rsquo;s collar take<br />His last look at the sky?</p>
<p>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>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>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&rsquo;s dreadful
pen,<br />And that never would I see his face<br />In God&rsquo;s sweet
world again.</p>
<p>Like two doomed ships that pass in storm<br />We had crossed each
other&rsquo;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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>III</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>In Debtors&rsquo; 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>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>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>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&rsquo;s hands were near.</p>
<p>But why he said so strange a thing<br />No Warder dared to ask:<br />For
he to whom a watcher&rsquo;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>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&rsquo; Hole?<br />What
word of grace in such a place<br />Could help a brother&rsquo;s soul?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>With slouch and swing around the ring<br />We trod the Fools&rsquo;
Parade!<br />We did not care: we knew we were<br />The Devil&rsquo;s
Own Brigade:<br />And shaven head and feet of lead<br />Make a merry
masquerade.</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>But there is no sleep when men must weep<br />Who never yet have
wept:<br />So we&mdash;the fool, the fraud, the knave&mdash;<br />That
endless vigil kept,<br />And through each brain on hands of pain<br />Another&rsquo;s
terror crept.</p>
<p>Alas! it is a fearful thing<br />To feel another&rsquo;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>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>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="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>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>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>&lsquo;Oho!&rsquo; they cried, &lsquo;The world is wide,<br />But
fettered limbs go lame!<br />And once, or twice, to throw the dice<br />Is
a gentlemanly game,<br />But he does not win who plays with Sin<br />In
the secret House of Shame.&rsquo;</p>
<p>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>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>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>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>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&rsquo;s dreadful dawn was
red.</p>
<p>At six o&rsquo;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>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&rsquo; need:<br />So
with rope of shame the Herald came<br />To do the secret deed.</p>
<p>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>For Man&rsquo;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>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>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&rsquo;s heart beat thick and quick,<br />Like a madman on a
drum!</p>
<p>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>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&rsquo;s snare<br />Strangled into a scream.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>IV</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>There is no chapel on the day<br />On which they hang a man:<br />The
Chaplain&rsquo;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>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>Out into God&rsquo;s sweet air we went,<br />But not in wonted way,<br />For
this man&rsquo;s face was white with fear,<br />And that man&rsquo;s
face was grey,<br />And I never saw sad men who looked<br />So wistfully
at the day.</p>
<p>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>They think a murderer&rsquo;s heart would taint<br />Each simple
seed they sow.<br />It is not true!&nbsp; God&rsquo;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>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&rsquo;s
sight?</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s despair.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s Son died for all.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>He is at peace&mdash;this wretched man&mdash;<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>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>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>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>Yet all is well; he has but passed<br />To Life&rsquo;s appointed
bourne:<br />And alien tears will fill for him<br />Pity&rsquo;s long-broken
urn,<br />For his mourners will be outcast men,<br />And outcasts always
mourn</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>V</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>I know 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>But this I know, that every Law<br />That men have made for Man,<br />Since
first Man took his brother&rsquo;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>This too I know&mdash;and wise it were<br />If each could know the
same&mdash;<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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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>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&rsquo;s machine.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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&rsquo;s heart by night.</p>
<p>With midnight always in one&rsquo;s heart,<br />And twilight in one&rsquo;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>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>And thus we rust Life&rsquo;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&rsquo;s eternal Laws are kind<br />And break the heart of stone.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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&rsquo;s house<br />With the scent of costliest
nard.</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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&rsquo;s strife,<br />And
cleanse from every blot of blood<br />The hand that held the knife.</p>
<p>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&rsquo;s snow-white seal.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>VI</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>In 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>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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Poem: Ravenna</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>(Newdigate prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre Oxford June
26th, 1878.</p>
<p>To my friend George Fleming author of &lsquo;The Nile Novel&rsquo;
and &lsquo;Mirage&rsquo;)</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>I.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>A year ago I breathed the Italian air,&mdash;<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&rsquo;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!&mdash;it seems
a little time<br />Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,<br />Where
flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,<br />And like bright lamps
the fabled apples glow.<br />Full Spring it was&mdash;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&rsquo;s feet,<br />And musing on Ravenna&rsquo;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>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!&mdash;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&rsquo;s walls at last!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>II.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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&rsquo;s rain and snow,<br />And have no thought
of sorrow;&mdash;here, indeed,<br />Are Lethe&rsquo;s waters, and that
fatal weed<br />Which makes a man forget his fatherland.</p>
<p>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!&mdash;they at least<br />Are faithful to thine honour:- guard
them well,<br />O childless city! for a mighty spell,<br />To wake men&rsquo;s
hearts to dreams of things sublime,<br />Are the lone tombs where rest
the Great of Time.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>III.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain,<br />Marks where the bravest
knight of France was slain,&mdash;<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&rsquo;s seamless veil of blue;<br />Tall lance-like reeds
wave sadly o&rsquo;er his head,<br />And oleanders bloom to deeper red,<br />Where
his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.</p>
<p>Look farther north unto that broken mound,&mdash;<br />There, prisoned
now within a lordly tomb<br />Raised by a daughter&rsquo;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,&mdash;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>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&rsquo;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;&mdash;to this day,<br />Here in his place of resting,
far away<br />From Arno&rsquo;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>Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain<br />Of meaner lives,&mdash;the
exile&rsquo;s galling chain,<br />How steep the stairs within kings&rsquo;
houses are,<br />And all the petty miseries which mar<br />Man&rsquo;s
nobler nature with the sense of wrong.<br />Yet this dull world is grateful
for thy song;<br />Our nations do thee homage,&mdash;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>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>IV.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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&mdash;a second Anthony,<br />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 />&rsquo;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!&nbsp; 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!&nbsp; O lone Plataean plain!<br />O tossing waves
of wild Euboean sea!<br />O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae!<br />He
loved you well&mdash;ay, not alone in word,<br />Who freely gave to
thee his lyre and sword,<br />Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon:</p>
<p>And England, too, shall glory in her son,<br />Her warrior-poet,
first in song and fight.<br />No longer now shall Slander&rsquo;s venomed
spite<br />Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,<br />Or mar the
lordly scutcheon of his fame.</p>
<p>For as the olive-garland of the race,<br />Which lights with joy
each eager runner&rsquo;s face,<br />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,&mdash;<br />Such was his love for Greece and
Liberty!</p>
<p>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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>V.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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;&mdash;<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 />Wakes i&rsquo; 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>O idle heart!&nbsp; O fond Hellenic dream!<br />Ere long, with melancholy
rise and swell,<br />The evening chimes, the convent&rsquo;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>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>VI.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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 />Caesar ride forth to royal victory.<br />Mighty thy name when
Rome&rsquo;s lean eagles flew<br />From Britain&rsquo;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&rsquo;s purple waters used to flow.</p>
<p>O fair!&nbsp; O sad!&nbsp; O Queen uncomforted!<br />In ruined loveliness
thou liest dead,<br />Alone of all thy sisters; for at last<br />Italia&rsquo;s
royal warrior hath passed<br />Rome&rsquo;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>And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain,<br />And mocks her tyrant!&nbsp;
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 />Rings
from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,<br />And Dante&rsquo;s dream is
now a dream no more.</p>
<p>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>I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died<br />In Lissa&rsquo;s
waters, by the mountain-side<br />Of Aspromonte, on Novara&rsquo;s plain,&mdash;<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 />Of
Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,<br />And thou hast caught no
flambeau in the race.</p>
<p>Yet wake not from thy slumbers,&mdash;rest thee well,<br />Amidst
thy fields of amber asphodel,<br />Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,&mdash;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&rsquo; ambition, and the barren pride<br />Of
warring nations! wert not thou the Bride<br />Of the wild Lord of Adria&rsquo;s
stormy sea!<br />The Queen of double Empires! and to thee<br />Were
not the nations given as thy prey!<br />And now&mdash;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 mail&egrave;d
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>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 />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&rsquo;s cold;<br />As from
the storm-rack comes a perfect star!</p>
<p>O much-loved city!&nbsp; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s hill go down,<br />And marked the
&lsquo;myriad laughter&rsquo; 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>O poet&rsquo;s city! one who scarce has seen<br />Some twenty summers
cast their doublets green<br />For Autumn&rsquo;s livery, would seek
in vain<br />To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,<br />Or tell
thy days of glory;&mdash;poor indeed<br />Is the low murmur of the shepherd&rsquo;s
reed,<br />Where the loud clarion&rsquo;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 />Than when
I woke the silence of thy street<br />With clamorous trampling of my
horse&rsquo;s feet,<br />And saw the city which now I try to sing,<br />After
long days of weary travelling.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>VII.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>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>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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s conqueror,<br />Rich Autumn-time, the season&rsquo;s
usurer,<br />Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,<br />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>Adieu!&nbsp; Adieu! yon silent evening star,<br />The night&rsquo;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&rsquo;s laurel crown.</p>
<p>Adieu!&nbsp; 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="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS ***</p>
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