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diff --git a/1060-0.txt b/1060-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..abdc1fd --- /dev/null +++ b/1060-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3077 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Grass of Parnassus, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Grass of Parnassus + Rhymes Old and New + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 16, 2014 [eBook #1060] +[This file was first posted on 8 October 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRASS OF PARNASSUS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1888 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + GRASS OF PARNASSUS + + + RHYMES OLD AND NEW + + BY ANDREW LANG + + * * * * * + + LONDON + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + * * * * * + + + + +TO +E. M. S. + + + * * * * * + + _Primâ dicta mihi_, _summâ dicenda Camenâ_. + + * * * * * + + The years will pass, and hearts will range, + _You_ conquer Time, and Care, and Change. + Though Time doth still delight to shed + The dust on many a younger head; + Though Care, oft coming, hath the guile + From younger lips to steal the smile; + Though Change makes younger hearts wax cold, + And sells new loves for loves of old, + Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art + To fleck your hair, to chill your heart, + To touch your tresses with the snow, + To mar your mirth of long ago. + Change, Care, nor Time, while life endure, + Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure, + The love which flows from sacred springs, + In ‘old unhappy far-off things,’ + From sympathies in grief and joy, + Through all the years of man and boy. + + Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung + When even this ‘brindled’ head was young + I bring, and later rhymes I bring + That flit upon as weak a wing, + But still for you, for yours, they sing! + + * * * * * + +MANY of the verses and translations in this volume were published first +in _Ballads and Lyrics of Old France_ (1872). Though very sensible that +they have the demerits of imitative and even of undergraduate rhyme, I +print them again because people I like have liked them. The rest are of +different dates, and lack (though doubtless they need) the excuse of +having been written, like some of the earlier pieces, during College +Lectures. I would gladly have added to this volume what other more or +less serious rhymes I have written, but circumstances over which I have +no control have bound them up with _Ballades_, and other toys of that +sort. + +It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said in +verse, that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in the +marshes at the foot of the Muses’ Hill, and other hills, not at the top +by any means. + +Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been published in +the _Fortnightly Review_, and the sonnet on Colonel Burnaby appeared in +_Punch_. These, with pieces from other serials, are reprinted by the +courteous permission of the Editors. + +The verses that were published in _Ballades and Lyrics_, and in _Ballads +and Verses Vain_ (Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York), are marked in the +contents with an asterisk. + + + + +CONTENTS + + _DEEDS OF MEN_ + PAGE +SEEKERS FOR A CITY 3 +THE WHITE PACHA 6 +MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886 8 +ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA 9 +COLONEL BURNABY 11 +MELVILLE AND COGHILL 12 + _RHODOCLEIA_ +TO RHODOCLEIA 15 + _AVE_ +CLEVEDON CHURCH 21 +TWILIGHT ON TWEED * 23 +METEMPSYCHOSIS * 25 +LOST IN HADES * 26 +A STAR IN THE NIGHT * 27 +A SUNSET ON YARROW * 28 +ANOTHER WAY 29 + _HESPEROTHEN_ * +THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA 33 +A SONG OF PHÆACIA 35 +THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA 37 +A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE 39 +THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME 40 +CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED 42 +THE LIMIT OF LANDS 44 + _VERSES_ +MARTIAL IN TOWN 49 +APRIL ON TWEED 51 +TIRED OF TOWNS 53 +SCYTHE SONG 55 +PEN AND INK 56 +A DREAM 58 +THE SINGING ROSE 59 +A REVIEW IN RHYME 62 +COLINETTE * 63 +A SUNSET OF WATTEAU * 65 +NIGHTINGALE WEATHER * 67 +LOVE AND WISDOM * 69 +GOOD-BYE * 71 +AN OLD PRAYER * 73 +À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE * 74 +SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE * 76 +A LOST PATH * 78 +THE SHADE OF HELEN * 79 + _SONNETS_ +SHE 83 +HERODOTUS IN EGYPT 84 +GÉRARD DE NERVAL * 85 +RONSARD * 86 +LOVE’S MIRACLE * 87 +DREAMS * 88 +TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS * 89 + _TRANSLATIONS_ +HYMN TO THE WINDS * 93 +MOONLIGHT * 94 +THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE * 95 +A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS * 96 +OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE * 97 +SHADOWS OF HIS LADY * 98 +APRIL * 99 +AN OLD TUNE * 103 +OLD LOVES * 104 +A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE * 106 +IANNOULA * 108 +THE MILK WHITE DOE * 109 +HELIODORE 112 +THE PROPHET 113 +LAIS 114 +CLEARISTA 115 +THE FISHERMAN’S TOMB 116 +OF HIS DEATH 117 +RHODOPE 118 +TO A GIRL 119 +TO THE SHIPS 120 +A LATE CONVERT 121 +THE LIMIT OF LIFE 122 +TO DANIEL ELZEVIR 123 + _THE LAST CHANCE_ +THE LAST CHANCE 127 + +GRASS OF PARNASSUS. + + + _PALE star that by the lochs of Galloway_, + _In wet green places ’twixt the depth and height_ + _Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away_, + _When now the moors have doffed the heather bright_, + _Grass of Parnassus_, _flower of my delight_, + _How gladly with the unpermitted bay_— + _Garlands not mine_, _and leaves that not decay_— + _How gladly would I twine thee if I might_! + + _The bays are out of reach_! _But far below_ + _The peaks forbidden of the Muses’ Hill_, + _Grass of Parnassus_, _thy returning snow_ + _Between September and October chill_ + _Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago_, + _And these kind faces that are with me still_. + + + + +DEEDS OF MEN + + + αειδε δ’ αρα κλέα ανδρων + + TO + _COLONEL IAN HAMILTON_ + + To you, who know the face of war, + You, that for England wander far, + You that have seen the Ghazis fly + From English lads not sworn to die, + You that have lain where, deadly chill, + The mist crept o’er the Shameful Hill, + You that have conquered, mile by mile, + The currents of unfriendly Nile, + And cheered the march, and eased the strain + When Politics made valour vain, + Ian, to you, from banks of Ken, + We send our lays of Englishmen! + + + + +SEEKERS FOR A CITY. + + + “Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a + hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed + thither. . . But the number and variety of the ways! For you know, + _There is but one road that leads to Corinth_.” + + HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater’s Version). + + “The Poet says, _dear city of Cecrops_, and wilt thou not say, _dear + city of Zeus_?” + + M. ANTONINUS. + + _TO Corinth leads one road_, you say: + Is there a Corinth, or a way? + Each bland or blatant preacher hath + His painful or his primrose path, + And not a soul of all of these + But knows the city ’twixt the seas, + Her fair unnumbered homes and all + Her gleaming amethystine wall! + + Blind are the guides who know the way, + The guides who write, and preach, and pray, + I watch their lives, and I divine + They differ not from yours and mine! + + One man we knew, and only one, + Whose seeking for a city’s done, + For what he greatly sought he found, + A city girt with fire around, + A city in an empty land + Between the wastes of sky and sand, + A city on a river-side, + Where by the folk he loved, he died. {4a} + + Alas! it is not ours to tread + That path wherein his life he led, + Not ours his heart to dare and feel, + Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel; + Yet are we not quite city-less, + Not wholly left in our distress— + Is it not said by One of old, + _Sheep have I of another fold_? + Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will, + For us there is a city still! + + _Dear city of Zeus_, the Stoic says, {4b} + The Voice from Rome’s imperial days, + _In Thee meet all things_, _and disperse_, + _In Thee_, _for Thee_, _O Universe_! + _To me all’s fruit thy seasons bring_, + _Alike thy summer and thy spring_; + _The winds that wail_, _the suns that burn_, + _From Thee proceed_, _to Thee return_. + + _Dear city of Zeus_, shall _we_ not say, + Home to which none can lose the way! + Born in that city’s flaming bound, + We do not find her, but are found. + Within her wide and viewless wall + The Universe is girdled all. + All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth, + All things that travail on the earth, + God’s will they work, if God there be, + If not, what is my life to me? + + Seek we no further, but abide + Within this city great and wide, + In her and for her living, we + Have no less joy than to be free; + Nor death nor grief can quite appal + The folk that dwell within her wall, + Nor aught but with our will befall! + + + + +THE WHITE PACHA. + + + VAIN is the dream! However Hope may rave, + He perished with the folk he could not save, + And though none surely told us he is dead, + And though perchance another in his stead, + Another, not less brave, when all was done, + Had fled unto the southward and the sun, + Had urged a way by force, or won by guile + To streams remotest of the secret Nile, + Had raised an army of the Desert men, + And, waiting for his hour, had turned again + And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know + GORDON is dead, and these things are not so! + Nay, not for England’s cause, nor to restore + Her trampled flag—for he loved Honour more— + Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory, + Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. + He will not come again, whate’er our need, + He will not come, who is happy, being freed + From the deathly flesh and perishable things, + And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings. + Nay, somewhere by the sacred River’s shore + He sleeps like those who shall return no more, + No more return for all the prayers of men— + Arthur and Charles—they never come again! + They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem: + Whate’er sick Hope may whisper, vain the dream! + + + + +MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886. + + + TO-MORROW is a year since Gordon died! + A year ago to-night, the Desert still + Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill + Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied, + And paltered, and evaded, and denied; + Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will, + And craven heart, and calculated skill + In long delays, of their great homicide. + + A year ago to-night ’twas not too late. + The thought comes through our mirth, again, again; + Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate + Approaching and approaching us; and then + Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate! + Enough; he is forgotten amongst men. + + + + +ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA. + + + ON THE OFFER OF HELP FROM THE AUSTRALIANS AFTER THE FALL OF KHARTOUM. + + Sons of the giant Ocean isle + In sport our friendly foes for long, + Well England loves you, and we smile + When you outmatch us many a while, + So fleet you are, so keen and strong. + + You, like that fairy people set + Of old in their enchanted sea + Far off from men, might well forget + An elder nation’s toil and fret, + Might heed not aught but game and glee. + + But what your fathers were you are + In lands the fathers never knew, + ’Neath skies of alien sign and star + You rally to the English war; + Your hearts are English, kind and true. + + And now, when first on England falls + The shadow of a darkening fate, + You hear the Mother ere she calls, + You leave your ocean-girdled walls, + And face her foemen in the gate. + + + + +COLONEL BURNABY. + + + συ δ’ εν στροφάλιγγι κονίης + κεισο μέγας μεγαλωστι, λελασμένος ιπποσυνάων + + THOU that on every field of earth and sky + Didst hunt for Death, who seemed to flee and fear, + How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie + Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear: + ‘Not here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here + Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die, + But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh + To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer: + + Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood, + And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight, + The bulwark of thy people and their shield, + When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood, + Till back into the Northland and the Night + The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.’ + + + + +MELVILLE AND COGHILL. + + + (THE PLACE OF THE LITTLE HAND.) + + DEAD, with their eyes to the foe, + Dead, with the foe at their feet, + Under the sky laid low + Truly their slumber is sweet, + Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, + And the rain on the wilderness beat. + + Dead, for they chose to die + When that wild race was run; + Dead, for they would not fly, + Deeming their work undone, + Nor cared to look on the face of the sky, + Nor loved the light of the sun. + + Honour we give them and tears, + And the flag they died to save, + Rent from the rain of the spears, + Wet from the war and the wave, + Shall waft men’s thoughts through the dust of the years, + Back to their lonely grave! + + + + +RHODOCLEIA + + +TO RHODOCLEIA +ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING. + + + (Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek + Anthology.) + + STILL, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead, + Still singing of the meads of asphodel, + Lands desolate of delight? + Say, hast thou dreamed of, or rememberèd, + The shores where shadows dwell, + Nor know the sun, nor see the stars of night? + + There, ’midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze + As a girl pines for home, + Looking along the way that she hath come, + Sick to return, and counts the weary days! + So wouldst thou flee + Back to the multitude whose days are done, + Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, + The sacrament of death; and die, and be + No more in the wind and sun! + + Thou hast not dreamed it, but rememberèd + I know thou hast been there, + Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead + Rise in the twilight air, + And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, + And climbed the golden stair! + + Nay, by thy cloudy hair + And lips that were so fair, + Sad lips now mindful of some ancient smart, + And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, + I know thee who thou art! + That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, + Of Hellas, ere her close, + That Rhodocleia who, when all was done + The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun, + Swayed her last poet’s heart. + + With roses did he woo thee, and with song, + With thine own rose, and with the lily sweet, + The dark-eyed violet, + Garlands of wind-flowers wet, + And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long + Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies, + Praising _thy golden eyes_, + _And feet more silvery than Thetis’ feet_! + + But thou didst die and flit + Among the tribes outworn, + The unavailing myriads of the past: + Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, + And, waking, wept for it, + Till his own time came at last, + And then he sought thee in the dusky land! + Wide are the populous places of the dead + Where souls on earth once wed + May never meet, nor each take other’s hand, + Each far from the other fled! + + So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou + Didst never taste of the Lethæan stream, + Nor that forgetful fruit, + The mystic pom’granate; + But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now, + The fugitive of Fate, + Thou farest in our life as in a dream, + Still wandering with thy lute, + Like that sweet paynim lady of old song, + Who sang and wandered long, + For love of her Aucassin, seeking him! + So with thy minstrelsy + Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim, + Below the veilèd sky! + + There doth thy lover dwell, + Singing, and seeking still to find thy face + In that forgetful place: + Thou shalt not meet him here, + Not till thy singing clear + Through all the murmur of the streams of hell + Wins to the Maiden’s ear! + May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call + Thine eager spirit to sit beside her feet, + Passing throughout the long unechoing hall + Up to the shadowy throne, + Where the lost lovers of the ages meet; + Till then thou art alone! + + + + +AVE. + + + ‘_Our Faith and Troth_ + _All time and space controules_ + _Above the highest sphere we meet_ + _Unseen_, _unknowne_, _and greet as Angels greet_.’ + + Col. RICHARD LOVELACE. 1649 + + + +CLEVEDON CHURCH. + + + IN MEMORIAM + H. B. + + WESTWARD I watch the low green hills of Wales, + The low sky silver grey, + The turbid Channel with the wandering sails + Moans through the winter day. + There is no colour but one ashen light + On tower and lonely tree, + The little church upon the windy height + Is grey as sky or sea. + But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love + Slept through these fifty years, + There is the grave that has been wept above + With more than mortal tears. + And far below I hear the Channel sweep + And all his waves complain, + As Hallam’s dirge through all the years must keep + Its monotone of pain. + + * * * * * + + Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, + My heart flits forth from these + Back to the winter rose of northern skies, + Back to the northern seas. + And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat + Below the minster grey, + Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, + And knees of them that pray. + And I remember me how twain were one + Beside that ocean dim, + I count the years passed over since the sun + That lights me looked on him, + And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, + Shall greet me not again, + Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep + And all his waves complain. + + + +TWILIGHT ON TWEED. + + + THREE crests against the saffron sky, + Beyond the purple plain, + The kind remembered melody + Of Tweed once more again. + + Wan water from the border hills, + Dear voice from the old years, + Thy distant music lulls and stills, + And moves to quiet tears. + + Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood + Fleets through the dusky land; + Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, + My feet returning stand. + + A mist of memory broods and floats, + The Border waters flow; + The air is full of ballad notes, + Borne out of long ago. + + Old songs that sung themselves to me, + Sweet through a boy’s day dream, + While trout below the blossom’d tree + Plashed in the golden steam. + + * * * * * + + Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, + Fair and too fair you be; + You tell me that the voice is still + That should have welcomed me. + + 1870. + + + +METEMPSYCHOSIS. + + + I SHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall know + Perchance, the grey eyes in another’s eyes, + Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow + On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise + Shall follow and track, and find thee in disguise + Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, + When through the scent of heather, faint and low, + The weak wind whispers to the day that dies. + + From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme, + Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me; + The shadows of the beauty of all time, + In song or story are but shapes of thee; + Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear, + Shall life or death bring all thy being near? + + + +LOST IN HADES. + + + I DREAMED that somewhere in the shadowy place, + Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot + In welcome, and regret remembered not; + And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise + On lips that had been songless many days; + Hope had no more to hope for, and desire + And dread were overpast, in white attire + New born we walked among the new world’s ways. + + Then from the press of shades a spirit threw + Towards me such apples as these gardens bear; + And turning, I was ’ware of her, and knew + And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,— + Followed, and found her not, and seeking you + I found you never, dearest, anywhere. + + + +A STAR IN THE NIGHT. + + + THE perfect piteous beauty of thy face + Is like a star the dawning drives away; + Mine eyes may never see in the bright day + Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace; + But in the night from forth the silent place + Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray + Star of the starry flock that in the grey + Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment’s space. + + And as the earth at night turns to a star, + Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun, + So in the spiritual place afar, + At night our souls are mingled and made one, + And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise, + That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes. + + + +A SUNSET ON YARROW. + + + The wind and the day had lived together, + They died together, and far away + Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, + Out of the sunset, over the heather, + The dying wind and the dying day. + + Far in the south, the summer levin + Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air: + We seemed to look on the hills of heaven; + You saw within, but to me ’twas given + To see your face, as an angel’s, there. + + Never again, ah surely never + Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, + The low good-night of the hill and the river, + The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, + Twain grown one in the solitude. + + + +ANOTHER WAY. + + + _COME to me in my dreams_, _and then_, + _One saith_, _I shall be well again_, + _For then the night will more than pay_ + _The hopeless longing of the day_. + + Nay, come not _thou_ in dreams, my sweet, + With shadowy robes, and silent feet, + And with the voice, and with the eyes + That greet me in a soft surprise. + + Last night, last night, in dreams we met, + And how, to-day, shall I forget, + Or how, remembering, restrain + Mine incommunicable pain? + + Nay, where thy land and people are, + Dwell thou remote, apart, afar, + Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep + The melancholy ways of Sleep. + + But if, perchance, the shadows break, + If dreams depart, and men awake, + If face to face at length we see, + Be thine the voice to welcome me. + + + + +HESPEROTHEN + + + By the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned + from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, + seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair + Phæacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end + miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the _Vanity of + Melancholy_. And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place + of Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe’s Isle, the place of bodily + delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the + darkness of that age. Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, + under the similitude of the Isle of the Macræones. + + + +THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA. + + + THERE is a land in the remotest day, + Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies; + The eastern shore sees faint tides fade away, + That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs + Make life,—the lands below the blue of common skies. + + But in the west is a mysterious sea, + (What sails have seen it, or what shipmen known?) + With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be, + With islands where a Goddess walks alone, + And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan. + + Eastward the human cares of house and home, + Cities, and ships, and unknown gods, and loves; + Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam, + And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves, + Wherein a god may dwell, and where the Dryad roves. + + The gods are careless of the days and death + Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas; + The gods are heedless of their painful breath, + And love them not, for they are not as these; + But in the golden west they live and lie at ease. + + Yet the Phæacians well they love, who live + At the light’s limit, passing careless hours, + Most like the gods; and they have gifts to give, + Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers, + And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers. + + It is a quiet midland; in the cool + Of the twilight comes the god, though no man prayed, + To watch the maids and young men beautiful + Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid, + For they are neat of kin to gods, and undismayed. + + Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh + The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep! + But with a mist they hide them wondrously, + And far the path and dim to where they sleep,— + The loved, the shadowy lands, along the shadowy deep. + + + +A SONG OF PHÆACIA. + + + THE languid sunset, mother of roses, + Lingers, a light on the magic seas, + The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses, + Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze. + + The red rose clouds, without law or leader, + Gather and float in the airy plain; + The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, + The cedar scatters his scent to the main. + + The strange flowers’ perfume turns to singing, + Heard afar over moonlit seas: + The Siren’s song, grown faint in winging, + Falls in scent on the cedar trees. + + As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying, + Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birds + Brighten the air with their wings; their crying + Wakens a moment the weary herds. + + Butterflies flit from the fairy garden, + Living blossoms of flying flowers; + Never the nights with winter harden, + Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours. + + Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden, + Gleam in the green, and droop and fall; + Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden, + Swing, and cling to the garden wall. + + Deep in the woods as twilight darkens, + Glades are red with the scented fire; + Far in the dells the white maid hearkens, + Song and sigh of the heart’s desire. + + Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning, + Maiden’s song in the matin grey, + Faints as the first bird’s note, a warning, + Wakes and wails to the new-born day. + + The waking song and the dying measure + Meet, and the waxing and waning light + Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure, + The rose of the sea and the sky is white. + + + +THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA. + + + THE PHÆACIANS. + + WHY from the dreamy meadows, + More fair than any dream, + Why seek ye for the shadows + Beyond the ocean stream? + + Through straits of storm and peril, + Through firths unsailed before, + Why make you for the sterile, + The dark Kimmerian shore? + + There no bright streams are flowing, + There day and night are one, + No harvest time, no sowing, + No sight of any sun; + + No sound of song or tabor, + No dance shall greet you there; + No noise of mortal labour + Breaks on the blind chill air. + + Are ours not happy places, + Where gods with mortals trod? + Saw not our sires the faces + Of many a present god? + + THE SEEKERS. + + Nay, now no god comes hither, + In shape that men may see; + They fare we know not whither, + We know not what they be. + + Yea, though the sunset lingers + Far in your fairy glades, + Though yours the sweetest singers, + Though yours the kindest maids, + + Yet here be the true shadows, + Here in the doubtful light; + Amid the dreamy meadows + No shadow haunts the night. + + We seek a city splendid, + With light beyond the sun; + Or lands where dreams are ended, + And works and days are done. + + + +A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE. {39} + + + FAIR white bird, what song art thou singing + In wintry weather of lands o’er sea? + Dear white bird, what way art thou winging, + Where no grass grows, and no green tree? + + I looked at the far-off fields and grey, + There grew no tree but the cypress tree, + That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May, + And whoso looks on it, woe is he. + + And whoso eats of the fruit thereof + Has no more sorrow, and no more love; + And who sets the same in his garden stead, + In a little space he is waste and dead. + + + +THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME. + + + THE weary sails a moment slept, + The oars were silent for a space, + As past Hesperian shores we swept, + That were as a remembered face + Seen after lapse of hopeless years, + In Hades, when the shadows meet, + Dim through the mist of many tears, + And strange, and though a shadow, sweet. + + So seemed the half-remembered shore, + That slumbered, mirrored in the blue, + With havens where we touched of yore, + And ports that over well we knew. + Then broke the calm before a breeze + That sought the secret of the west; + And listless all we swept the seas + Towards the Islands of the Blest. + + Beside a golden sanded bay + We saw the Sirens, very fair + The flowery hill whereon they lay, + The flowers set upon their hair. + Their old sweet song came down the wind, + Remembered music waxing strong,— + Ah now no need of cords to bind, + No need had we of Orphic song. + + It once had seemed a little thing + To lay our lives down at their feet, + That dying we might hear them sing, + And dying see their faces sweet; + But now, we glanced, and passing by, + No care had we to tarry long; + Faint hope, and rest, and memory + Were more than any Siren’s song. + + + +CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED. + + + Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried; + Ah, Circe, Circe! but no voice replied; + No voice from bowers o’ergrown and ruinous + As fallen rocks upon the mountain side. + + There was no sound of singing in the air; + Faded or fled the maidens that were fair, + No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us, + No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair. + + The perfume, and the music, and the flame + Had passed away; the memory of shame + Alone abode, and stings of faint desire, + And pulses of vague quiet went and came. + + Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place, + Our dead youth came and looked on us a space, + With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire. + And wasted hair about a weary face. + + Why had we ever sought the magic isle + That seemed so happy in the days erewhile? + Why did we ever leave it, where we met + A world of happy wonders in one smile? + + Back to the westward and the waning light + We turned, we fled; the solitude of night + Was better than the infinite regret, + In fallen places of our dead delight. + + + +THE LIMIT OF LANDS. + + + BETWEEN the circling ocean sea + And the poplars of Persephone + There lies a strip of barren sand, + Flecked with the sea’s last spray, and strown + With waste leaves of the poplars, blown + From gardens of the shadow land. + + With altars of old sacrifice + The shore is set, in mournful wise + The mists upon the ocean brood; + Between the water and the air + The clouds are born that float and fare + Between the water and the wood. + + Upon the grey sea never sail + Of mortals passed within our hail, + Where the last weak waves faint and flow; + We heard within the poplar pale + The murmur of a doubtful wail + Of voices loved so long ago. + + We scarce had care to die or live, + We had no honey cake to give, + No wine of sacrifice to shed; + There lies no new path over sea, + And now we know how faint they be, + The feasts and voices of the dead. + + Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow! + Glad life, sad life we did forego + To dream of quietness and rest; + Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here + Poured light and perfume through the drear + Pale year, and wan land of the west. + + Sad youth, that let the spring go by + Because the spring is swift to fly, + Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love, + Behold how sadder far is this, + To know that rest is nowise bliss, + And darkness is the end thereof. + + + + +VERSES + + +MARTIAL IN TOWN. + + + LAST night, within the stifling train, + Lit by the foggy lamp o’erhead, + Sick of the sad Last News, I read + Verse of that joyous child of Spain, + + Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold, + Within the Roman din and smoke. + And like my heart to me they spoke, + These accents of his heart of old:— + + “_Brother_, _had we but time to live_, + _And fleet the careless hours together_, + _With all that leisure has to give_ + _Of perfect life and peaceful weather_, + + “_The Rich Man’s halls_, _the anxious faces_, + _The weary Forum_, _courts_, _and cases_ + _Should know us not_; _but quiet nooks_, + _But summer shade by field and well_, + _But county rides_, _and talk of books_, + _At home_, _with these_, _we fain would dwell_! + + “_Now neither lives_, _but day by day_ + _Sees the suns wasting in the west_, + _And feels their flight_, _and doth delay_ + _To lead the life he loveth best_.” + + So from thy city prison broke, + Martial, thy wail for life misspent, + And so, through London’s noise and smoke + My heart replies to the lament. + + For dear as Tagus with his gold, + And swifter Salo, were to thee, + So dear to me the woods that fold + The streams that circle Fernielea! + + + +APRIL ON TWEED. + + + AS birds are fain to build their nest + The first soft sunny day, + So longing wakens in my breast + A month before the May, + When now the wind is from the West, + And Winter melts away. + + The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill, + But soft the breezes blow. + If melting snows the waters fill, + We nothing heed the snow, + But we must up and take our will,— + A fishing will we go! + + Below the branches brown and bare, + Beneath the primrose lea, + The trout lies waiting for his fare, + A hungry trout is he; + He’s hooked, and springs and splashes there + Like salmon from the sea! + + Oh, April tide’s a pleasant tide, + However times may fall, + And sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride, + You hear the mavis call; + But all adown the water-side + The Spring’s most fair of all. + + + +TIRED OF TOWNS. + + + ‘When we spoke to her of the New Jerusalem, she said she would rather + go to a country place in Heaven.’ + + _Letters from the Black Country_. + + I’M weary of towns, it seems a’most a pity + We didn’t stop down i’ the country and clem, + And you say that I’m bound for another city, + For the streets o’ the New Jerusalem. + + And the streets are never like Sheffield, here, + Nor the smoke don’t cling like a smut to _them_; + But the water o’ life flows cool and clear + Through the streets o’ the New Jerusalem. + + And the houses, you say, are of jasper cut, + And the gates are gaudy wi’ gold and gem; + But there’s times I could wish as the gates was shut— + The gates o’ the New Jerusalem. + + For I come from a country that’s over-built + Wi’ streets that stifle, and walls that hem, + And the gorse on a common’s worth all the gilt + And the gold of your New Jerusalem. + + And I hope that they’ll bring me, in Paradise, + To green lanes leafy wi’ bough and stem— + To a country place in the land o’ the skies, + And not to the New Jerusalem. + + + +SCYTHE SONG. + + + MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe, + What is the word methinks ye know, + Endless over-word that the Scythe + Sings to the blades of the grass below? + Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, + Something, still, they say as they pass; + What is the word that, over and over, + Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? + + _Hush_, _ah hush_, the Scythes are saying, + _Hush_, _and heed not_, _and fall asleep_; + _Hush_, they say to the grasses swaying, + _Hush_, they sing to the clover deep! + _Hush_—’tis the lullaby Time is singing— + _Hush_, _and heed not_, _for all things pass_, + _Hush_, _ah hush_! and the Scythes are swinging + Over the clover, over the grass! + + + +PEN AND INK. + + + YE wanderers that were my sires, + Who read men’s fortunes in the hand, + Who voyaged with your smithy fires + From waste to waste across the land, + Why did you leave for garth and town + Your life by heath and river’s brink, + Why lay your gipsy freedom down + And doom your child to Pen and Ink? + + You wearied of the wild-wood meal + That crowned, or failed to crown, the day; + Too honest or too tame to steal + You broke into the beaten way; + Plied loom or awl like other men, + And learned to love the guineas’ chink— + Oh, recreant sires, who doomed me then + To earn so few—with Pen and Ink! + + Where it hath fallen the tree must lie. + ’Tis over late for _me_ to roam, + Yet the caged bird who hears the cry + Of his wild fellows fleeting home, + May feel no sharper pang than mine, + Who seem to hear, whene’er I think, + Spate in the stream, and wind in pine, + Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink. + + For then the spirit wandering, + That slept within the blood, awakes; + For then the summer and the spring + I fain would meet by streams and lakes; + But ah, my Birthright long is sold, + But custom chains me, link on link, + And I must get me, as of old, + Back to my tools, to Pen and Ink. + + + +A DREAM. + + + WHY will you haunt my sleep? + You know it may not be, + The grave is wide and deep, + That sunders you and me; + In bitter dreams we reap + The sorrow we have sown, + And I would I were asleep, + Forgotten and alone! + + We knew and did not know, + We saw and did not see, + The nets that long ago + Fate wove for you and me; + The cruel nets that keep + The birds that sob and moan, + And I would we were asleep, + Forgotten and alone! + + + +THE SINGING ROSE. + + + ‘_La Rose qui chante et l’herbe qui égare_.’ + + _WHITE Rose on the grey garden wall_, + _Where now no night-wind whispereth_, + _Call to the far-off flowers_, _and call_ + _With murmured breath and musical_ + _Till all the Roses hear_, _and all_ + _Sing to my Love what the White Rose saith_. + + White Rose on the grey garden wall + That long ago we sung! + Again you come at Summer’s call,— + Again beneath my windows all + With trellised flowers is hung, + With clusters of the roses white + Like fragrant stars in a green night. + + Once more I hear the sister towers + Each unto each reply, + The bloom is on those limes of ours, + The weak wind shakes the bloom in showers, + Snow from a cloudless sky; + There is no change this happy day + Within the College Gardens grey! + + St. Mary’s, Merton, Magdalen—still + Their sweet bells chime and swing, + The old years answer them, and thrill + A wintry heart against its will + With memories of the Spring— + That Spring we sought the gardens through + For flowers which ne’er in gardens grew! + + For we, beside our nurse’s knee, + In fairy tales had heard + Of that strange Rose which blossoms free + On boughs of an enchanted tree, + And sings like any bird! + And of the weed beside the way + That leadeth lovers’ steps astray! + + In vain we sought the Singing Rose + Whereof old legends tell, + Alas, we found it not mid those + Within the grey old College close, + That budded, flowered, and fell,— + We found that herb called ‘Wandering’ + And meet no more, no more in Spring! + + Yes, unawares the unhappy grass + That leadeth steps astray, + We trod, and so it came to pass + That never more we twain, alas, + Shall walk the self-same way. + And each must deem, though neither knows, + That _neither_ found the Singing Rose! + + + +A REVIEW IN RHYME. + + + A LITTLE of Horace, a little of Prior, + A sketch of a Milkmaid, a lay of the Squire— + These, these are ‘on draught’ ‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’ + + A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself, + A talk of the Books on the Sheraton shelf, + A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the Guelph, + + A _lai_, a _pantoum_, a _ballade_, a _rondeau_, + A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau, + And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go, + + A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove, + ’Neath a dance by Laguerre on the ceiling above, + And a dream of the days when the bard was in love, + + A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun, + A toss of old powder, a glint of the sun, + They meet in the volume that Dobson has done! + + If there’s more that the heart of a man can desire, + He may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire; + If he’s wise—he’ll alight ‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’ + + + +COLINETTE. + + + FOR A SKETCH BY MR. G. LESLIE, R.A. + + FRANCE your country, as we know; + Room enough for guessing yet, + What lips now or long ago, + Kissed and named you—Colinette. + In what fields from sea to sea, + By what stream your home was set, + Loire or Seine was glad of thee, + Marne or Rhone, O Colinette? + + Did you stand with maidens ten, + Fairer maids were never seen, + When the young king and his men + Passed among the orchards green? + Nay, old ballads have a note + Mournful, we would fain forget; + No such sad old air should float + Round your young brows, Colinette. + + Say, did Ronsard sing to you, + Shepherdess, to lull his pain, + When the court went wandering through + Rose pleasances of Touraine? + Ronsard and his famous Rose + Long are dust the breezes fret; + You, within the garden close, + You are blooming, Colinette. + + Have I seen you proud and gay, + With a patched and perfumed beau, + Dancing through the summer day, + Misty summer of Watteau? + Nay, so sweet a maid as you + Never walked a minuet + With the splendid courtly crew; + Nay, forgive me, Colinette. + + Not from Greuze’s canvases + Do you cast a glance, a smile; + You are not as one of these, + Yours is beauty without guile. + Round your maiden brows and hair + Maidenhood and Childhood met + Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair, + New art’s blossom, Colinette. + + + +A SUNSET OF WATTEAU. + + + LUI. + + The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake, + Arise and tempt the seas; + Our ocean is the Palace lake, + Our waves the ripples that we make + Among the mirrored trees. + + ELLE. + + Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song, + And dear the languid dream; + The music mingled all day long + With paces of the dancing throng, + And murmur of the stream. + + An hour ago, an hour ago, + We rested in the shade; + And now, why should we seek to know + What way the wilful waters flow? + There is no fairer glade. + + LUI. + + Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail, + And seek him everywhere; + Perchance in sunset’s golden pale + He listens to the nightingale, + Amid the perfumed air. + + Come, he has fled; you are not you, + And I no more am I; + Delight is changeful as the hue + Of heaven, that is no longer blue + In yonder sunset sky. + + ELLE. + + Nay, if we seek we shall not find, + If we knock none openeth; + Nay, see, the sunset fades behind + The mountains, and the cold night wind + Blows from the house of Death. + + + +NIGHTINGALE WEATHER. + + + ‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non? + Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non. + Derrière chez mon père + Il est un bois taillis, + Le rossignol y chante + Et le jour et la nuit. + Il chante pour les filles + Qui n’ont pas d’ami; + Il ne chant pas pour moi, + J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—_Old French_. + + * * * * * + + I’LL never be a nun, I trow, + While apple bloom is white as snow, + But far more fair to see; + I’ll never wear nun’s black and white + While nightingales make sweet the night + Within the apple tree. + + Ah, listen! ’tis the nightingale, + And in the wood he makes his wail, + Within the apple tree; + He singeth of the sore distress + Of many ladies loverless; + Thank God, no song for me. + + For when the broad May moon is low, + A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow + In the boughs of the apple tree, + A step I know is at the gate; + Ah love, but it is long to wait + Until night’s noon bring thee! + + Between lark’s song and nightingale’s + A silent space, while dawning pales, + The birds leave still and free + For words and kisses musical, + For silence and for sighs that fall + In the dawn, ’twixt him and me. + + + +LOVE AND WISDOM. + + + ‘When last we gathered roses in the garden + I found my wits, but truly you lost yours.’ + + _The Broken Heart_. + + JULY and June brought flowers and love + To you, but I would none thereof, + Whose heart kept all through summer time + A flower of frost and winter rime. + Yours was true wisdom—was it not? + Even love; but I had clean forgot, + Till seasons of the falling leaf, + All loves, but one that turned to grief. + At length at touch of autumn tide + When roses fell, and summer died, + All in a dawning deep with dew, + Love flew to me, Love fled from you. + The roses drooped their weary heads, + I spoke among the garden beds; + You would not hear, you could not know, + Summer and love seemed long ago, + As far, as faint, as dim a dream, + As to the dead this world may seem. + Ah sweet, in winter’s miseries, + Perchance you may remember this, + How Wisdom was not justified + In summer time or autumn tide, + Though for this once below the sun, + Wisdom and Love were made at one; + But Love was bitter-bought enough, + And Wisdom light of wing as Love. + + + +GOOD-BYE. + + + KISS me, and say good-bye; + Good-bye, there is no word to say but this, + Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss, + Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry; + Kiss me, and say, good-bye. + + Farewell, be glad, forget; + There is no need to say ‘forget,’ I know, + For youth is youth, and time will have it so, + And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet, + Farewell, you must forget. + + You shall bring home your sheaves, + Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined + Of memories that go not out of mind; + Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves + When you bring home your sheaves. + + In garnered loves of thine, + The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, + Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears; + It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine + Of life, this love of mine. + + This sheaf was spoiled in spring, + And over-long was green, and early sere, + And never gathered gold in the late year + From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, + But failed in frosts of spring. + + Yet was it thine, my sweet, + This love, though weak as young corn withered, + Whereof no man may gather and make bread; + Thine, though it never knew the summer heat; + Forget not quite, my sweet. + + + +AN OLD PRAYER. + + + Χαιρέ μοι, ω βασίλεια, διαμπερες, εις ο κε γηρας + Ελθη και θάνατος, τά τ’ επ’ ανθρώποισι πέλονται. + + _Odyssey_, XIII. + + MY prayer an old prayer borroweth, + Of ancient love and memory— + ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, + That come to all men, come to thee.’ + Gently as winter’s early breath, + Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee, + To lands whereof no man knoweth + Of summer, over land and sea; + So with thy soul may summer be, + Even as the ancient singer saith, + ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, + That come to all men, come to thee.’ + + + +À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE. + + + AFTER RONSARD. + + MORE closely than the clinging vine + About the wedded tree, + Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine! + About the heart of me. + Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face + Soft on my sleeping eyes, + Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace, + Through me, in kissing wise. + Bow down, bow down your face, I pray, + To me, that swoon to death, + Breathe back the life you kissed away, + Breathe back your kissing breath. + So by your eyes I swear and say, + My mighty oath and sure, + From your kind arms no maiden may + My loving heart allure. + I’ll bear your yoke, that’s light enough, + And to the Elysian plain, + When we are dead of love, my love, + One boat shall bear us twain. + They’ll flock around you, fleet and fair, + All true loves that have been, + And you of all the shadows there, + Shall be the shadow queen. + Ah, shadow-loves and shadow-lips! + Ah, while ’tis called to-day, + Love me, my love, for summer slips, + And August ebbs away. + + + +SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE. + + + IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL. + + TWO loves there were, and one was born + Between the sunset and the rain; + Her singing voice went through the corn, + Her dance was woven ’neath the thorn, + On grass the fallen blossoms stain; + And suns may set, and moons may wane, + But this love comes no more again. + + There were two loves and one made white, + Thy singing lips, and golden hair; + Born of the city’s mire and light, + The shame and splendour of the night, + She trapped and fled thee unaware; + Not through the lamplight and the rain + Shalt thou behold this love again. + + Go forth and seek, by wood and hill, + Thine ancient love of dawn and dew; + There comes no voice from mere or rill, + Her dance is over, fallen still + The ballad burdens that she knew: + And thou must wait for her in vain, + Till years bring back thy youth again. + + That other love, afield, afar + Fled the light love, with lighter feet. + Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, + And flit in dreams from star to star, + That dead love shalt thou never meet, + Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain + Thy soul shall find her soul again. + + + +A LOST PATH. + + +Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, +whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly +flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the world. + + ALAS, the path is lost, we cannot leave + Our bright, our clouded life, and pass away + As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve, + To heights remoter of the purer day. + The soul may not, returning whence she came, + Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget + The joys that fever, and the cares that fret, + Made once more one with the eternal flame + That breathes in all things ever more the same. + She would be young again, thus drinking deep + Of her old life; and this has been, men say, + But this we know not, who have only sleep + To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day, + Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray, + To make us weary at our wakening; + And of that long lost path to the Divine + We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing, + Half credulous, of easy Proserpine, + And of the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’ + + + +THE SHADE OF HELEN. + + +Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the gods, +having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the +same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans +slew each other. + + WHY from the quiet hollows of the hills, + And extreme meeting place of light and shade, + Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became + Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams + And dying glories of the sun would dwell, + Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, + Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, + And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, + Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, + To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war? + + One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, + Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, + And some strange force, within me or around, + Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, + And somewhere there is fever in the halls + That troubles me, for no such trouble came + To vex the cool far hollows of the hills. + + The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, + That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, + Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, + And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, + Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines. + + At other hours another life seems mine, + Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, + By pyramids of unremembered kings, + And homes of men obedient to the Dead. + There dark and quiet faces come and go + Around me, then again the shriek of arms, + And all the turmoil of the Ilian men. + + What are they? even shadows such as I. + What make they? Even this—the sport of gods— + The sport of gods, however free they seem. + Ah, would the game were ended, and the light, + The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, + Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, + Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, + Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills. + + + + +SONNETS + + +SHE. + + + To H. R. H. + + NOT in the waste beyond the swamps and sand, + The fever-haunted forest and lagoon, + Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand, + Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon, + Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune + Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned. + The world is disenchanted; over soon + Shall Europe send her spies through all the land. + + Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot, + In town or field, or by the insatiate sea, + Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot, + Or break themselves on some divine decree, + Or would o’erleap the limits of their lot, + There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth SHE! + + + +HERODOTUS IN EGYPT. + + + HE left the land of youth, he left the young, + The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isle + Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung, + He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile, + And of their old world, dead a weary while, + Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue, + And through the fanes went voyaging, among + Dark tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile. + + He learned the tales of death Divine and birth, + Strange loves of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth, + The marriage, and the slaying of the Sun. + The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through, + And mocked not at their godhead, for he knew + Behind all creeds the Spirit that is One. + + + +GÉRARD DE NERVAL. + + + OF all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed, + Ah, light and sacred soul!—none holds thee now; + No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou + Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, + Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, + Thou still would’st bear that mystic golden bough + The Sibyl doth to singing men allow, + Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. + And they would smile and wonder, seeing where + Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, + Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, + Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find + A new life gladder than the old times were, + A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind? + + + +RONSARD. + + + MASTER, I see thee with the locks of grey, + Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; + I see the roses hiding underneath, + Cassandra’s gift; she was less dear than they. + Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, + The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, + Hast sung thine answer to the lays that breathe + Through ages, and through ages far away. + + And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat, + Known Horace by the fount Bandusian! + Their deathless line thy living strains repeat, + But ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan, + But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet, + Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian! + + + +LOVE’S MIRACLE. + + + WITH other helpless folk about the gate, + The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes + That take no pleasure in the summer skies, + Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait; + So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate + Makes her with dull experience early wise, + And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs + That all hath been, and shall be, desolate. + + Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live, + And know herself the fairest of fair things, + Ah, if he have no healing gift to give, + Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings, + Or if at least Love’s shadow in passing by + Touch not and heal her, surely she must die. + + + +DREAMS. + + + HE spake not truth, however wise, who said + That happy, and that hapless men in sleep + Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep + As countless, careless, races of the dead. + Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, + And one beholds the faces that he sighs + In vain to bring before his daylit eyes, + And waking, he remembers on his bed; + + And one with fainting heart and feeble hand + Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land + Where strength and courage were of no avail; + And one is borne on fairy breezes far + To the bright harbours of a golden star + Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale. + + + +TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS. + + + ‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de + Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste + deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au + desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs + chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté + de leur musique est la Mort.’ + + PONTUS DE TYARD, 1570 + + THE Sirens once were maidens innocent + That through the water-meads with Proserpine + Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content + Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine, + With lilies woven and with wet woodbine; + Till once they sought the bright Ætnæan flowers, + And their glad mistress fled from summer hours + With Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine. + And they have sought her all the wide world through + Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong + Have filled and changed their song, and o’er the blue + Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, + And whoso hears must listen till he die + Far on the flowery shores of Sicily. + + So is it with this singing art of ours, + That once with maids went maidenlike, and played + With woven dances in the poplar-shade, + And all her song was but of lady’s bowers + And the returning swallows, and spring flowers, + Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, + A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed + Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers. + Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine + She left, and by the margin of life’s sea + Sings, and her song is full of the sea’s moan, + And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine; + And whoso once has listened to her, he + His whole life long is slave to her alone. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS + + +HYMN TO THE WINDS. + + + THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS OF CORN. + + DU BELLAY, 1550. + + TO you, troop so fleet, + That with winged wandering feet, + Through the wide world pass, + And with soft murmuring + Toss the green shades of spring + In woods and grass, + Lily and violet + I give, and blossoms wet, + Roses and dew; + This branch of blushing roses, + Whose fresh bud uncloses, + Wind-flowers too. + + Ah, winnow with sweet breath, + Winnow the holt and heath, + Round this retreat; + Where all the golden mom + We fan the gold o’ the corn, + In the sun’s heat. + + + +MOONLIGHT. + + + JACQUES TAHUREAU. + + THE high Midnight was garlanding her head + With many a shining star in shining skies, + And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, + And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. + Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèd + A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; + And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, + With pallor of the sad moon overspread. + + Then came my lady to that lonely place, + And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace + And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; + Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, + And sweeter is the shadow than the light, + Since night has made me such a happy lover. + + + +THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE. + + + VICTOR HUGO. + + THE Grave said to the Rose, + ‘What of the dews of morn, + Love’s flower, what end is theirs?’ + ‘And what of souls outworn, + Of them whereon doth close + The tomb’s mouth unawares?’ + The Rose said to the Grave. + + The Rose said, ‘In the shade + From the dawn’s tears is made + A perfume faint and strange, + Amber and honey sweet.’ + ‘And all the spirits fleet + Do suffer a sky-change, + More strangely than the dew, + To God’s own angels new,’ + The Grave said to the Rose. + + + +A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS. + + + DU BELLAY. + + We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain, + New wedded in the village by thy fane, + Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is + We bring these amaranths, these white lilies, + A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray, + Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay; + Like these cool lilies may our loves remain, + Perfect and pure, and know not any stain; + And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, + Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower. + + + +OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE. + + + RONSARD. + + When you are very old, at evening + You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, + Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day! + When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’ + None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, + Albeit with her weary task foredone, + But wakens at my name, and calls you one + Blest, to be held in long remembering. + + I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid + On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, + While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, + My love, your pride, remember and regret; + Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, + And gather roses, while ’t is called to-day. + + + +SHADOWS OF HIS LADY. + + + JACQUES TAHUREAU. + + WITHIN the sand of what far river lies + The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? + What highest circle of the Heavens above + Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes? + And where is the rich sea whose coral vies + With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? + What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof + The fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise? + + What Parian marble that is loveliest + Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast? + When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade? + Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, + Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be + The far-off splendid semblance of my maid! + + + +APRIL. + + + RÉMY BELLEAU, 1560. + + APRIL, pride of woodland ways, + Of glad days, + April, bringing hope of prime, + To the young flowers that beneath + Their bud sheath + Are guarded in their tender time; + + April, pride of fields that be + Green and free, + That in fashion glad and gay, + Stud with flowers red and blue, + Every hue, + Their jewelled spring array; + + April, pride of murmuring + Winds of spring, + That beneath the winnowed air, + Trap with subtle nets and sweet + Flora’s feet, + Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair; + + April, by thy hand caressed, + From her breast, + Nature scatters everywhere + Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, + Buds and blooms, + Making faint the earth and air. + + April, joy of the green hours, + Clothes with flowers + Over all her locks of gold + My sweet Lady; and her breast + With the blest + Buds of summer manifold. + + April, with thy gracious wiles, + Like the smiles, + Smiles of Venus; and thy breath + Like her breath, the gods’ delight, + (From their height + They take the happy air beneath;) + + It is thou that, of thy grace, + From their place + In the far-off isles dost bring + Swallows over earth and sea, + Glad to be + Messengers of thee, and Spring. + + Daffodil and eglantine, + And woodbine, + Lily, violet, and rose + Plentiful in April fair, + To the air, + Their pretty petals to unclose. + + Nightingales ye now may hear, + Piercing clear, + Singing in the deepest shade; + Many and many a babbled note + Chime and float, + Woodland music through the glade. + + April, all to welcome thee, + Spring sets free + Ancient flames, and with low breath + Wakes the ashes grey and old + That the cold + Chilled within our hearts to death. + + Thou beholdest in the warm + Hours, the swarm + Of the thievish bees, that flies + Evermore from bloom to bloom + For perfume, + Hid away in tiny thighs. + + Her cool shadows May can boast, + Fruits almost + Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, + Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, + That complete + Her flower garland fresh and new. + + Nay, but I will give my praise + To these days, + Named with the glad name of Her {102} + That from out the foam o’ the sea + Came to be + Sudden light on earth and air. + + + +AN OLD TUNE. + + + GÉRARD DE NERVAL. + + THERE is an air for which I would disown + Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,— + A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, + And keeps its secret charm for me alone. + + Whene’er I hear that music vague and old, + Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; + The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold + A green land golden in the dying day. + + An old red castle, strong with stony towers, + The windows gay with many-coloured glass; + Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, + That bathe the castle basement as they pass. + + In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, + A lady looks forth from her window high; + It may be that I knew and found her fair, + In some forgotten life, long time gone by. + + + +OLD LOVES. + + + HENRI MURGER. + + LOUISE, have you forgotten yet + The corner of the flowery land, + The ancient garden where we met, + My hand that trembled in your hand? + Our lips found words scarce sweet enough, + As low beneath the willow-trees + We sat; have you forgotten, love? + Do you remember, love Louise? + + Marie, have you forgotten yet + The loving barter that we made? + The rings we changed, the suns that set, + The woods fulfilled with sun and shade? + The fountains that were musical + By many an ancient trysting tree— + Marie, have you forgotten all? + Do you remember, love Marie? + + Christine, do you remember yet + Your room with scents and roses gay? + My garret—near the sky ’twas set— + The April hours, the nights of May? + The clear calm nights—the stars above + That whispered they were fairest seen + Through no cloud-veil? Remember, love! + Do you remember, love Christine? + + Louise is dead, and, well-a-day! + Marie a sadder path has ta’en; + And pale Christine has passed away + In southern suns to bloom again. + Alas! for one and all of us— + Marie, Louise, Christine forget; + Our bower of love is ruinous, + And I alone remember yet. + + + +A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE. + + + I be pareld most of prise, + I ride after the wild fee. + + * * * * * + + Will ye that I should sing + Of the love of a goodly thing, + Was no vilein’s may? + ’Tis all of a knight so free, + Under the olive tree, + Singing this lay. + + Her weed was of samite fine, + Her mantle of white ermine, + Green silk her hose; + Her shoon with silver gay, + Her sandals flowers of May, + Laced small and close. + + Her belt was of fresh spring buds, + Set with gold clasps and studs, + Fine linen her shift; + Her purse it was of love, + Her chain was the flower thereof, + And Love’s gift. + + Upon a mule she rode, + The selle was of brent gold, + The bits of silver made; + Three red rose trees there were + That overshadowed her, + For a sun shade. + + She riding on a day, + Knights met her by the way, + They did her grace: + ‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’ + ‘France it is my countrie, + I come of a high race. + + ‘My sire is the nightingale, + That sings, making his wail, + In the wild wood, clear; + The mermaid is mother to me, + That sings in the salt sea, + In the ocean mere.’ + + ‘Ye come of a right good race, + And are born of a high place, + And of high degree; + Would to God that ye were + Given unto me, being fair, + My lady and love to be.’ + + + +IANNOULA. + + + ROMAIC FOLK-SONG. + + ALL the maidens were merry and wed + All to lovers so fair to see; + The lover I took to my bridal bed + He is not long for love and me. + + I spoke to him and he nothing said, + I gave him bread of the wheat so fine; + He did not eat of the bridal bread, + He did not drink of the bridal wine. + + I made him a bed was soft and deep, + I made him a bed to sleep with me; + ‘Look on me once before you sleep, + And look on the flower of my fair body. + + ‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew, + Dew of April and buds of May; + Two white blossoms that bud for you, + Buds that blossom before the day.’ + + + +THE MILK-WHITE DOE. + + + FRENCH VOLKS-LIED. + + IT was a mother and a maid + That walked the woods among, + And still the maid went slow and sad, + And still the mother sung. + + ‘What ails you, daughter Margaret? + Why go you pale and wan? + Is it for a cast of bitter love, + Or for a false leman?’ + + ‘It is not for a false lover + That I go sad to see; + But it is for a weary life + Beneath the greenwood tree. + + ‘For ever in the good daylight + A maiden may I go, + But always on the ninth midnight + I change to a milk-white doe. + + ‘They hunt me through the green forest + With hounds and hunting men; + And ever it is my fair brother + That is so fierce and keen.’ + + * * * * * + + ‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son; + Where are your hounds so good?’ + ‘Oh, they are hunting a white doe + Within the glad greenwood. + + ‘And three times have they hunted her, + And thrice she’s won away; + The fourth time that they follow her + That white doe they shall slay.’ + + * * * * * + + Then out and spoke the forester, + As he came from the wood, + ‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair + Among the wild deer’s blood. + + ‘And I have hunted the wild deer + In east lands and in west; + And never saw I white doe yet + That had a maiden’s breast.’ + + Then up and spake her fair brother, + Between the wine and bread: + ‘Behold I had but one sister, + And I have been her dead. + + ‘But ye must bury my sweet sister + With a stone at her foot and her head, + And ye must cover her fair body + With the white roses and red. + + ‘And I must out to the greenwood, + The roof shall never shelter me; + And I shall lie for seven long years + On the grass below the hawthorn tree.’ + + + +HELIODORE. + + + (MELEAGER.) + + POUR wine, and cry again, again, again! + _To Heliodore_! + And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain + With that ye pour! + And bring to me her wreath of yesterday + That’s dank with myrrh; + _Hesternæ Rosæ_, ah my friends, but they + Remember her! + Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep + As who repine, + For if on any breast they see her sleep + It is not mine! + + + +THE PROPHET. + + + (ANTIPHILUS.) + + I KNEW it in your childish grace + The dawning of Desire, + ‘Who lives,’ I said, ‘will see that face + Set all the world on fire!’ + They mocked; but Time has brought to pass + The saying over-true; + Prophet and martyr now, alas, + I burn for Truth,—and you! + + + +LAIS. + + + (POMPEIUS.) + + LAIS that bloomed for all the world’s delight, + Crowned with all love lilies, the fair and dear, + Sleeps the predestined sleep, nor knows the flight + Of Helios, the gold-reined charioteer: + Revel, and kiss, and love, and hate, one Night + Darkens, that never lamp of Love may cheer! + + + +CLEARISTA. + + + (MELEAGER.) + + FOR Death, not for Love, hast thou + Loosened thy zone! + Flutes filled thy bower but now, + Morning brings moan! + Maids round thy bridal bed + Hushed are in gloom, + Torches to Love that led + Light to the tomb! + + + +THE FISHERMAN’S TOMB. + + + (LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM.) + + THERIS the Old, the waves that harvested + More keen than birds that labour in the sea, + With spear and net, by shore and rocky bed, + Not with the well-manned galley laboured he; + Him not the star of storms, nor sudden sweep + Of wind with all his years hath smitten and bent, + But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep, + As fades a lamp when all the oil is spent: + This tomb nor wife nor children raised, but we + His fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea. + + + +OF HIS DEATH. + + + (MELEAGER.) + + AH Love, my Master, hear me swear + By all the locks of Timo’s hair, + By Demo, and that fragrant spell + Wherewith her body doth enchant + Such dreams as drowsy lovers haunt, + By Ilias’ mirth delectable. + And by the lamp that sheds his light + On love and lovers all the night, + By those, ah Love, I swear that thou + Hast left me but one breath, and now + Upon my lips it fluttereth, + Yet _this_ I’ll yield, my latest breath, + Even this, oh Love, for thee to Death! + + + +RHODOPE. + + + (RUFINUS.) + + THOU hast Hera’s eyes, thou hast Pallas’ hands, + And the feet of the Queen of the yellow sands, + Thou hast beautiful Aphrodite’s breast, + Thou art made of each goddess’s loveliest! + Happy is he who sees thy face, + Happy who hears thy words of grace, + And he that shall kiss thee is half divine, + But a god who shall win that heart of thine! + + + +TO A GIRL. + + + (ASCLEPIADES.) + + BELIEVE me, love, it is not good + To hoard a mortal maidenhood; + In Hades thou wilt never find, + Maiden, a lover to thy mind; + Love’s for the living! presently + Ashes and dust in death are we! + + + +TO THE SHIPS. + + + (MELEAGER.) + + O GENTLE ships that skim the seas, + And cleave the strait where Hellé fell, + Catch in your sails the Northern breeze, + And speed to Cos, where she doth dwell, + My Love, and see you greet her well! + And if she looks across the blue, + Speak, gentle ships, and tell her true, + ‘He comes, for Love hath brought him back, + No sailor, on the landward tack.’ + + If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do, + Then may ye win the fairest gales, + And swifter speed across the blue, + While Zeus breathes friendly on your sails. + + + +A LATE CONVERT. + + + (PAULUS SILENTIARIUS.) + + I THAT in youth had never been + The servant of the Paphian Queen, + I that in youth had never felt + The shafts of Eros pierce and melt, + Cypris! in later age, half grey, + I bow the neck to _thee_ to-day. + Pallas, that was my lady, thou + Dost more triumphant vanquish now, + Than when thou gained’st, over seas, + The apple of the Hesperides. + + + +THE LIMIT OF LIFE. + + + THIRTY-SIX is the term that the prophets assign, + And the students of stars to the years that are mine; + Nay, let thirty suffice, for the man who hath passed + Thirty years is a Nestor, and _he_ died at last! + + + +TO DANIEL ELZEVIR. + + + (FROM THE LATIN OF MÉNAGE.) + + WHAT do I see! Oh gods divine + And goddesses,—this Book of mine,— + This child of many hopes and fears,— + Is published by the Elzevirs! + Oh perfect Publishers complete! + Oh dainty volume, new and neat! + The Paper doth outshine the snow, + The Print is blacker than the crow, + The Title-Page, with crimson bright, + The vellum cover smooth and white, + All sorts of readers do invite, + Ay, and will keep them reading still, + Against their will, or with their will! + Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lack + The Publisher has given them back, + As Milliners adorn the fair + Whose charms are something skimp and spare. + Oh _dulce decus_, Elzevirs! + The pride of dead and dawning years, + How can a poet best repay + The debt he owes your House to-day? + May this round world, while aught endures, + Applaud, and buy, these books of yours! + May purchasers incessant pop, + My Elzevirs, within your shop, + And learned bards salute, with cheers, + The volumes of the Elzevirs, + Till your renown fills earth and sky, + Till men forget the Stephani, + And all that Aldus wrought, and all + Turnebus sold in shop or stall, + While still may Fate’s (and Binders’) shears + Respect, and spare, the Elzevirs! + + + + +THE LAST CHANCE. + + +THE LAST CHANCE. + + + WITHIN the streams, Pausanias saith, + That down Cocytus valley flow, + Girdling the grey domain of Death, + The spectral fishes come and go; + The ghosts of trout flit to and fro. + Persephone, fulfil my wish, + And grant that in the shades below + My ghost may land the ghosts of fish. + + Φη λογοποιος ανήρ, δνοφερων εντοσθε ρεέθρων + οσσα πέριξ Αιδην εις ’Αχέροντα ρέει + ιχθύες ως αν’ αφεγγες υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσιν + ειδωλ’ ειδώλοις νηχόμενα πτερύγων. + Φερσεφόνη, συ θανόντι δ’ εμοι κρήηνον εέλδωρ, + καν Αιδη σκιερους ιχθύας εξερύσαι. + + L. C. + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + * * * * * + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{4a} January 26, 1885. + +{4b} M. Antoninus iv 23. + +{39} From the Romaic. + +{102} Aphrodite—Avril. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRASS OF PARNASSUS*** + + +******* This file should be named 1060-0.txt or 1060-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/6/1060 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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