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diff --git a/19170.txt b/19170.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..36324ad --- /dev/null +++ b/19170.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1478 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Primavera, by +Stephen Phillips, Laurence Binyon, Manmohan Ghose and Arthur Shearly Cripps + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Primavera + Poems by Four Authors + +Author: Stephen Phillips, Laurence Binyon, Manmohan Ghose and Arthur Shearly Cripps + +Release Date: September 4, 2006 [EBook #19170] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIMAVERA *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Sankar Viswanathan, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + PRIMAVERA: POEMS + + + BY FOUR AUTHORS + + + + + + + PORTLAND MAINE PUBLISHED + BY THOMAS B MOSHER AT XLV + EXCHANGE STREET MDCCCC + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE + + + _Primavera: Poems, by Four Authors. Oxford: + Published by B. H. Blackwell, Broad Street. + MDCCCXC._ (Fcap 8vo, pp. 43.) + +Such is the title of a little 'book of verses' that at the time +found favour in the eyes of a few discerning critics, and then, +apparently, was forgotten. As originally issued its dark brown +paper wrapper was adorned with a simple but effective woodcut +design by Mr. Selwyn Image, which we have reproduced on our first +half-title. Even more fortunate has been the discovery of a +signed review in the pages of the _Academy_ for August 9, 1890, +by the late John Addington Symonds. As a preface nothing could be +better. And in this connexion the lines which we prefix from +Guarini are also singularly appropriate. For these songs of Youth +are still worth while; they thrill and fill us as of yesterday +with their haunting sense of vanished love, of + + 'Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips + Bidding adieu.' + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE + + +This little book was written by four friends, three of them +under-graduates at Oxford, and all of them penetrated with the +spirit of the higher culture of our time. The poems, it is clear, +have been carefully selected; and, it is probable, have been +diligently polished. There is not one which is not remarkable for +delicacy of style and conscious aiming after excellence in art. +Whether these qualities promise well for future achievement and +development is a question open to debate. But there can be no +doubt that in _Primavera_ we possess another of those tiny +verse-books like _Ionica_, or Mr. Percy Pinkerton's _Galeazzo_, +which will not lose in freshness and in perfume as the years go +by. + +The poems have the distinction of making one wish to be +acquainted with their authors. Though they differ a good deal in +mental tone, perhaps also somewhat in literary merit, they +possess marked common characteristics: a restrained refinement, a +subdued reserve, a gentle melancholy; the note of the latest +Anglican aesthetic school. We find no humour, no _Sturm und +Drang_, no inequalities and incoherences of passion. Even where +it is obvious that the emotion has been intense, possibly of a +rare and peculiar strain, as in Mr. Binyon's "Testamentum Amoris" +and Mr. Phillips's "To a Lost Love," the expression of it obeys +no violence of impulse. A tender tone of regret, rather than of +acute grief, steeps these stanzas (to quote one instance) +addressed to a friend removed into the spiritual world by death. + + "Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere + Thou art a thing apart, + Losing in saner happiness + This madness of the heart. + + "And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel + A passing breath, a pain; + Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven + Had oped and closed again. + + "And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns, + The solemn hymns, shall cease; + A moment half remember me; + Then turn away to peace." + +It would be invidious to institute critical comparisons between +the styles of these four friends and their respective merits. It +may, however, be remarked that Mr. Manmohan Ghose's work possesses +a peculiar interest on account of its really notable command of +the subtleties of English prosody and diction, combined with just +a touch of foreign feeling. The artful employment of imperfect +rhymes in "Raymond and Ida" illustrates what I mean. Occasionally, +too, Mr. Ghose produces exactly the right phrase by means of a +felicitous simplicity. Notice the line which I have italicised in +the following stanza: + + "In the deep West the heavens grow heavenlier, + Eve after eve; and still + _The glorious stars remember to appear;_ + The roses on the hill + Are fragrant as before; + Only thy face, of all that's dear, + I shall see nevermore!" + +Take, again, these two lines: + + "Forget the shining of the stars, forget + The vernal visitation of the rose." + +There is but one piece of blank verse in the book. This prologue +to "Orestes," by Mr. Stephen Phillips, has strength, is firm in +outline, somewhat tardy in movement, fit for sonorous declamation. +The gravity which I have indicated as a ruling quality of all +these youthful compositions makes itself felt here in its proper +place. We might have wished, perhaps, for more of joyous accent in +the ode to "Youth," by Mr. Laurence Binyon, which dwells less on +the rapture of youth than on its sadness--the melancholy of +Theognis over youth's decay: + + "O bright new-comer, filled with thoughts of joy, + Joy to be thine amid these pleasant plains, + Know'st thou not, child, what surely coming pains + Await thee, for that eager heart's annoy? + Misunderstanding, disappointment, tears, + Wronged love, spoiled hope, mistrust and ageing fears, + Eternal longing for one perfect friend, + And unavailing wishes without end?" + +Mr. Cripps alone permits his Muse a gravely jocund note in his +"Seasons' Comfort." He, too, of the four fellow-versifiers shows +the greater aptitude for experiments, though it may perhaps be +felt that his touch is nowhere quite so sure, nor his artistic +feeling so direct as theirs. + +It is difficult to lay the critic's hand lightly enough upon +poems like these, or to make it clear what particular attraction +they possess. With all the charm of rathe spring-flowers, they +suggest the possibilities of varied personality not yet +accentuated in the authors. Let us hope that the four Muses of +the four friends will not, like the primroses, + + "die unmarried ere they can behold + Bright Phoebus in his strength," + +but that we shall profit by their summer-songs, while ever +remaining grateful for their _Primavera_. + +JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. + +_August_, 1890. + + * * * * * + + + + +PRIMAVERA + + + O Primavera, gioventu de l' anno, + Bella madre de' fiori, + D'erbe novelle e di novelli amori, + Tu torni ben; ma teco + Non tornano i sereni + E fortunati di de le mie gioje: + Tu torni ben, tu torni, + Ma teco altro non torna + Che del perduto mio caro tesoro + La rimembranza misera e dolente: + Tu quella sei, tu quella, + Ch'era pur dianzi si vezzosa e bella; + Ma non son io gia quel ch'un tempo fui, + Si caro a gli occhi altrui. + +GUARINI. _Pastor Fido_, Atto iii, Sc. I. + + + + +POEMS + + + No Muse will I invoke; for she is fled! + Lo! where she sits, breathing, yet all but dead. + She loved the heavens of old, she thought them fair; + And dream'd of Gods in Tempe's golden air. + For her the wind had voice, the sea its cry; + She deem'd heroic Greece could never die. + Breathless was she, to think what nymphs might play + In clear green depths, deep-shaded from the day; + She thought the dim and inarticulate god + Was beautiful, nor knew she man a sod; + But hoped what seem'd might not be all untrue, + And feared to look beyond the eternal blue. + But now the heavens are bared of dreams divine. + Still murmurs she, like Autumn, _This was mine!_ + How should she face the ghastly, jarring Truth, + That questions all, and tramples without ruth? + And still she clings to Ida of her dreams, + And sobs, _Ah! let the world be what it seems!_ + Then the shy nymph shall softly come again; + The world, once more, make music for her pain. + For, sitting in the dim and ghostly night, + She fain would stay the strong approach of light; + While later bards cleave to her, and believe + That in her sorrow she can still conceive! + Oh, let her dream; still lovely is her sigh; + Oh, rouse her not, or she shall surely die. + +STEPHEN PHILLIPS. + + + + +YOUTH + + + When life begins anew, + And Youth, from gathering flowers, + From vague delights, rapt musings, twilight hours, + Turns restless, seeking some great deed to do, + To sum his foster'd dreams; when that fresh birth + Unveils the real, the throng'd and spacious Earth, + And he awakes to those more ample skies, + By other aims and by new powers possess'd: + How deeply, then, his breast + Is fill'd with pangs of longing! how his eyes + Drink in the enchanted prospect! Fair it lies + Before him, with its plains expanding vast, + Peopled with visions, and enrich'd with dreams; + Dim cities, ancient forests, winding streams, + Places resounding in the famous past, + A kingdom ready to his hand! + How like a bride Life seems to stand + In welcome, and with festal robes array'd! + He feels her loveliness pervade + And pierce him with inexplicable sweetness; + And, in her smiles delighting, and the fires + Of his own pulses, passionate soul! + Measures his strength by his desires, + And the wide future by their fleetness, + As his thought leaps to the long-distant goal. + + So eagerly across that unknown span + Of years he gazes: what, to him, + Are bounds and barriers, tales of Destiny, + Death, and the fabled impotence of man? + Already, in his marching dream, + Men at his sun-like coming seem + As with an inspiration stirr'd, and he + To kindle with new thoughts degenerate nations, + In sordid cares immersed so long; + Thrill'd with ethereal exultations + And a victorious expectancy, + Even such as swell'd the breasts of Bacchus' throng, + When that triumphal burst of joy was hurl'd + Upon the wondering world; + When from the storied, sacred East afar, + Down Indian gorges clothed in green, + With flower-rein'd tigers and with ivory car + He came, the youthful god; + Beautiful Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, his hair + Blown on the wind, and flush'd limbs bare, + And lips apart, and radiant eyes, + And ears that caught the coming melodies, + As wave on wave of revellers swept abroad; + Wreathed with vine-leaves, shouting, trampling onwards, + With toss'd timbrel and loud tambourine. + + Alas! the disenchanting years have roll'd + On hearts and minds becoming cold: + Mirth is gone from us; and the world is old. + + O bright new-comer, fill'd with thoughts of joy, + Joy to be thine amid these pleasant plains, + Know'st thou not, child, what surely coming pains + Await thee, for that eager heart's annoy? + Misunderstanding, disappointment, tears, + Wrong'd love, spoil'd hope, mistrust and ageing fears, + Eternal longing for one perfect friend, + And unavailing wishes without end? + Thou proud and pure of spirit, how must thou bear + To have thine infinite hates and loves confined, + School'd, and despised? How keep unquench'd and free + 'Mid others' commerce and economy + Such ample visions, oft in alien air + Tamed to the measure of the common kind? + How hard for thee, swept on, for ever hurl'd + From hour to hour, bewilder'd and forlorn, + To move with clear eyes and with steps secure, + To keep the light within, to fitly scorn + Those all too possible and easy goals, + Trivial ambitions of soon-sated souls! + And, patient in thy purpose, to endure + The pity and the wisdom of the world. + + Vain, vain such warning to those happy ears! + Disturb not their delight! By unkind powers + Doom'd to keep pace with the relentless Hours, + He, too, ere long, shall feel Earth's glory change; + Familiar names shall take an accent strange, + A deeper meaning, a more human tone; + No more pass'd by, unheeded or unknown, + The things that then shall be beheld through tears. + + Yet, O just Nature, thou + Who, if men's hearts be hard, art always mild; + O fields and streams, and places undefiled, + Let your sweet airs be ever on his brow, + Remember still your child. + Thou too, O human world, if old desires, + If thoughts, not alien once, can move thee now, + Teach him not yet that idly he aspires + Where thou hast fail'd; not soon let it be plain, + That all who seek in thee for nobler fires, + For generous passion, spend their hopes in vain: + Lest that insidious Fate, foe of mankind, + Who ever waits upon our weakness, try + With whispers his unnerved and faltering mind, + Palsy his powers; for she has spells to dry, + Like the March blast, his blood, turn flesh to stone, + And, conjuring action with necessity, + Freeze the quick will, and make him all her own. + + Come, then, as ever, like the Wind at morning! + Joyous, O Youth, in the aged world renew + Freshness to feel the eternities around it, + Rains, stars, and clouds, light and the sacred dew. + The strong sun shines above thee: + That strength, that radiance bring! + If Winter come to Winter, + When shall men hope for Spring? + +LAURENCE BINYON. + + * * * * * + + 'Tis my twentieth year: dim, now, youth stretches behind me; + Breaking fresh at my feet, lies, like an ocean, the world. + And despised seem, now, those quiet fields I have travell'd: + Eager to thee I turn, Life, and thy visions of joy. + Fame I see, with her wreath, far off approaching to crown me; + Love, whose starry eyes fever my heart with desire: + And impassion'd I yearn for the future, all unconscious, + Ah, poor dreamer! what ills life in its circle enfolds. + Not more restless the boy, whose eager, confident bosom + The wide, unknown sea fills with a hunger to roam. + Often beside the surge of the desolate ocean he paces; + Ingrate, dreams of a sky brighter, serener than his. + Passionate soul! light holds he a mother's tearful entreaties, + Lightly leaves he behind all the sad faces of home; + Never again, perchance, to behold them; lost in the tempest, + Or on some tropic shore dying in fever and pain! + +MANMOHAN GHOSE. + + + + +TESTAMENTUM AMORIS + + + I cannot raise my eyelids up from sleep, + But I am visited with thoughts of you; + Slumber has no refreshment half so deep + As the sweet morn, that wakes my heart anew. + + I cannot put away life's trivial care, + But you straightway steal on me with delight: + My purest moments are your mirror fair; + My deepest thought finds you the truth most bright. + + You are the lovely regent of my mind, + The constant sky to my unresting sea; + Yet, since 'tis you that rule me, I but find + A finer freedom in such tyranny. + + Were the world's anxious kingdoms govern'd so, + Lost were their wrongs, and vanish'd half their woe! + +LAURENCE BINYON. + + + + +AMAVIMUS, AMAMUS, AMABIMUS + + + Persephone, Persephone! + Still I fancy I can see + Thee amid the daffodils. + Golden wealth thy basket fills; + Golden blossoms at thy breast; + Golden hair that shames the West; + Golden sunlight round thy head! + Ah! the golden years have fled; + Thee have reft, and me have left + Here alone, thy loss to mourn. + + Persephone, Persephone! + Still I fancy I can see + Her, as white and still she lies: + Death has woo'd and won his prize. + White the blossoms at her breast; + White and still her face at rest; + White the moonbeams round her head. + Ah! the wintry years have fled; + Comfort lent and patience sent, + And my grief is easier borne. + + Persephone, Persephone! + Still in dreams thou com'st to me; + Every night art at my side, + Half my bride, and half Death's bride! + Golden blossoms at thy breast; + Golden hair that shames the West; + Golden sunlight circling thee! + Half of gold the lone years flee: + Night is glad, though day is sad, + Till I go where thou art gone. + +ARTHUR S. CRIPPS. + + + + +TO A LOST LOVE + + + I cannot look upon thy grave, + Though there the rose is sweet: + Better to hear the long wave wash + These wastes about my feet! + + Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live + A spirit, though afar, + With a deep hush about thee, like + The stillness round a star? + + Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere + Thou art a thing apart, + Losing in saner happiness + This madness of the heart. + + And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel + A passing breath, a pain; + Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven + Had oped and closed again. + + And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns, + The solemn hymns, shall cease; + A moment half remember me: + Then turn away to peace. + + But oh, for evermore thy look, + Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone, + Thy sweet and wayward earthliness, + Dear trivial things, are gone! + + Therefore I look not on thy grave, + Though there the rose is sweet; + But rather hear the loud wave wash + These wastes about my feet. + +STEPHEN PHILLIPS. + + + + +RAYMOND AND IDA + + +_Raymond._ + + Dearest, that sit'st in dreams, + Through the window look, this way. + How changed and desolate seems + The world, Ida, to-day! + Heavy and low the sky is glooming: + Winter is coming! + +_Ida._ + + My dreaming heart is stirr'd: + Sadly the winter comes! + The wind is loud: how weird, + Heard in these darken'd rooms! + Speak to me, Raymond; ease this dread: + I am afraid, afraid. + +_Raymond._ + + Love, what is this? Like snow + Thy cheeks feel, snow they wear. + What ails my darling so? + What is it thou dost hear? + Close, close, thy soft arms cling to mine: + Tears on thy lashes shine. + +_Ida._ + + Hark! love, the wind wails by + The wet October trees, + Swaying them mournfully: + The wet leaves shower and cease. + And hark! how blows the weary rain, + Against the shaken pane. + +_Raymond._ + + Ah, yes, the world is drear + Outside; there is no rest. + But what can Ida fear, + Shelter'd upon my breast? + Heed not the storm-blast, beating wild, + I love thee, love thee, child. + +_Ida._ + + Thy breath is in my hair, + Thy kisses on my cheek; + Yet I scarce feel them there: + Faintly I hear thee speak. + My heart is dreaming far away, + In some sad, future day. + +_Raymond._ + + The future? In the mist + Of years what dost thou see? + O let that dark land rest: + Come back, come back to me! + Look up! How fix'd and vacant seem + Thine eyes; so deep they dream. + +_Ida._ + + To leave the blessed light: + Cold in the grave to lie! + No voice, no human sight: + Darkness and apathy! + To die! 'tis hard, ere youth is o'er; + But ah, to love no more! + +_Raymond._ + + What dream is this, alas! + O, if but for my sake, + Wake, darling; let this pass: + Ida, dear Ida, wake! + I cannot bear to see those tears: + Thy sad tones hurt my ears. + +_Ida._ + + Will he forget me, then, + When I am gone away? + 'Twere best: to give him pain, + Let not my memory stay. + But O, even there, in Hades dim, + I would remember him. + +_Raymond._ + + Thou griev'st thyself in vain: + Sweet love, be comforted. + Come, leave this world of rain; + To the bright hearth turn thy head. + We have our fireside still, the same: + How cheerful is the flame! + + Though darkness round us press; + Though wild, without, it blows; + Here sit thee, while thy face + In the happy firelight glows: + Clasp'd in my arms, lie tranquil here; + And listen, Ida dear. + + As, from that outlook chill, + The glad hearth meets our sight, + A charm for every ill + We bear, a charm of might. + Ah, 'gainst its power not death shall stay! + Know'st thou it, darling, say? + + Thou smilest! Joy, I see, + Dawns in thine eyes again: + Those cheeks of ivory + Their own sweet bloom regain. + Thou know'st that heavenly charm; how well, + Thy happy kisses tell! + +MANMOHAN GHOSE. + + + + +PSYCHE + + + She is not fair, as some are fair, + Cold as the snow, as sunshine gay: + On her clear brow, come grief what may, + She suffers not too stern an air; + But, grave in silence, sweet in speech, + Loves neither mockery nor disdain; + Gentle to all, to all doth teach + The charm of deeming nothing vain. + + She join'd me: and we wander'd on; + And I rejoiced, I cared not why, + Deeming it immortality + To walk with such a soul alone. + Primroses pale grew all around, + Violets, and moss, and ivy wild; + Yet, drinking sweetness from the ground, + I was but conscious that she smiled. + + The wind blew all her shining hair + From her sweet brows; and she, the while, + Put back her lovely head, to smile + On my enchanted spirit there. + Jonquils and pansies round her head + Gleam'd softly; but a heavenlier hue + Upon her perfect cheek was shed, + And in her eyes a purer blue. + + There came an end to break the spell; + She murmur'd something in my ear; + The words fell vague, I did not hear, + And ere I knew, I said farewell; + And homeward went, with happy heart + And spirit dwelling in a gleam, + Rapt to a Paradise apart, + With all the world become a dream. + + Yet now, too soon, the world's strong strife + Breaks on me pitiless again; + The pride of passion, hopes made vain, + The wounds, the weariness, of life. + And losing that forgetful sphere, + For some less troubled world I sigh, + If not divine, more free, more clear, + Than this poor, soil'd humanity. + + But when, in trances of the night, + Wakeful, my lonely bed I keep, + And linger at the gate of Sleep, + Fearing, lest dreams deny me light; + Her image comes into the gloom, + With her pale features moulded fair, + Her breathing beauty, morning bloom, + My heart's delight, my tongue's despair. + + With loving hand she touches mine, + Showers her soft tresses on my brow, + And heals my heart, I know not how, + Bathing me with her looks divine. + She beckons me; and I arise; + And, grief no more remembering, + Wander again with rapturous eyes + Through those enchanted lands of Spring. + + Then, as I walk with her in peace, + I leave this troubled air below, + Where, hurrying sadly to and fro, + Men toil, and strain, and cannot cease: + Then, freed from tyrannous Fate's control, + Untouch'd by years or grief, I see + Transfigured in that child-like soul + The soil'd soul of humanity. + +LAURENCE BINYON. + + + + +A LAMENT + + + Over thy head, in joyful wanderings + Through heaven's wide spaces, free, + Birds fly with music in their wings; + And from the blue, rough sea + The fishes flash and leap; + There is a life of loveliest things + O'er thee, so fast asleep. + + In the deep West the heavens grow heavenlier, + Eve after eve; and still + The glorious stars remember to appear; + The roses on the hill + Are fragrant as before: + Only thy face, of all that's dear, + I shall see nevermore! + +MANMOHAN GHOSE. + + + + +UNDINES OF DIVERSE DAYS + + +I + + The eyes of heaven were on her bent, + In a rapture of loving wonderment, + As her song with the nightingale's was blent: + And one yearn'd for a love, and one sigh'd for a soul! + + Moonlight and starlight alike seemed cold, + As their silver glanced on her locks of gold; + And the dream on her face was a dream of old, + Whose sorrow no sunrise might smile away. + + I read her yearning and weary smile, + As her song rang sadder and sadder the while, + With its weird refrain of a magic isle, + Where some might have rest, but never might she! + + She, the darling of Sky and Stream, + She was but as wind, or as wave, or as dream, + To play for a while in life's glory and gleam: + But what would be left at the end of the day? + +II + + The sun smiles down upon her distress + With a tyrant smile most pitiless, + As she stitches away in her tatter'd dress, + With a song on her lips, that sinks in a sigh. + + Yet, scorning her dusty window pane, + For all his pride, in love he is fain + Soft gold on her golden hair to rain; + But no sunlight may soften that soulless stare. + + I read her yearning and weary sigh, + And the eyes that would be, but are not, dry; + And I catch the voice of that voiceless cry + For a moment to rest, for a moment to weep. + + She, the darling of Want and Woe, + Why was she sent, save to work and to go + With feet that will ever more weary grow? + Whither? she has not a moment to care! + + The Undine of olden days, I read, + By the love of a soul from her trammels was freed: + Knows there another such dolorous need? + Sure on the earth lingers yet such a soul! + +ARTHUR S. CRIPPS. + + + + +A DREAM + + + My dead love came to me, and said, + 'God gives me one hour's rest, + To spend with thee on earth again: + How shall we spend it best?' + + 'Why, as of old,' I said; and so + We quarrell'd, as of old: + But, when I turn'd to make my peace, + That one short hour was told. + +STEPHEN PHILLIPS. + + * * * * * + + Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of love + The shy and virgin sights of Spring to-day, + Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove? + Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play, + Where Nature smiles so fair and seems to ask a lay? + + Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful. + How should I sing her? for my heart would tire, + Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull, + In striving still to pitch my music higher: + Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire! + + No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile: + To escape thee, Nature, restless here I rove. + Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile! + O cease at length this fever'd breast to move! + I have loved thee in vain; I cannot speak my love. + + Here sense with apathy seems gently wed: + The gloom is starr'd with flowers; the unseen trees + Spread thick and softly real above my head; + And the far birds add music to the peace, + In this dark place of sleep, where whispers never cease. + + Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here; + Vain is the burning bosom of desire! + Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear, + As a sad Muse in the melodious choir + Hushes her voice, to catch the happier voices by her. + + Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet + In night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows; + Forget the shining of the stars, forget + The vernal visitation of the rose; + And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's repose. + + Strive how I may, I cannot slumber so: + Still burns that sleepless beauty on the mind; + Still insupportable those visions glow; + And hark! my spirit's aspirations find + An answer in the leaves, a warning on the wind. + + 'O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure, + Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep: + Soon birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure; + And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep, + And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep. + + 'Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays; + Then follow, till around thee all be sere. + Lose not a vision of her passing face; + Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that here + Sweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.' + +MANMOHAN GHOSE. + + + + +ORESTES + + + Me in far lands did Justice call, cold queen + Among the dead, who after heat and haste + At length have leisure for her steadfast voice, + That gathers peace from the great deeps of hell. + She call'd me, saying: 'I heard a cry by night! + Go thou, and question not; within thy halls + My will awaits fulfilment. Lo, the dead + Cries out before me in the under-world. + Seek not to justify thyself: in me + Be strong, and I will show thee wise in time; + For, though my face be dark, yet unto those + Who truly follow me through storm or shine, + For these the veil shall fall, and they shall see + They walked with Wisdom, though they knew her not.' + So sped I home; and from the under-world + Forever came a wind that fill'd my sails, + Cold, like a spirit! and ever her still voice + Spoke over shoreless seas and fathomless deeps, + And in great calms, as from a colder world; + Nor slack'd I sail by day, nor yet when night + Fell on my running keel, and now would burn, + With all her eyes, my errand into me. + So sped I on, fill'd with a voice divine: + And hardly wist I whom I was to slay, + My mother! but a vague, heroic dream + Possess'd me; fired to do the will of gods, + I lost the man in minister of Heaven; + Nor took I note of sandbank, nor of storm, + Nor of the ocean's thunders, when the shores + All round had faded, leaving me alone: + I knew I could not die, till I had slain! + But, when I came once more upon the land + That rear'd me, all the sweetness of old days + Came back on me: I stood, as from a dream + Waked to a sudden, sad reality. + And when, far off, I saw those ancient towers, + The palaces and places of my youth, + I long'd to fall into my mother's arms, + And tell a thousand tales of near escapes. + And lo! the nurse, that fondled me of yore, + Fell with glad tears upon my neck, and told + How she, and how my mother, all this while + Had dream'd of all I was to do, and said + How dear I should be to my mother's eyes. + Her words shook me, but shook not my resolve. + For even then there came that sterner voice, + Echoing to what was highest in the soul. + Then, like to those who have a work on earth, + And put far from them lips of wife or child, + And gird them to the accomplishment; so I + Strode in, nor saw at all mine ancient halls; + And struck my father's murderess, not my mother. + And, when I had smitten, lo, the strength of gods + Pass'd from me, and the old, familiar halls + Reel'd back on me; dim statues, that of old + Holding my mother's hand I marvell'd at, + And questioned her of each. And she lies there, + My mother! ay, my mother now; O hair + That once I play'd with in these halls! O eyes + That for a moment knew me as I came, + And lighten'd up, and trembled into love; + The next were darkened by my hand! Ah me! + Ye will not look upon me in that world. + Yet thou, perchance, art happier, if thou go'st + Into some land of wind and drifting leaves, + To sleep without a star; but as for me, + Hell hungers, and the restless Furies wait. + Then the dark Curse, that sits upon the towers, + Bow'd down her awful head, thus satisfied, + And I fled forth, a murderer, through the world. + +STEPHEN PHILLIPS. + + + + +THE SEASONS' COMFORT + + + Dry thine eyes, Doll! the stars above us shine; + God of His goodness made them mine and thine; + His silver have we gotten, and His gold, + Whilst there's a sun to call us in the morn + To ply the hook among amid the yellow corn, + That such a mine of pretty gems doth hold: + For there's the poppy half in sorrow, + Greeting sleepy-eyed the morrow, + And the corn-flower, dainty tire for a sweetheart sunny-poll'd. + + Dry thine eyes, Doll! the woods are all our own, + The woods that soon shall take a braver tone, + What time the frosts first silver Nature's hair; + The birds shall sing their best for thee and me; + And every sunrise listeners will we be, + And so of singing get the goodliest share; + When the thrushes sing so sweetly, + We would fain be footing featly, + But our hearts dance time instead in the throbbing matin air. + + Dry thine eyes, Doll! there's Love to feed our fire, + Not for the buying, but for the desire; + Winter ne'er quenched a blaze so bravely fed. + And Sleep, I wot, will grudge us not his best: + In winter earlier sink the suns to rest, + And eke the sooner shall our toils be sped; + When in the embers glowing + There'll be love-charms worth the knowing, + Or, at Yule-tide, mazes threaded, with the mistletoe o'erhead. + +ARTHUR S. CRIPPS. + + * * * * * + + O Summer sun, O moving trees! + O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street! + What hour shall Fate in all the future find, + Or what delights, ever to equal these: + Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind, + Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet? + +LAURENCE BINYON. + + + + +MENTEM MORTALIA TANGUNT + + + Now lonely is the wood: + No flower now lingers, none! + The virgin sisterhood + Of roses, all are gone; + Now Autumn sheds her latest leaf; + And in my heart is grief. + + Ah me, for all earth rears, + The appointed bound is placed! + After a thousand years + The great oak falls at last: + And thou, more lovely, canst not stay, + Sweet rose, beyond thy day. + + Our life is not the life + Of roses and of leaves; + Else wherefore this deep strife, + This pain, our soul conceives? + The fall of ev'n such short-lived things + To us some sorrow brings. + + And yet, plant, bird, and fly + Feel no such hidden fire. + Happy they live; and die + Happy, with no desire. + They in their brief life have fulfill'd + All Nature in them will'd. + + And were we also made + Of like terrestrial mould + We should not be afraid, + Nor feel the grave so cold; + But, all oblivious of our fate, + Live sweetly out our date. + + For the great mother loves + Her children far too well; + These longings that she moves + Their own fulfilment tell: + She would not burden us with aught + We really needed not. + + O, not in vain she gave + To the wild birds their wings! + They spread them forth, and have + Heaven for their wanderings. + But we, to whom no wings are given + Why seek we for a Heaven? + + And, when far o'er us fly + Those voyagers of the air, + Why must we gaze, and sigh, + _O would that I were there?_ + Why are we restless, ill content, + Tied to one element? + + 'Tis not that in our tears + Some happier life we crave; + Our happiest, sweetest years + Mysterious moments have: + The sense of our brief human lot + Clings to us, haunts our thought. + + O then this pleasant earth + Seems but an alien thing: + Faint grows her busy mirth; + Far hence our thoughts take wing: + For some enduring home we cry! + She cannot satisfy, + + Or bind us: only ties + Immortal found can bless; + Only in loving eyes + We see our happiness; + Only upon a loving breast + Our souls find any rest. + + Why thirsts the spirit so + For life? what moves it thus? + 'Tis _her_ voice; yes, I know, + 'Tis Nature cries in us: + 'Tis no unholy strife of ours + Against forbidding powers. + + What though we gaze with fear, + So blank death seems to be; + What though no land appear + Beyond that lonely sea; + Still in our hearts her cry doth stay; + She will find out a way. + + So in the chrysalis + Slumber those lovely wings; + So from the shell it is + The dazzling pearl she brings: + Her glorious works she works alone, + Unfathom'd and unknown! + +MANMOHAN GHOSE. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Primavera, by +Stephen Phillips, Laurence Binyon, Manmohan Ghose and Arthur Shearly Cripps + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIMAVERA *** + +***** This file should be named 19170.txt or 19170.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/1/7/19170/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Sankar Viswanathan, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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