path: root/73826-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73826 ***





A VISION OF LIFE




                            A VISION OF LIFE

                        POEMS. BY DARRELL FIGGIS
                          WITH AN INTRODUCTION
                        BY GILBERT K. CHESTERTON


                   LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
                   NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMIX




                     WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
                           PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH




                                   TO
                                MY WIFE


For nigh four years now have these poems sought to snuff the open
breeze, returning ever to me broken and disappointed. What bitterness
was in this--how deep you alone know!--was yours also; but I alone knew
that rarer bounty of your instant and unfailing comfort. Therefore,
dear, these poems are dedicate to you beyond my power to alter or
avert; and it lies for me now but to confirm the finding of the years.




INTRODUCTION

BY G. K. CHESTERTON


There are signs of a certain stirring in English poetry, a minor
Renaissance of which Francis Thompson may be regarded as the chief
ensign and example. It is partly the Elizabethan spirit, that permanent
English thing working its way again to the surface; but, of course,
like every Renaissance, it is in many ways unlike its origin and model.
It is as true in art as it is in religion, that when a man is born
again, he is born different. And the latest Elizabethanism has differed
not only from the actual Elizabethan work, but from other revivals
of it. The great romantic movement which was at its height about the
beginning of the nineteenth century, the movement of which Coleridge is
perhaps the most typical product, this movement was and even claimed
to be a return to the Elizabethan inspiration. This, of course, it was
in its revolt against the rhymed rationalism of Pope, in its claim
that poetry was a sort of super-sense which Pope would have called
nonsense. But there were two elements in the Coleridge and Wordsworth
movement which prevented it, splendid as it was, from being perfectly
Elizabethan.

The first was a certain craze for simplicity, even for a somewhat
barbaric simplicity; a craze which was much connected with the growing
influence of Germany and the purely Northern theory of our national
origin. People were trying to be Anglo-Saxon instead of English. In
style and diction this produced an almost pedantic plainness and love
of Teutonic roots which, whatever else it was, was utterly antagonistic
to the spirit of the Elizabethans. This business of the plain Saxon
speech is entirely appropriate as eulogy on certain suitable things,
such as the translation of the Bible; it is permissible as eulogy, but
it is intolerable as condemnation. It is certainly part of the beauty
of Bunyan’s work that it is built out of plain words, just as it is
part of the beauty of Westminster Cathedral that it is built out of
plain bricks. But as for saying that no building shall be built out of
stone or marble or timber, that is quite another matter, and quite an
unreasonable one. Coleridge, in the _Ancient Mariner_, did frequently
manage strange and fine effects with the bald words of a ballad. But
because I will not go without--

    “They fixed on me their stony eyes
     That in the moon did glitter,”

is no reason at all why I should go without--

    “Re-visits thus the glimpses of the moon.”

The richness and variegation of the old Elizabethan style permitted
peculiar and poignant effects which the Wordsworthian ballad, and
even the Tennysonian lyric, did not attempt to revive. The principal
objection to writing Anglo-Saxon instead of English is, after all,
a very simple one: it is that the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary is one of
the smallest in the world, while the English vocabulary is one of the
largest.

Mr. Darrell Figgis is one of those who give this impression of a
latter-day return to the Elizabethan spirit; that is, to the real
Elizabethan spirit which the romantic movement omitted--the spirit of
Elizabethan enrichment and involution. The element to which I refer is
already sufficiently well known in the work of Francis Thompson, in
whom it could be, and indeed has been, called, not only Elizabethan
complexity, but even Elizabethan affectation. The work of Mr. Darrell
Figgis is less elaborate than that extreme though triumphant example;
but it has the same essential qualities of sustained and systematic
metrical style, of line linked with line in a process requiring the
reader’s attention, and remote in its very nature from the startling
simplicity of the old romantic ballad. If this kind of poetry prevails,
people will have to listen to it rather as they listen to good and
rather difficult music, not as they listen to scattered brilliancies
in a speech by Mr. Bernard Shaw. Mr. Figgis is even Elizabethan (as
was Francis Thompson also) in attempts at abrupt lyric metres, not
always easy to achieve. But there was, indeed, another respect in
which the early nineteenth century failed to be fully renaissant of
the Renaissance. I mean that taste of sickness and aimless revolt
which dominated Byron and even Shelley, and discoloured the moods of
Coleridge. I am well aware of how much of strong art, of mercy, and
egalitarian justice there was in the revolt, and those men in England
who were its essential and spiritual enemies (such as Gifford in
literature and Castlereagh in politics) are now covered with a contempt
which can never be wiped away. Yet, when all is said, the weakness
of the indispensable Revolution was in its artistic voices, in their
notes of negation, of license, and of despair. When all is said, the
Revolution succeeded in France, because it was chiefly an affair of
soldiers; the Revolution failed in England, because it was chiefly an
affair of poets. If any twopenny placeman could call it mere anarchy,
if any tenth-rate Tory can say that it hated God and man, the blame
does not lie with the stoical religion of Robespierre or the enormous
common sense of Danton; it lies with Byron or Shelley or their belated
brother Swinburne.

In this connection it is pleasant to feel that the new stirrings of the
old influence are without any recurrence to the mere sentiment of ruin.
In this respect the rising men rather follow Browning, who had the hope
and heartiness of the Elizabethans, as well as their mystification and
elaborate wit; indeed, he had everything of the Elizabethans, except
their ease. Francis Thompson spoke from a secure tower of faith. Mr.
Darrell Figgis is on the side of the angels. Nothing is more satisfying
in his poetry, apart from its many incidental beauties, than the
evidence it offers of a certain return to right feeling and faith in
life, not as an early dream of transcendentalism, but as an ultimate
result of experience. The thing which tired people call optimism is
growing in many as a matter of mere fair-mindedness, and the fact is
that at last a man of the world may be permitted to admire the world.
I will not deny that much of my pleasure in Mr. Figgis’ work arises
from a sympathy with his serious and sincere enjoyment of beauty and
the great things that life begets. I should like to have quoted more
than one line from his _Vision of Life_. But, after all, the ground of
my gratitude and mental kinship is mostly in this: that it really is a
vision of life, and not merely a vision of destruction.

                                                       G. K. CHESTERTON.




CONTENTS


                                                     PAGE

  A VISION OF LIFE                                      3

  TO A THRUSH                                          50

  MULTUM IN PARVO                                      56

  “FRIENDS VANISH AT MY FACE”                          62

  “A FANCY FAIR COMES FLOATING ON MY THOUGHT”          63

  “AS IS THE SILVER NIGHT”                             64

  “BELOVED, HAST PERCEIVED A THROSTLE TUNE”            66

  EXILE                                                68

  “OH, I HAVE THEE, ASTHORE”                           69

  “EACH HATH THE TYPE OF BLISS WITHIN HIS THOUGHT”     71

  A WORD TO THE CZAR                                   72

  VIKING-THROES                                        74

  “SENTENTIOUS”                                        77

  AN IDYLL OF THE BROADS                               80

  TO A “CANTERBURY BELL”!                              83

  THE GOLDEN MUSICIAN                                  87

  TO ----                                              99




                            A VISION OF LIFE




A VISION OF LIFE


    I sat brewing awhile, one even’s close,
    Life’s Destiny and Purpose. In the grate
    A flickering fire shone,
    Withered and wan,
    Dishevelled as a hectic Autumn rose.
    So, as I sate,
    With elfish toe leaping the shrinking embers
    A spiritous Presence passed, and on my thought
    Visions of faded days, paled friendships, dreams
    Of rapturous Mays smitten to drear Decembers,
    In evanescent postures wrought
    From forth the flickering gleams.
    So death-still ranged the Night athwart the gloom
    Icy and cavernous, that the embers’ tune
    Spake sharp and sudden, chasing the shade and flame
    In elfish gambol round the sombre room.
    So stepped the Night’s high noon;
    While Time, steady of sinew and of brow
    Implacable, upwound upon its spool
    The fitful hours of innocence and shame.
    Nor solitary, Night in its high rule,
    Reigned, for from forth the frosty bowers
    Deft messengers of airy fashion came
    The rude Earth to endow
    With heavenly mysteries of flowers.
    So sat I, and my mood grew calm and still:
    Irk fretted away; care, soilure, and distress,
    The smutch of strife, at the gaunt Night’s caress
    Unruffled into lofty peace. A will
    Ineffable, previsionary, swelled
    My thought to something of a twilit mood.
    Earth faded awhile; the frame of sensible things
    Obliviously smote my sensitive touch;
    The populous warm walls, the grate that held
    Ashes and smoulderings,
    The frore behoof, and all of fashion such,
    Transmuted were unto the larger scope
    Of visionary aspect. Thus on wings
    Of guideless flight, and thought I fain would cope,
    A Vision fared on me whate’er I would.
    Then seemed the twilight heavy with filmy glows:
    Forth from before my sight two several ways
    In opposite invitation rose,
    Oweing no kith, diverse of hue as aim.
    Darkling the Right ran, thro’ a drear amaze
    Craggy and barren, fulfilled of sloughs and mire;
    Most straitly was it limned, and oft each side
    Fell sheer to plumbless horror steep, that swept
    Spaceless, in ebon vastiness awide.
    Surmounted it thus dizzily; o’erleapt
    Fell chasms perilously athwart; abysms gaunt,
    Remorseless bracken tarns, the desert’s haunt,
    Each slippery spiss and slough, it overcame,
    Winding and wending ever higher and higher
    Tortuous yet steady-sure.
    Even so, despite I could not see
    Aught goal, withal its callow brow to daunt
    The hazardous soul, it bore a subtle lure
    Touching the deepest founts of high desire.
    Stretched on my Left, thus did it seem to me,
    Broadly a rich demesne lay, liberal
    And affluent, in spacious festival
    Arrayed. Mirth and the wealth of song
    Swelled thro’ its gaily caparisoned cope,
    Whose portals swung wide ope--
    Falling upon my ears in ribaldry
    And merry laughter lewd:
    Nowhither led it seemingly; soft and strong
    Giddily sprang its mirth and ultimate hope.
    Yet scarce could I resolve it, for its air
    Quivered and scintillated glamours dense,
    A palpable mist of golden vapour, whence,
    On my amazing sight, there flitted nude
    The flash of forms voluptuous and rare,
    Whose ruby lips soft ruddy juices woo’d.
    Pondering I hovered; each the several ways
    Touched its responsive motion: this, that wound
    Whither I knew not, travail amid and stain,
    Awoke the fount of thought; that, the sheer gain
    Of liberal ecstasy, of flowing days
    And nightless hours forgetful, bound around
    Of irkless ease: this spake Olympus found,
    Endeavour’s glowing thew, Achievement high;
    That struck all blood to fever, till I fain
    Had slipped the leash. Perplexedly sat I.
    Then from the mirth and ribaldry outstept
    Beauty her very self: Of motion free,
    In grace voluptuous she swam on me,
    Her pursed lips murmurous of a mellow strain.
    Soft as the stars at evenfall
    Smiled her rare eyes from forth the shimmering air
    Hanging about her yet--her veriest pall,
    Save that an all-exuberant tide of hair
    Entwound her soft and sensuous flesh. So swept
    She, gracious; I her other-heedless thane.
    Rare love, mellow voluptuous love,
    Shone from her wondrous eyes, fell from her tongue
    Melodious, dwelt on the delicate bloom
    Of her seductive limbs: munificence
    Of love rioted in her wayward hair
    Falling heedlessly, and clung
    Ecstatic in the tremulous air’s perfume.
    Visionary I gazed; my mutinous blood,
    Each drop particularly fraught with so
    Complete an ecstasy, coursed thro’ my sense
    With populous colloquy, pouring a vast flood
    Of dizzy whispers on my ears awhile.
    Invitingly oped she her arms; a smile
    Broke her soft lips; then, rapturously and low,
    Fluted this murmurous music thro’ the air,
    In woven assonances, liquid measures,
    Her blissful syllables spelling the pleasures
    Her wares that were.

    “Sweet, come with me; learn out my rare requite!
    Sweet, come to me, so shall I be to thee
    A passionate delight!
    Let us enwrap us in the robes of Pleasure;
    Owe no confining marge, but full and free
    Hold Love’s exultant measure.

    Claim lordship on these lips; make this embrace
    Of strenuous limbs thine to the tilth of days;
    The exquisitry of this face,
    If so to thee, scan with thine eager eyes:
    Flash linking flash, all in a wondering gaze,
    Twin in our ecstasies.

    The fragrant largess of this liberal hair
    Shall twine us twain about as we shall twine
    Hid in Love’s secret lair;
    Or mantle down thy shoulder as I lay
    This peach-soft bloom of loveliness on thine
    And Love’s low message say.

    Then come to me; yea, let me be to thee
    Love’s veriest scope of all; in these soft eyes
    Spell thine Eternity.
    Ah, wherefore hesitant hang? These plenteous halls
    Hunger for thee, as I, with full surmise:
    Lords be we all, not thralls!”

    So ceased she: flashing from her challenging eyes
    Arch invitations, boldly coy. The air,
    Loth to let slip such bliss,
    Clung to its echoing whispers, murmurous-wise,
    In passionate ecstasy. And yet, howe’er
    Each swollen vein of mine with knotted strain
    Stood high, content for one celestial kiss
    To cheapen Life and Thought, a distant pain
    Fettered me with disturbed uncertainty.
    Hesitant I glanced away; held of a doubt;
    Tost ’twixt passion and fear: tentatively
    My eye shot roundabout,
    Each freighting all my venture on a thought.
    Then from the silvery glooms, a wizardry, fraught
    With an imperative touch, fell on my soul,
    Drawing all my thought thither with harsh control.
    So, as I glowered upon its portals, wan,
    Gaunt, lofty, lifting up a parlous height
    Of shadowy phantasy, before its brink
    Palely the air shivered, and its atoms shone
    Pregnant with waking light.
    Unknowing what its purport, what to think
    Scarce dared I hazard--gazing, smote to trance,
    Riveted there with every thought and glance.
    The pallid atoms, hither-thither mazed,
    Smitten with iridescent rigours, shaped
    As to an outline--gaunt and leanly draped
    With flowing vesture, bony arms upraised
    Talon-befingered. Its Visage all was wan,
    Harrowed and sexless, like some skeleton
    Draped o’er with lifeless skin. Its Brow, or what
    Seemed like to Brow, hungered the heavy skies.
    Its glittering eyes
    Gleamed coldly in great orbs. ’Twas steely-lipped.
    Its Trunk, Its ruinous Midst--oh, tell it not!
    Most like ’twas to a livid dream forgot,
    And waked to horror at fell Memory’s whims!
    A sweaty Terror sat upon my limbs;
    My natural Fell awoke to life, and stood
    Erect with palpable horror; and all my blood
    Crowded its mart of motion, fear-begot,
    Thither to escape. Then from the Phantom chill
    Upon the palpitant air these measures dripped
    In numbers ill.
                    “Mortal, be not deceived!
    Despise these cloying measures, they are false!
    Withhold imagination from the calls
    Of sensuous privilege. Straightway be cleaved
    Thence, and away! And hearken now to me.
    Heed these rare strictures! Prize not thy frail self:
    Strive for a larger Weal; Felicity
    Foots only thus. Perplex thy brain for Man,
    And his complacent peace: eschew the pelf
    Of isolate happiness; so shall thy span
    Compound the highest achievement. Manacles
    Spell subtler bliss than liberty; in sooth
    Are veriest liberty; yet if not so,
    Thine the dear joy of conning out the cells
    Of worthier constraint. Scan virtuous Truth;
    Search out her compeers with a quickening throe
    Of ecstasied thought. Love Justice. Knowledge sue
    And track, following on tho’ dark disruth
    Dog all thy painful way. Think nobly true;
    Compassionately soothe the sick of soul,
    Life’s troubled children. Learn a high control,
    And abdicate thyself, Love’s grace to woo.
    Let Equity thine equal fingers turn
    On low and lofty, sleek and lean alike,
    Achievement’s sons and whoso hungering yearn:
    Discriminate not ’twixt, for all are one
    And indivisible. Base passions shun
    And flee: strike not at all; yet if thou strike,
    Strike for the high and meritorious claim,
    As thou may’st judge: let not thy wrath
    Abide the twilight fall; nor let thy shame
    Of liverous passions issue forth
    On days that step not yet, sullying thy thought
    And others’ peace--weightier these than thine!
    Be kind, be true, be sweet, to all and aught.
    Ponder these principles; deep at thy soul
    Will commendation leap in greeting; lo,
    Even now bestirs thy thought. Arise, divine
    Life as a loftier scroll
    To trace thy character on, come weal or woe.
    Passion is soon be-charred; but elevate thought
    Strews an increasing largess. Turn aside
    Yon ruddy Whore mellisonant; malign
    She and her subtle craft are, howsoe’er
    Deceit encompasses her feverous lair.
    This thy true lot of life, withal ’tis fraught
    With hardihood and hazard so: abide
    Its mandate to thee, tread it dauntlessly.
    ’Tis its abundant recompense; and a court
    All-continent. As is my tongue allied
    With thy quick thought, so hearken thou to me,
    Fearful of nought!”
                          Joint with its utterance so,
    Twisting, It thrust Its talon fingers thro’
    The misty portals, spare and gaunt. Below
    Fearfully sat I then, tho’ less of fear
    Shook o’er my limbs; for thought had spurned the soil,
    Touched by the words, and broken on my ear
    A callow incongruity betwixt
    The lips that uttered what the words did woo.
    The pale air drank the silence, as the coil
    Of tortuous precepts ceased. Then, intermixt,
    Dizzy, as was each thought and riotous sense,
    There unwound thence
    Vivid upon my soul this nucleus clear:
    So forth I uttered:--
                          “Tell, tell me thy Name!
    Who art thou that so bidd’st me? Whence thy claim:
    Wherefrom derives it? Whither its purport high?
    Art thou thine own? If so, declare me now
    What rare enfranchisement shall bondage ply
    At thy behest? Else, forth produce thy script;
    Unwind thy high commission, whereto bow
    Perforce I need, heedless of pleasures clipt,
    Or purple rapture, on yon path awry
    To attempt a hazardous snare!”

    Toward me then turned It; and with baneful stare
    Struck chill my mood defiant. Irked with thought,
    Fear, and the lees of passion, sat I thus;
    While the dim Spectre touched Its answer, wrought
    Icily dolorous.
                          “I am Duty: I
    Sway all the lot of man. His tentative life
    Steps subtly to my measures; in fine deed
    Is my attenuate speech:--at very strife
    His tongue invokes mine arm. I ratify
    His hesitant counsels, troublous thoughts, with thrall
    And edict; or annul his querulous creed.
    Evanishment were very loss of all:
    It would evacuate the World of what
    Coheres its several elements; social peace,
    Concord and Amity, the common lot
    Of neighbourly calm, would rot and palter. Cease
    Rebellious queries; heed my formulate call:
    Strip to it, and proceed!”
                          Then borne upon a breath
    Melodious, swept a wonder-wealth of song
    Vivifying all the air. Again my blood
    It wrought to populous utterance, hot as strong
    In riotous desire. Were it to Death,
    My passion mouthed no bit, but in a flood
    Tumultuous had swept me on its wide
    Revelry high, out to the perilous Main
    Lawless as limnless, save that the Spectral Bane
    Fettered me helpless. So once more
    My tongue uprose: “Show me thy script!” I cried,
    Poised ’twixt the blushing ecstasy, and the frore
    Spectre of ruinous side.
    “What is’t to me, this social affluence,
    The agglomerate frame of peace, when ecstasy
    Raps loudly at my soul? What gain hast thou?
    Yon dismal gloom, barren and dim and chill,
    Say, what felicity
    Commensurate with this Lady’s exquisite sense
    Bestows it? Utter thy delightful fill
    Alternate for my choice; hereafter, now,
    Or how thou wilt! Yet if not so, declare
    Thy dread commission, bounden upon my soul!
    Expound me aught for iridescent goal
    Whereto this region stretches! Do I fall,
    Pale Ogre, how shall large omnipotence
    Brace thy lean thew? Oh, speak! I conjure thee, speak!
    If on a bleak
    Perilous pivot swung; if in the abyss
    Of Failure clutched, while subtle whispers hiss
    Sinuous about me--say, what benison fair
    Awakes to comfort from thy callow thrall?
    If Ill and Sorrow rear
    Spectral athwart my eyes, and this hued cheek
    Fall ashen like thine own, what then thy cheer,
    Grim Apparition? what thy comfort then,
    Dim Spectre? Hold tho’; have enough of this!
    Fearless I ask again,
    Art uttered of another; or art weak,
    Continent in thyself? Comest thou with bliss
    For largess? Else, declare thy peerless script,
    Disclose thy high commission, Ogre blear,
    Thou talon-fingered Horror, steely-lipped!”

    Doubtfully ceased I: wound amid my frame
    Raged complicated elements. Aerial thought
    On metaphysic pinion soared aloft;
    While tremulous passion struck my blood, and wrought
    Sensual within me, fell and subtly soft.
    Fear, anger, scorn and doubt, in complex claim
    Tost all disorderly. Yet most to cleave
    Decision knew I then, whate’er might be,
    Out from the tangled elements. So I turned
    Whither the Shape let fall Its jaw to weave
    Its chill articulation passionlessly.
    Ill-eeriely fell Its speech, as tho’ It spurned
    Life’s various intonation, to answer me
    What in high mien I sought.
                                  “Mortal, not mine
    Scripts to declare; neither attorneys high
    To sate thy heart wherewith. My voice proceeds
    Swift to thy nobler self. Didst thou apply
    Reason thereto, or thought deliberative,
    What hesitancy were there? Loftier than creeds
    Is my transcendent Word; that yet doth twine
    Rooted amid thy need. They that supine
    Wallow in fell lasciviousness, are brutes
    Trivial, corporeal; their weary bliss,
    Blinding their very selves, I say, despise:
    Esteem not that they misesteem. Rare fruits,
    Self-generative, of elevate thought, and mind
    Delicately poised, I proffer thee. Be wise;
    Set up on high thy pleasure: so to live
    Were to be quit of chance.--That thou amiss
    Shouldst cast thy fluttering days were piteous-blind,
    Seeing they are all, and veriest all: fulfil
    Thy days, then, with a high felicity.
    Too soon shall Death sweep up thy militant will;
    And bind thee in the dark. Yet heed thou this:
    Tho’ thou snuff out; a thing that was; yet still,
    The texture of thy thought, the workmanship
    Of hand or utterant lip,
    Thy heart’s aroma, personality
    In sooth, shall flourish yet, for good or ill,
    Upon the broad Earth’s face. So take my voice,
    And, knowing it true, utterly cast thy choice!
    I am thine Ultimate Good, Supreme, and Free,
    Nothing above me in the wide Universe.”

    Then from my lips broke there a bitter curse.
    Glib the words struck with subtle irony
    Traverse athwart my hope. Vivid and strong
    My thought had stood dilate, passionately
    Grappling amid the eternal verities,
    Touched to it by the conflict; and seemed now
    Clutching the air. A whelming sense of wrong
    Flushed all my mood. As one who sees
    All things, and nothing clearly, fearless of brow
    I shook my answer free.
                            “My nobler Self!
    Mine ultimate Good! Trickster with subtle speech!
    What nobler self have I, what high, what low,
    Contradistinguished, save what thou wouldst teach
    Arbitrary of choice? What ultimate good,
    But as my heart dictates, throbbing to know
    The exquisite peak of pleasure, if the deep
    Swallow me utterly up? But what I would
    That should I, if thou art the ultimate All,
    And I no more than this! Thou Thing unkempt,
    Pallid of tongue and hue, so wouldst thou tempt
    My feet from blushful sweets aside? So charm
    My hazardous soul to climb
    Yon dizzy pinnacle, that hath no prime
    Nor cause of being, with this riotous balm,--
    To sweat, to stint, to travail, and to fall
    Sheer out of time in night. Begone, thou Gloom!
    Away, thou Shape of ill! Come when the tomb,
    ’Twixt this and that omnipotent time
    Each tottering moment shall be packed with twice
    Its fraught of pleasures; or come surfeit, to illume
    The shadow of joy, shall every rare device
    Rivet the transient hour. Tread yon dread way?
    Nay, that I will not! Unto thee I turn,
    Vision ecstatic, tangible withal,
    From thee to learn
    All the soft wonders of thy disarray.”

    So, fearless, turned I: yet ere thought to deed
    Quickened my members, swift upon the air
    Luxuriously this song sped, deft and rare,
    Beckoning me to speed.

      “Come, my love, to love me; come!
      Life is but the tangled sum
      Of thy being’s bitter hum.
      Tarry not, the days flit by;
      Soon thy bloom shall wither: I
      Proffer fruits that never fly.
      Never; for thy brief decree
      Folds in all eternity:
      Nought survives thee; so to me
      Come, to taste the liberal treasure
      I bestrew whose name is Pleasure;
      Share mine overflowing measure.
      Ah! come to me; then will I show
      All that thine utmost heart would know:
      Laughter loud, and whispers low,
      Ruddy joy, soft lips and kisses,
      Opening out Life’s raptest blisses.
      This thy Heaven; yea, whoso misses
      This, shall slip the rarest worth
      Possible to his strenuous girth,
      In the delicious garden of Earth.
      So come to me, dear love, my sweet,
      Time and the Hours are all too fleet;
      Quaff my goblet, rarely meet
      For superb humanity.
      Confines spurn; be large, be free;
      ’Tis thy true Felicity!
      What is Duty’s blatant call?
      I am Duty, I am All;
      I am Beauty: none may fall
      On aught supremer arm than mine;
      I am God, I am divine;
      Life’s uttermost largess is my shrine.
      Wouldst thou live to wander wan?
      Dearest, never! freedom con,
      And share my fearless halcyon.
      Life is all thy tangled sum,
      Then hold not so, fearful and numb,
      But come to me, dear husband, come,
            Come!”

    Wildered I hearkened; held my tremulous limbs
    Awhile, and heard, impassioned. From her eyes
    Soft messages flashed o’er their lidded brims
    Coyly upon me. Throwing forth her arms
    She yearned on me, her hair’s luxuriant guise
    Falling carelessly and free, while she her charms
    Spun, threading in her woof of thought. The air,
    Murmuring her music yet, hung over me
    As heaving breast to breast we stood, surmise
    Holding me feeble and faint, ecstatically.
    Then did I burst away
    Restraint; tossing off wrinkled Care
    I strode toward the dear Angel of my Dream.
    Nigh had I touched her palm; when, swift and clear,
    Loud with the trumpet’s tongue, imperative,
    Dulcent to hear,
    A Voice of awful import thundered--
                                        “Stay!”
    Sudden I reared. As doth revulsion give
    Thought interwound with thought, so did it seem
    I hung halting. Furtively, distractedly,
    I cast my gaze about, so to divine
    Whence the high edict sprang. The Ogre blear
    Was gone: fled with its eye malign
    As it had never been. Far up the course
    Precipitous and steep I seemed to see,
    Anew upon my eyes, a burning dome
    Scintillating, radiating from its source
    A hesitant gleam adown the path. Entranced
    I hung upon the sight.
    Then fear fell on me; for from thence did come,
    Stately, magnificent, tenfold more bright
    Than the sun’s vivid noontide, crystal-clear,
    A Shape surpassing loveliness. On my thought
    Paled all things else save that transcendent Fear.
    Steadily it advanced:
    From small to great, from great unreckonable,
    Stately, deliberative, supreme, of port
    Serene and lofty, steadily so it came
    Sweeping the callow path. Struck with its spell
    I burned with aching eyes. Subtly a Flame
    Encircled it, of silver and of gold,
    Sardine and jasper iridescent, blue,
    Purple and exquisite scarlet, all inwrought
    To one pure hue too vivid to behold.
    So as it nearer swept I threw
    My face upon the dust, and thrust my eyes
    Upon my veiling palms, dizzy to death,
    Sick with amaze; when a most mellow breath
    Softly outspake,
                      “Frail child of Man, arise!
    For I would speak with thee!”
                                  No choice had I
    Save to obey that voice imperative;
    However it seemed to me to look and live
    Crost opposite elements. Dazedly I cast
    Upward a timorous glance, encountered by
    So mellow a gaze; wherein which very beam
    I touched sustaining succour. Towering vast
    He stood dilate with wonder; and did seem
    To crowd the heavens with majesty, tho’ within
    My wandering vision. Neath his snowy hair,
    Lit with intrinsic brilliance, shone his eyes,
    Where loomed long mysteries of eternity.
    His misty brow domed firmamental-wise,
    Swelling beneath its locks. ’Twas wondrous fair:
    Fair unto tottering thought! His very robes,
    Like the unblemished snow, thrice-purged, wherein
    Flowed his proportions spacious, moved and shone
    Instinct with sinuous life. Hesitantly
    I stammered--
              “Stranger fair, thy Name! Forgive
    My curious temper! Yield me strength to live!”
    He bent on me twin eyes: and spake.
    Then did the whirling stars and heavenly globes,
    The ravenous winds, awake,
    And hang in poise ecstatic. Sweet upon
    My aching ears, incontinent of such bliss
    Celestial, there awoke a halcyon
    Of various, high, mellifluous harmony:
    In measures like to this:
                        “Wouldst thou my Name,
    Mortal immortal; wouldst acquaint thy thought
    With my Renown? How shall I tell it thee?
    Speech may not utter it, for words are wrought
    Empirical, in the stout smithy of life.
    Couldst thou envisage its supremacy
    Then were toil done; and the pure spirit’s strife,
    Tempering the thew withal, wrought purposeless
    And cheap. Considerest thou not Man’s Aim,
    The Ages down, to utter Loveliness,
    Or to plumb Truth, to measure Equity,
    Or Justice poise; affixing phrases so
    Unto what trailing robes he sees. These all
    Am I, one and complete. When he shall know
    Freedom, deck on a larger life, each thrall
    Corporeal shudder off, standing superb,
    Munificent, then shall he see me face
    To spiritous face: till then must I disturb
    His manifold sense, to win him worthy of me.
    Before his soul awoke was I: nay, more,
    I touched his thought to life. From forth of nought
    I bad him issue, setting my seal thereon:--
    So doth the veriest hind of all his race
    Grope tentative after me. Then when he bore
    Manhood erect, unparagoned, upon
    Earth’s lucent air I woke the soul of song
    Choired by the sons of morning. All the court
    Of glittering Heaven, in the dread womb of Night;
    The stately march celestial; throng on throng
    Wheeling from gloom to gloom, in perilous flight
    Over the unsearched deeps; the air; the seas;
    The bountiful Earth;--my handiwork were these
    In the wide crucibles of steady Time.
    Withal, tho’ such I seem to be,
    Yet am I not at all: the voiceless clod
    Owns substance more than I. Spaceless, sublime,
    I am the Breath Divine; the Voice of God;
    His concentrate Radiation: thence wend I,
    Thither to trend again, dependently;
    Aerial, effulgent, winging the formless deeps.
    Ecstatic Wisdom called they me awhile
    Who touched my billowy robes. Yet, tho’ I ply
    Authoritative edict, bidding thee
    Heed, as my fount is high, my voice o’erleaps
    Articular creed, swift to thy resonant soul
    Brooding deliberative. Well knowest thou
    That evanescent languors do beguile
    The soul’s high bent. Wherefore,--save that thine eye
    Hath glimpsed a billowy Vision, subtly spun,
    Floating upon thy thought, of high control
    Fashioning a peerless state, noble and pure,
    Whose stately essence not the clammy brow
    Of Death shall dissipate? Thou dreamest this:
    And this I utter now. That thou wouldst not
    Forego the Tempter’s vivid lure,
    Most truly tell I, Pleasure is not one
    But twain, nor think licentious libertine bliss
    Befits the splendour of thy soul, begot
    Divine, bred for eternal pride. Above
    Each fell delight, debased upon the soil,
    Soars a pure counterpart, winging the air:
    Thou canst but lust upon the one; but Love
    Impassioned doth the other wake. ’Tis toil;
    I cloak it not; yet ’tis a joy that bides,
    Swelling the more the hoarier, till Day dawn
    And shadows flit away. Decide thee then!
    Cast thy free choice! These portals lead thee where,
    Soul-plumed, new realms upon thy flight are borne.
    Brace up thy thew! Tread out this path, that guides
    Whither pure bliss shall rock thy dizzy ken,
    And end thy weary coil!”

    Wondering the Angel bound me; scarce a glance
    Turned I away upon yon Harlot nude,
    Chasteless and brazen, touching my coarser sense
    Distastefully; not wholly impotent.
    In visionary mood
    Hung I, swoll’n on the flow of eloquence
    To thought on thought. Nor less did ravishment,
    Exhaling music on its wing, uplift my soul,
    Gazing upon that beauteous Eminence.
    Enthralled so was I held. Then as my trance
    Bated awhile, I searched my tongue’s control.

    “Ecstatic Flame!” I broke, “yet would I know
    Further one thing. Truly I bow before thee!
    I yield my due of homage; I adore thee,
    Eternal Radiance from on high! Thou bright
    Image immortal! Yet, do I tempt the throe
    Of yon steep way, what strength shall flush my thew
    Sinking amid its steeps? Yea, as I woo
    Its delicate largess, if my feeble might
    Fail of its scintillant goal, what then? What deed,
    What earnest, decks my quest, so to exchange
    For problematical bliss the vivid range
    Of present sweets. Fool I to chance the meed
    Of dusk futurity for the portion sprung
    Flashing upon my sight! Forgive this tongue
    Imperious, recalcitrant; yet sure,
    I utter freely, speaking as I read
    Diverse each several lure.”

    Tranquil, immovable, in a mien that won
    Me wholly out, respondent it begun:--
    “The choice thine own; cast as thou wilt: ’tis mine
    But to declare the Truth. Who shall assign
    Aright his lot, him shall I flush with strength,
    Leaping from might to might. Each vision true
    Opens to wider bliss: each vanquished thrall
    Touches to larger freedom; lea on lea
    Bounding to vision to Life’s uttermost length.
    I woo not, but am woo’d; and yet withal
    Woo I; imperative my lineaments woo
    For sheer vitality. Thus shall I thee.
    Think’st thou the end shall fail? Who perseveres
    Assuredly shall clasp the ultimate goal;
    If ultimate goal there be, for bliss shall roll
    Boundless before thy view. I say not fears
    Shall cease, that strife shall vanish, or that all
    Conjured rhapsodical, dispassionately
    Shall swim in peace. Nay, all thy passionate days
    Shall reach from peak to peak, trial amid,
    Gainsayers athwart, waking Life’s deepest zest.
    Yet shall the goal gleam rare before thy gaze;
    And if upon thy quest,
    Sinking dispirited, the goal be hid
    Wrapt in a gloomy mist, ’twill pass awhile,
    And thou be all thy strenuous self again. Ally
    Thyself to me, nor seek thee to beguile
    Idly the transient hours, and all that I
    Have shown before thy sight fulfilled shall be.
    I say ’t; and am its earnest eternally.”

    And then methought I stood on quaking limb,
    Forth to proceed upon that wizard way.
    Heaven-high the portals towered above me; dim
    Stretched the precipitous path, tortuous and grey,
    Leaping from crag to crag. Then all the gloom
    Seized fast about me, as with hesitant stride
    I took its edge initiative. Yet on
    Went I, holding a dauntless pride
    Steady within me; on and on, upon
    The slippery crags, amid the dunes and meres,
    Poised oft o’er bottomless pits, turning beside
    Pitiless tarns, brackish with mortal tears.
    As forth I strode, fairer and yet more fair
    Shone the horizon; rarer did illume
    Its scintillant goal my passage lofty and strait.
    And my high Mentor, steady before my eye,
    Shone so exceeding beauteous, more and more,
    Increasing so in clarity, scope, and air,
    That a wild ecstasy possessed my thought,
    Riotous and fervid in me. Steadily
    So followed I, with resolute thew where’er
    It led me forth, casting no glance away:
    Thus on, yet on; waning and waxing on.
    Yet, as I sped, methought a dizzy shore
    Beguiled my feet aside, so to descry
    What depths the abysm held. Pallid and wan
    Shrank my Instructor on my curious eye.
    Treading its perilous edge I did essay
    To plumb the gulf, with darkness doubly fraught;
    When, gazing with profound intent, a wind
    Broke with an awful triumph up its steep
    Embankments jagged forth on me.
    All terror-strick’n upstarted I, to find
    ’Twas but the embers crumbling in the grate,
    Loud on the icy Night. Awakened so
    Musing I stood to recollect, and lo!
    My lips had formed to prayer.--
    Then thro’ the gloom I gat me to my sleep.




TO A THRUSH

Singing one Spring morn ’mid deepest fog


    Throstle-bird!
    I have heard
    This thy voice of cheer,
    As I lay
    In the sway
    Of a waking fear;
    And its message dropt me peace,
    From its rapt career.

    Yet, say how
    Thou may’st now
    Every note prolong!
    Doth the fog
    Never clog
    Never still thy song?
    Doth thy music ever rise
    Mellow, sweet, and strong?

    Ho! when Morn
    Doth adorn
    Shuddering Mother Earth,
    Jocund Day
    Swelling gay,
    Kingly in his girth,
    I may something understand
    This so mellow mirth.

    But when morn
    Rises worn,
    As on gloomy wing;
    When in murk
    Light doth lurk
    Like some callow thing,
    Tell me, throstle, how thou then
    Cheerily canst sing?

    Oftentime
    Peace sublime,
    ’Mid the fairest day,
    Flickers wan
    And is gone
    Phantom on its way,
    Then a sudden gloom enshrouds
    Hearts within its sway.

    Then the smile
    Fades awhile,
    Then the laugh is still,
    Then the tune
    Falters, hewn
    By the touch of Ill,
    Then Life’s music flutters low
    Sorrow to fulfil.

    Ill-content
    To be pent
    Out of aught, griefs come
    All unbid
    Right amid
    Spirits frolicsome:
    Ah! then lips attuned to praise
    Press each other dumb!

    Yet, sweet bird,
    Nought has blurred
    These most wondrous throes:
    Melody
    Rapt and free
    Out the midst of woes;
    May I turn to thee to learn
    What thy spirit knows!

    That when gloom
    Like a doom
    Blots the azure sky,
    I may learn
    Blight to spurn,
    And the Day descry,
    Howsoe’er the Word of Ill
    Spells the Earth awry.

    Smirk and smutch
    May I touch
    To a loftier scheme,
    Irk and Doubt
    Ravelling out
    In a song supreme;
    As, rare bird, thy spirits turn
    Sturdily thy theme.




MULTUM IN PARVO


    Baby-child,
    Mystery of mysteries,
    Com’st thou from the starry skies
    Pleased to don Life’s motley guise
    Dark and wild?

    Frail and slight,
    Hardly uttered of the Womb,
    Lov’st thou Sorrow, Want and Gloom
    So to exchange for song and bloom
    Sin and blight?

    Swaddled thus,
    What a Wonder may’st thou be
    Touched by mystic Destiny,
    Oh, trite Possibility
    Marvellous!

    Drowsy so,
    Doth a mighty Spirit brace
    Earthy thews anew; to trace
    Deeds that mock at Time and Place,
    Bond and throe?

    Baby-fists,
    Shall they clutch the flashing blade,
    Touch the use of politic aid,
    Tilt with sinew undismayed
    In Life’s lists?

    Chubby things,
    Shall they stretch a loving hand
    Unto such on Life’s rough strand
    As may never understand
    Sheltering wings?

    Baby-feet,
    Scarce distinguishable forms,
    Must they foot amid Life’s storms
    Lonely; none to soothe its qualms,
    None to weet?

    Wearied, sore,
    Hardly shall they seek to run
    Up the passes where begun
    All is strife till strife is done
    Evermore?

    Baby-face,
    Shall it wear the print of Time,
    Woven o’er with hoary rime:
    Or shall Death in sunnier clime
    Pallor trace?

    As years wend,
    Shall its lineaments tell the sage
    Scarred with honourable age,
    Ere Life turn its latest page
    For the End?

    Liquid eyes,
    Whence outpeers the wizard soul,
    Shall its lustre spell control
    Calm, impregnable and whole,
    Firm and wise?

    Flame and flash
    Only when a careless foot
    Tramples thro’ Life’s cruel bruit
    Heedless, heartless, then to shoot
    Hates that slash!

    Be it so!
    Shall they wizard wonders see
    In the wrapt Futurity,
    Whither, swathing shackles free,
    Time must go?

    Aerial ships,
    Searching out the vasty blue,
    Darting whither to endue
    Peace with beauty, Warfare’s new
    Scathing whips?

    Brotherhood:
    Twining men of every race,
    Knowing neither high nor base,
    Spurning pomp and pride of place,
    One of brood?

    Howe’er ’tis,
    Baby, shun no Duty’s call,
    Fear thy God, love peoples all,
    Then whatever shall befall,
    Thine is bliss!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Lovely child,
    Smiling with such heedless eyes,
    Com’st thou from the starry skies
    So to search Life’s enterprise
    Dark and wild?




    Friends vanish at my face; yet, as they fly,
    Swoll’n with the sombre mood of conjured schism,
    I hear thee say thou whom the holy chrism
    Has sealed as mine eternal--“Dear, do I
    Outweigh the scales; if this one form be nigh,
    Shall that suffice thee in this dark abysm?”
    Ah, think, Belov’d! did some great cataclysm
    Fierce-swoop upon to enshroud the midnight sky,
    Did gulf the multitudinous stars but one,
    Some Betelgeuse, in beauty-flame of love
    Gleaming and twinkling in the lowly mart
    Of tremulous darkness, how ’twould swell upon
    The vaults of Heaven; how rare so poised above!
    Even so in lone magnificence thou art!




    A Fancy fair comes floating on my thought
    When on the wildering trammels I am caught
    Of pensive studies; as the surrounding scheme
    Fades and dissolves, and coming Hours gleam
    Visionary the musing realms athwart:
    That thou and I, all our keen battles fought,
    Serene and hoar, past touch of withering aught,
    Shall yet enkindle love, and kiss, and dream
                                  A Fancy _fair_.

    My Dearest, be this so! Let us be wrought
    So to a unity as the Hours, full-fraught
    With Blight and Bloom, slip by; let us esteem
    The other in our loves so high-supreme,
    That thus, Dear Heart, this Vision may be not
                                  A _Fancy_ fair.




    As is the silver night
    Upon the sombre sea,
    In ecstasy of might
    Art thou to me.

    As are the stars beyond
    Aught compass or control,
    As glittering diamond,
    So thy pure soul.

    As doth the throstle tell
    His mystery complete,
    Such is thy subtle spell,
    Yet oh! how sweet!

    So cam’st thou unto me
    Love’s mystic wand to wield;
    Then I, who would be free,
    Did gladly yield.




    Belovëd, hast perceived a throstle tune
    His liberal wealth of song,
    ’Mid the leafy coverts, all a lucent noon,
    Where Audience none had he, yet, desolate,
    He fluted keen and strong
    Appreciated only by his mate?

    Even so sing I, sequestered and alone.
    No World’s large ear to woo
    My measures all upon thy feet are thrown.
    My Mate thou art, my single Audience thou,
    Thence never do I sue
    Vainly for plaudit: is not this enow?

    Ah, if that throstle glimpsed a Vision clear,
    A Vision seeming Truth;
    If unto him, from Life’s encrusting sphere,
    An iridescent Beauty had out-twirled,
    In yon sequestered booth
    How would he chafe his soul to reach the World!




EXILE


    I awake from dreams of thee,
    From the unquiet realms of sleep;
    I awake from Felicity,
    I awake to thoughts that keep
    Their bitterness hid and deep.

    I awake from dreams of love
    Ecstatic, so pure, so sweet;
    I awake--’tis only to prove
    That the midday sun shall beat
    On my lonely lips and feet.




    Oh, I have thee, Asthore: deep at this heart
    Thy presence is a fragrance subtly-rare,
    As blooms exhale the midnight hour. Whate’er
    I do, will, dream, aspire, achieve, thou art
    My Aim, my End. Nay, more, the absolute part
    Of my Soul’s life! Should hollow-eyed Despair
    Clutch on me it is only that I fare
    Forth thro’ the day, and barter at Life’s mart,
    Yet fail to win thee home. When Truth to woo me
    Comes, she arrays her in thy form; and those
    Assimilate twins, Beauty and Duty, to me
    Are thee and thy soft word. In toil, repose,
    Asleep, awake, thy spirit whispers thro’ me;
    Nor boast I hours thou dost not ope and close.




    Each hath the Type of bliss within his thought
    That utters for him all his Life would be:
    The summit of his soul’s felicity,
    The consummation wherein should be wrought
    In deft attainment all his spirit bought
    Awhile in fervent hope--whose roundest fee
    ’Twas good to pay. ’Tis so: enough! For me,
    Be it amiss or be it fitly sought,
    This would I crave--that mine and thy full soul
    May touch their mutual deep content, howe’er
    Life twists its tortuous course; may still control
    Their Individuality, yet fare
    So subtly each on each, that as one whole
    They might stretch to their goal in God’s pure air.




A WORD TO THE CZAR

(_Penned on “Vladimir’s Day” January 22, 1905._)


    Thou great Usurper of the Liberty
    Of hapless Men and Maids, this gory shame
    Shall wrap thee in a livid Cloak of Flame
    Ere days have swoll’n to years. We who are free,
    Who owe no fouling bond of Tyranny,
    We look at Thee, and execrate thy Name:
    Nor in our Vision art thou quit of blame
    That by the hand of him who stood for thee
    This bloody deed was done. Across the Years,
    And from the lips of peoples one and all,
    A mighty curse rolls on, to reach His ears
    Who silently surveys thy hastening fall:--
    Soon may His Might pluck from thy reeking Hand
    Thy Batôn of a self-usurped command!




VIKING-THROES


    Life’s a Battle, full of stress,
    Full of Change,
    Struggle, Combat, Weariness,
    Circling range--
    Be limbs and heart sore heavy, yet
    Foe on foe is set.

    Give me fingers for the Fight
    Keen and strong;
    Give a Mind that swerves no mite
    ’Mid the Throng;
    Beget me Valour, stiffly-grown,
    Hewn to stand alone.

    Grant such Virtue so to be
    So to dare,
    That tho’ all may faint or flee
    --Howsoe’er
    The Fight may turn--I yet shall stand
    Firm in Eye and Hand.

    Let some Purpose thro’ my tears
    Gleam and glow,
    Ah! let not the ruining Years,
    Full of woe,
    Engulf then in their dim embrace
    That high spectral Grace.

    Yet, all Boon of boons above,
    This I crave,
    Let a tender ample Love
    My Spirit save
    Forth from the harsh ungentle chains
    Fight so oft attains.




“SENTENTIOUS”


    Heard I a Preacher loud and high,
    With speech mellifluous,
    Who deftly wove before mine eye
    Doctrines circuitous.

    I heard him, ay, I gladly heard,
    Heard all he had to tell--
    Thinking full many a prettier bird
    Warbled a tithe as well.

    Then thought I: Friend, full sweet to hear,
    Yet say, were I in need,
    Were all about dim and drear,
    What then might be your deed?

    Full glibly do the lips relate
    Expressions that the heart
    Never hath gripped, whose pomp and state
    Of utterance dwell apart.

    And what their Worth? Barren and bald
    If it be that the Hand
    Wakes not so ready, whene’er called,
    To make request command!

    To speak, to speech, to vaunt and preach,
    How passing easy ’tis!
    But to stretch forth a loving hand
    To souls in Ill’s abyss,--

    Such is the noblest part of Life;
    Ay, well to know it deep!
    For Speech, ’mid daily Stress and Strife
    Oft rocks the Deed asleep!




AN IDYLL OF THE BROADS


    As on a river fair I sped,--
    My boat beneath mine oars nigh flew,--
    Amazed I saw a Scotsman’s head
    Whose form and visage well I knew.

    He hailed me by my name, and I,
    Astonied thus to see him near,
    My scudding craft did thither hie
    With gladness, mixt withal with fear.

    For with immense accoutrement
    He fished for fishes merrily:
    Elaborate, magnificent,
    A very king of fishers he!

    His line was of the best, his rod
    Superb, as likewise was his float;
    And, scorning by his mother sod,
    He stood upon a varnished boat.

    His mien was mighty, seriousness
    Lit o’er his stedfast countenance;
    He grasped his rod with firm caress,
    Anxiety in every glance.

    His son lay by to render aid
    When salmon carried off his bait,
    Or whales, maybe, who nought afraid
    Cared nothing for his sombre state.

    With reverence and thrilling throe
    I drew anear with slow approach;--
    Yet need I not have quivered so,
    For all that river held was roach!




TO A “CANTERBURY BELL”!


    Rare lovely Bloom! dear sweet simplicity,
    Nodding beneath the Heavens thy delicate lure!
    Thine exquisite sculpture doth upcall on me
    The realms of wonder, visionary and pure!
    I gaze on thee, thou waxen delicate,
    Until the World and all its strutting pelf
    Fade wanly hence, and an ecstatic scene
    Of fauns and goblins, decked in legend state,
    Steps faintly forth, to bear my dizzy self
    Within their tripping circles, nought between.
    There, ’mid the hedgerow’s tortuous garlands, fair
    And blithe thou droop’st thy lovely brow; and thence
    Thy zephyry fragrance, delicate and rare,
    Steals with a dewy breath upon my sense.
    Eager I seek thee out then, to behold
    Thy bell upon the vesper breezes toll
    Pomp’s knelling requiem with solemn nod,
    Thou purest Joy, ’mid teeming fold on fold
    Of prodigal waywardness, is this thy dole,
    Simplicity that boasts no touch save God?

    The Honeysuckle’s heavily-laden breath
    Floats on the balmy winds in languid fumes;
    The Nightshade breathes its careless boon of death
    To lips that tamper lightly with its blooms;
    The Meadow-sweet with carved tiaras deft;
    The Poppy-petal’s crumpled charactery;
    The tangly ramified Convolvulus;--
    All of their several virtues are bereft
    At the soft touch of thy Simplicity,
    Simplicity of peace voluptuous.

    Oh, exquisite marvel, whither shall I turn
    To sate the thirstings thou hast spoken up?
    My soul with vast inquietude doth burn.
    Rare drafts are there within thy luscious cup
    That I may put my lips upon its brim,
    And, sloughing off Earth’s smutch and soilure, quaff
    Deeply the secrets of eternal ease?
    Or sway’st thou merely as a transient whim,
    Idle, capricious, windward-driven chaff?
    Yet surely, surely thou art more than these!

    Or very All, or very Nothing: why
    Hast thou upspoken thirst for what is not
    If thou and I shall clutch the gloom, and die,
    Life but a tangled boon, a vicious blot,
    Spun by the sightless Powers? Nay, shalt not thou,
    Elate, clad in eternal Vestiture,
    Greet me upon the eternal Marge? Yea, then,
    Shall not I, ageless Wisdom on my brow,
    Spell out thy charm occult? Sweet Mystery pure,
    So shall I search thy secrets yet again!




THE GOLDEN MUSICIAN


    Melodious Bird, thy winsome word
      Falls sweetly on my ear!
    Stupendous Song, ’tis borne along,
      Mellow and deft and clear,
    Till each soul-nook with music shook
      Rings back with merry cheer!

    What vivid change will it so range!
      Swiftly ’twill follow after
    A pensive chirp with gay “stoup-stirp”
      Ringing with merry laughter,
    Until its chime in resonant rime
      Echoes from roof and rafter.

    The livelong day, come gloom or grey,
      Always and ever singing;
    Be ’t bliss or ill so singing still,
      Cheerily, merrily ringing,
    Thou upon us in music thus
      Spray of delight art flinging.

    Is it a strand, a vagrant hand,
      From Love’s exalted treasure,
    So bearing us voluptuous
      Rare peals of delicate pleasure,
    Thrilling the soul, tho’ vast and whole
      Its fullness mocks all measure?

    ’Tis as a word inwardly stirred,
      As Memory subtly lingers
    O’er Hours fled by the Noon, that lie
      Past touch of confident fingers,
    Yet that upcall the bowered hall,
      The voice of silent singers.

    Then say, oh Mage of antique age,
      These, are they gifts of olden
    And lovelit days whereto in praise
      I utter back beholden?--
    See, see, thy throat trilling each note
      Throbs like a zephyr golden.

    There--as I gaze in rapt amaze--
      Swollen with rare emotion,
    Fervid of joy, scorning alloy,
      Spurning a base devotion
    To shackled earth, it trips a mirth
      All of a heavenly potion.

    A murmurous note doth freely float
      Like waves of rippling water;
    Then a high song doth course along
      To Sorrow uttering slaughter,
    Commanding forth in merry wrath
      Bliss and her jocund daughter.

    Attenuate heights in perilous flights,
      Soaring in eagle fashion,
    Thou seekest out, from whence about
      On aching ears there flash on
    Rhythms unwrought, delights unthought,
      Echoes of ageless passion.

    Oh, this divine rare lay of thine
      Rings like a heavenly lyric,
    Lulling each sense, wafting me hence,
      Bidding the World’s Empiric
    Fade on my ear awhile, to hear
      Thy cadence full and spheric.

    Thy splendid boon of glorious Tune
      Hath tongues of fire cloven;
    Each diverse part with subtle art,
      Each period rich and proven,
    To touch to one theme till ’tis spun
      Of texture interwoven.

    Ecstatic Dreams, are these thy themes?
      Stung by thy wondrous lyre,
    So wilt thou go with quickening glow,
      On wings of flameless fire,
    From light to light in fearless flight
      Of music ever higher?--

    Till every cloud in passion proud
      Mightily burst asunder,
    Display a new translunar view
      With its own soul of wonder:--
    Be ’t as it may, a wizard lay,
      Or ecstasy of thunder?

    For every sphere thy song’s career
      So bursts upon to capture,
    Amply is strewn with rhythmic tune,
      Whereunto to adapt your
    Melodious Verse and then rehearse
      Once more its delicate rapture.

    Hardly content with music pent
      In melodies once given
    Wilt thou again repeat the strain,
      Till on by passion driven,
    That every clause may peal applause
      Of harmony twice striven?

    Oh, that the Muse would touch to use
      This lyre as thine ’tis using!
    Then might I rise with mystical eyes,
      Swoll’n with the theme of musing,
    Soaring athirst my song to burst
      With utterance scarce of choosing.

    So Song would scorn corporeal bourne;
      Dilated so pursuing
    With eager breast its passionate quest,
      All transient worth eschewing,
    Pausing its lute awhile when, mute,
      Life’s towering Vasts reviewing.

    How then ’twould wear a rapture rare,
      An other-worldly glory;
    In rich array each simple lay
      Decking Life’s thought or story;
    Still dew-impearled were all the world
      Sombre and blear and hoary.

    On Wonder’s wing ’twould featly bring
      Exultant exaltation
    To all that foot amid the bruit
      Of daily lot and station,
    In uttering such clear dreams as touch
      Doubt unto Adoration,

    So shall the Balm--oh winsome charm!--
      Of her rhapsodic madness
    Keep blithe and young the World’s wild tongue;
      Its trick of gloom and sadness
    Banish away from the light of day
      With an unquestioning Gladness.

    The spiritous reign of Song’s domain
      Eternity embowers:
    Ere faulty Man his Hour began
      ’T had rung the heavenly towers
    With echoing shaft-peals, that now waft
      Earth with ecstatic showers.

    With hesitant ruth we ponder Truth,
      Thou sing’st as thou dost know it--
    Beholding it all wonder-writ,
      Then unto us to show it
    In sweeping tune, unwrought, pure-hewn,
      Dear never-halting Poet!

    Yet our frail Song ’twixt Right and Wrong
      Ofttimes will pierce unwitting;
    As were the gleams of Poet’s dreams
      Fair beams of Beauty flitting
    Whence Reason ne’er snuffed thro’ the air
      Wooing Time’s proud permitting.

    No longer with pard, kin or kith,
      Stranger, so wilt thou wander
    A murky isle, in splendid style
      Ecstatic Song to squander
    On such as fain would turn again
      Thy source of Song to ponder?

    Not thine to greet the Sun’s high beat
      On Freedom’s pinions soaring!
    Nor thine the rich rapt melody which
      Thy woody tribes are pouring!
    But all apart with tuneful art
      Spiritual realms exploring!

    Within the gloom o’ a dusky room,
      All in a dusky City
    Callow and wan, so tun’st thou on
      High anthem and soft ditty?
    Scarce thine the mood and attitude
      Waking a captive’s pity!

    What reckest thou if leafy bough
      Or plaster palanquin thee!
    Howe’er thou yearn for the Noons that burn
      Not gloom nor bars may win thee
    From the clear Joy pure of alloy
      Exquisitely strung within thee.

    Then sing thou on, while I upon
      The flight of thy pure Vision
    Am borne aloft on pinions soft,
      Perceiving no elision,
    Thither whence Life and Toil and Strife
      Are Pity and Derision.

    Yet, that I might pursue the flight,
      Purer and swifter travel
    Past blame or praise, till Life’s Amaze
      Shall dwindle and unravel,
    Sweetly to shine like this of thine,
      Rare Beauty, scarce a cavil.




TO ----


    A Stranger, and thou took’st me in. Great Heart!
    It fits not well my temper to high-trape
    My woes before a listless world, or drape
    With melancholy habit each grim part
    Life bad me to, for with a sovereign art
    She did it so, my stubborn thought to shape.
    Yet, tho’ I lightly scorn wide mouths agape,
    ’Twere worthy of high record, in this mart
    Of barter and exchange, how I to thee
    Came, all my prospect waste and spilt,
    A Stranger, and with what unquestioning air
    Thou took me in, and sought to succour me:
    Forget it thou may’st; likeliest is thou wilt;
    But not so I who found a heart so rare.




Transcriber’s Notes


Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected
after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and
consultation of external sources. Except for those changes noted below,
all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have
been retained.

The following corrections have been applied to the text (before/after):

  (p. 72)
  Penned on “Valdimir’s Day” ...
  Penned on “Vladimir’s Day” ...

  (p. 88)
  Be’t bliss or ill ...
  Be ’t bliss or ill ...



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73826 ***