Lyrical Poems | ||
Book Second
A SONG OF LIFE
For two or three phrases in these stanzas I am indebted to an Ode of great beauty by Ronsard:—a poet who merits more honour than, since his own time, he has received from his countrymen or from foreigners.
That o'er our parents shone
Through the brief beauty of their day,
And when we also are as they
Will yet shine on, shine on:—
Then mid the roses let us sing,
As mid the roses they did;
For life will bring no second spring
When summer once is faded.
That saw their childish glee;
And rising still, and setting still,
So smiling, and so shouting, will
Their children's children see:—
Then mid the roses let us sing,
As mid the roses they did;
For life will bring no second spring
When summer once is faded.
That saw them, worn and gray,
Smile bright and brave on instant Death;
—And who, that breathes our human breath,
Would bear to live for aye?
—Then mid the roses let us sing,
As mid the roses they did;
For life will bring no second spring
When summer once is faded.
EUGENIA
I could not know when first I met her
So little studious for herself,
Almost she ask'd we should forget her:
As the rose-heart at prime of dawn,
Herself within herself withdrawn:
And yet we felt that something there
Was fairer than the fairest fair.
Intent upon her maiden mission:
The manners moulded on the mind;
The flawless sense, the sweet decision:
So gracious to the hands she task'd,
She seem'd to do the thing she ask'd:
And then I knew that something there
Was fairer than the fairest fair.
The message of her eyes repeated;
And Faith on the fair forehead seated:—
And lips where Candour holds his throne,
And sense and sweetness are at one:
I look and look; and something there
Is fairer than the fairest fair.
Round which the mountain-rampart closes,
Crystalline bright and diamond pure,
In azure depth of peace reposes;
And Heaven comes down with all its grace
To find itself within her face;
And the heart owns that something there
Is fairer than the fairest fair.
Thrice happy he,’ I cried, ‘who by her
Finds in her eyes the home of home,
Reads in her smile his heart's desire;
The smile of beauty from above,
Of equable and perfect love!’
—-I sigh'd—she smiled; and something there
Was fairer than the fairest fair.
REINE D'AMOUR
The flowers were in the mead,
The purple heart, and golden eye,
And crimson-flaming weed:—
And each one sigh'd as I went by,
And touch'd my garment green,
And bade me wear her on my heart
And take her for my Queen
Of Love,—
And take her for my Queen.
With lowly gracious head;
And one unveil'd a burning breast
With Love's own ardour red:
They flicker'd o'er the green,
Each whispering I should pluck her there
And take her as my Queen
Of Love,—
And take her as my Queen.
A little star-like thing,
Pure odour in pure perfect cup,
That made my bosom sing.
'Twas not for size, nor gorgeous dyes,
But her own self, I ween,
Her own sweet self, that bade me stoop
And take her for my Queen
Of Love,—
And take her for my Queen.
Her beauty on me grows,
And holds with stronger sweeter sway
Than lily or than rose;
All in the meadow green;—
And so I wear her on my heart
And take her for my Queen
Of Love,—
And take her for my Queen.
NOW AND EVER
For, to love's service true,
Your least wish sways me as from worlds above,
And I yield all to you,
Who are the only She,
And in one girl all womanhood to me.
As that one gift, by which
On the still morning in the wood-side field,
Thou mad'st existence rich,
Who wast the only She,
And in one girl all womanhood to me.
And in the topmost firs
And my lips closed on hers
Who was the only She,
And in one girl all womanhood to me.
Could I 'twixt hers and mine,
Nor the most love-skill'd Angel, choose;—So thou
In vain would'st ask for thine!
—Who art the only She,
And, in one girl, all womanhood to me.
LOVE'S LANGUAGE
Have, on the knee as they sit;
And only those who love them
Can find the key to it.
Perplex the logician's art;
But the heart goes straight with the meaning,
And the meaning is clear to the heart.
That, in little, says all to me:—
But the world cannot guess the sweetness
Which is hidden with Love and thee.
THE IRRECOVERABLE
Gave us its beauty first to view,
Think of the thousand days that went
Before the charm we knew,
Or dream'd how much of joy the path might yield!
This sea, that, deepening through the trees,
Shows like a sky beneath the sky,—
This home of utter peace
Lay patient in its grace, untrod, unseen.
Our souls with its calm beauty seize,
At once it spoke itself our own;
While in the heart of peace
A peace more deep disclosed its blissfulness.
Home of the peace earth cannot give
In her most perfect perfectness!
What fate was mine to live
Those many years of Paradise unknown?
Till by a touch awaken'd, lay
The blessedness of life with thee;
And day died after day
In hopeless chase of vain imaginings.
Gave its green beauty to the view,—
And if at last I clasp'd thee mine,—
Yet can I not subdue
The sigh for what was not, yet might have been.
Though past Hope's inmost hoping rich,
E'en in Love's very heart, to weep
The years of dearth, through which
We might have been blest, and we knew it not.
A SONG OF THE YEARS
Since that hour when in the meadow we two sat together;
Long ago, ah! not so long,—all in the meadow lonely,
Thou by me and I by thee, my one true-love, my only.
We two loved each other then, though each then loved but newly:
Only then we knew not what we now know well and dearly:
But has love with knowledge grown, does nearness bind more nearly?
To the love of many years its beauty must surrender:—
By the pangs and tears, the smiles and sweetness known together,
Thou art mine for ever, dearest, thou art mine for ever.
A SONG OF SPRING AND AUTUMN
We two went hand in hand:
But now in the ruddy autumn
Together already we stand.
O'er the white-thorn's tangled head!
The white-thorn is turn'd to russet,
The pearls to purple and red!
It then was crimson and snow;
Where now the gold-red apples
Burn on the turf below.
In and out run hand in hand;
And, with smiles that answer their smiling,
We two together stand.
EUTOPIA
And roses are side by side;
And all day between them in silence
The silken butterflies glide.
Though I know the road thereto;
And morn by morn to the gateway
I see the children go.
But they cannot bring back to me
What the lilies say to the roses,
Or the songs of the butterflies be.
THE HEREAFTER
The little nursery at thy feet;
Three golden heads together bent
Like statesmen o'er some scheme profound and sweet
Convened in their more gracious Parliament.
Keen shadows of the future go;
The tortures dormant in the frame;
The woes of want and wrong; the sterner woe
Of souls that start, and own a hidden shame.
Man slips through life unmade, unbraced:—
As honey from the flint-rock shed
Wrong bravely borne, the brunt of pain well faced,
Rain in soft blessings on the gallant head.
Is written large in sea and earth:
And He who gives us wider scope
Than the dumb things that struggle from their birth,
Sets in our sky a star of higher hope.
The road with never-swerving strength,
His future-piercing eyes survey
Those who, wide-roving, to the fold at length
Trace with thorn-redden'd feet their final way.
Their unforethoughtful brightness keep,
And garner sunbeams for the day
When those dear stainless eyes may yearn to weep
The natural drops that cannot force their way.
Our tears, to thy too-anxious gaze
The long Hereafter gently spares:—
Only his Love shines forth, through all their days
Pledged to the children of so many prayers.
TO A CHILD
The rosebud its beauty could know,
It would stay a rosebud for ever,
Nor into its fulness grow.
O little one, perfect and sweet!
Thou would'st be child for ever;
Completer whilst incomplete.
SPRING
Sits as king in the valleys:
Cowslip-crown'd-and-anemone,
Starr'd with white lilies.
Miles of meadowy splendour;
Breathes his haze on the orchard,
Rosily tender.
Speakest, and in the thrushes,
And e'en on the life-lorn hillside
Com'st to the bushes;
Why had thou left me lonely?
Touch me with life, sweet Spring,
Me, me only.
THRENOS
Heart-stir and music of Hope, the gleam of a glory to be:
Dreams and devotions of youth!—but youth has departed.
Tremblings of liquid dawn; horizons of lucid fire!
Something we gain with age: but youth has departed.
Peril on happy heights, and pleasure nearest the edge:
Something we gain as we live: but youth has departed.
Thine was my waking and dreaming, all joy and all sorrow thine:
The real has come as we live; but the vision departed.
Having nothing, and yet, by faith, of all things possess'd:
Both we ought to have kept: but youth has departed.
Feet that might stray and stumble; but friendship that could not trip:
Wisdom may come: but the faces of youth have departed.
Cold and tuneless it sounds before the cry of the past:
Voices and friends of youth, why have ye departed?
In the happy children the world its childhood renewing:
We see your day, and are glad: but youth has departed.
Rosy-finger'd ye come, and golden-hair'd as the day;
Come, and with you bring him, the mourn'd, the departed.
PAST AND PRESENT
To the breath of the child at her feet
Answer in even whispers,
When night falls heavy and sweet:
And leads me back to the roar
Of the dead salt sea that vomits
Wrecks of the past ashore.
Go gliding over the main:
I feel the ancient sweetness,
The worm and the wormwood again.
Domed with an iron sky:
And God himself in his power,
God cannot save me! I cry.
The mother and child at her feet
Breathe peace in even whispers;
And the night falls heavy and sweet.
THE LINNET IN NOVEMBER
I know not if with pain
Or pleasure more, I hear thy lay
Renew its vernal strain.
And bare the summer bowers,
Thy song brings back the years of yore,
And unreturning hours.
It never more will be!
Yet sing; and lend us in thy strain
A moment's youth with thee!
THE GOLDEN LAND
Carved through the green hills, sheer and straight,
Where the tall trees crowd round and sally
Down the slope sides, with stately gait
And sylvan dance: and in the hollow
Silver voices ripple and cry
Follow, O follow!
Where the white cottages star the slope,
And the white smoke winds o'er the hollow,
And the blythe air is quick with hope;
Till the Sun whispers, O remember!
You have but thirty days to run,
O sweet September!
Leans out wider and sunny and full,
With the green billows, green and cool;
And the green billows archly smiling,
Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them,
Bright and beguiling:—
Along the shore and the meadows along,
And sings for heart's delight, and dances
Crown'd with apples, and ruddy, and strong:—
Can we see thee, and not remember
Thy sun-brown cheek and hair sun-golden,
O sweet September?
IN THE VALLEY OF THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE
Wanderer by the wandering stranger slipping softly, surely, by:
Far from kindly human love, the road of tears and rapture trod:
Then, where Rhone's broad currents to the blue their lordly burden bear:
Thou art southward set, and southward all thy waters strain and fly:—
Terrace high o'er terrace climbing, lines of white, vine-garlanded:
Voices from beyond the mountain: smiles that dim the sun's own smile:
—Thine are not the currents toward the haven where my heart would be.
MIDNIGHT AT GENEVA
Beneath the pale moonshine:
I seek a sign of hope in heaven:
Fair Polestar! thou art mine.
I follow thee alone
Beyond the shadowy Jura range,
The Jura, and the Rhone;
Of sunny Clos Vougeot;
Beyond where Seine's brown waves beneath
The Norman orchards go;
The white-wall'd northern isle,
My heart outruns these laggart limbs
To the long-sigh'd-for smile.
A NIGHT JOURNEY
Through the black centre of the night,
With shriek and whirlwind goes the train
Across the slopes of sweet Touraine.
A hundred more their errand trace,
And Night surveys them, calm and free,
To her as little as to me.
A vision lightens on the soul,
Where Love is on her way to bring
Love's sweetness to the sorrowing.
She sits and waits, till dawning show
The stately terraces that crown
The level waves of broad Garonne.
And sees the room and empty chair,
And one who on the death-bed lies,
And prays to see her ere she dies.
I think and think upon her, till
My heart is with her heart again,
Crossing the slopes of sweet Touraine.
A DEATH-BED
The calm of coming death
Smiles from the eyes in settled peace,
Restores the rhythmic breath.
Such joy for angels fit,
As if the gate of Heaven were past
Without her knowing it.
Each, sparkling light with love,
Heaps up the nearing death below.
Steals from the life above.
Whate'er the future bring!
Irrevocable instants, spared
To plant the deeper sting!
At sight of one so dear!
We cannot bear that she should go,
Yet may not wish her here!
That slip and sparkle thus!
The heavenly voices call her there;
But she is more to us.
THE SISTERS
Their changeless shadow shed:
The eternal green of English hills
Is round the sister's bed.
With the low lulling sea
May chaunt the litanies of peace
Life could not give to thee!
And brightness of the hearth,
So lie by these familiar hills,
And in thy native earth.
Ye are not where ye are;
And on this cast-off heap of clay
Your spirits smile from far.
To sunder you in vain:
In life, in death, your hearts were one:
Now ye are one again.
THE THREE AGES
The child in its cot is awake;
And thinks how the stars are raining
Sweet gifts for Christmas' sake.
The bride is unquiet by night;
And the arrows of sunrise pierce her
With indefinite shy delight.
For child and mother afar;
But the light that shines on their faces
Is farther than sun or star.
Though the fragments are so sweet,
If the curve be not one hereafter,
And the circle of love complete!
BRECON BRIDGE
Brecon, placed where the Honddu joins the Usk, has hence its native name, Aberhonddu (pronounced Aberhonddy). Llewellyn, the last independent Prince of Wales, was killed in Breconshire.
While soft his dusky waters run,
With ripple calm as infant's breath,
An ancient song Usk murmureth
By the bridge of Aberhonddu.
Llewellyn's fate, or Gwalia's wrong:
But how, while we have each our day
And then are not, he runs for aye.
Within his limpid waters sweet:
And hears when youth and passion speak
What strikes to flame the maiden's cheek.
With his fair child the father gay:
And then Old Age, who creeps to view
The stream his feet in boyhood knew.
Of Roman legions rent the sky,
Since man with wolf held brutish strife,
Usk sees the flow and ebb of life.
Orb after orb, each other chase,
And gleam and intersect and die,
Our little circles eddy by.
While to himself, Where'er they stray,
All footsteps lead at last to Death,
His ancient song, Usk murmureth
By the bridge of Aberhonddu.
THE OLD YEAR
Where outworn centuries lie
Pass not, old Year, old Friend;
Pass not, we pray thee, and die.
We behold thee in truth what thou art;
An arm'd man planted between us
And him of the bitter dart.
And a gem in the heart of woe:
But to leave the little faces,
To leave the heart's darling, and go;—
Of evils under the sky,
That makes us chill at the noontide,
And shudder as night goes by.
We have murmur'd beneath our lot:
Now we know that under thy sceptre
We were safe, and we knew it not.
Pearls in the year's diadem,—
Days of delight, all golden,
They are gone, and we sigh not for them:—
Nor whether his shield be of proof
To guard us against the arrows
Of that other who watches aloof,
The glance of a patient eye,
In wait to bear us to the darkness
Where Arthur and Alfred lie.
MARGARET WILSON
‘A noble instance of self-sacrifice was witnessed at Newcastle on Sunday (May 31). While four children were playing on the railway near the station an engine and tender came up. One little fellow ran for the platform, and his example was followed by his elder sister. Looking back, however, she saw that the other two children were in imminent danger. She returned to them, and drew them to her side, between the rails and the platform. As the engine passed, the connecting-rod struck her
Across the iron-furrow'd way;
Joyous in all the joy of May.
In charge upon the others set
To lift and soothe them if they fret.
The little voices, pure and light,
Make music as they laugh outright.
Amongst them in a moment steals,
And death is rolling at their heels.
And reach'd it, and look'd back, and spied,
Where the dark wheels right towards them slide,
Playing by Death, and knowing not;—
And drew them to the narrow spot
Safe nestling down;—but as they glide
The wheel-rods struck her, and she died.
Nor any word could Margaret say,
But closed her eyes, and pass'd away.
Can look upon thy features fair,
Nor kiss the lips that mangled were:
A portion with the great and brave,
And unknown in thy lowly grave:
And agony of love in death
God saw, and he remembereth.
A VERY SIMPLE STORY
We have been together;
Gone through frost and fire,
Tears and tearless weather.
Now the Master's message
Bids our hands dissever;
But will it be long, Love,
Ere they are together,
Together, Love!
Once again together?’
Saying ‘Now and ever!’
Went about her household;
‘Will he come? O never!’
Lately he bade sever.
Now two hearts united
Beat in one for ever;
For ever, Love!
One henceforth for ever.
THE DAYS LONG PAST
Ye oft wage war with holy sleep,
And to some spectral region far
Bear the sick soul your prisoner.
The dim pathetic faces go,
Crying, ‘Why scorn our weakness thus?
Thy present soon will be like us!’
His brows and wither'd ash-leaves bound,
And in his azure-faded eyes
The morning-star of Paradise.
God every night was in the room,
And o'er our heads bade slumber creep
With touch of hands more soft than sleep.
And eyes of promise unfulfill'd,
And trembling on his lips the while
The sunset of the ancient smile.
And visions rather felt than seen,
With tears upon their garments' hem,
So dear, I may not look on them.
Silent, nor any love-sign show.
I know the lost are lost; and then
In gloomier gloom night falls again.
A SONG OF AGE
Is red on the corn and heavy;
Yet skies are sweet and clear
As in the youthful year,
The forests full and leafy.
But in the Northern cloud
Sits Winter dark and rude,
And Summer's golden glory
Who will remember
In the long, long, dismal hours,
In the days of December?
The visions pure and tender,
To the broader day of youth,
To the keen high light of truth
And reason we surrender:—
Black winter numbs the soul,
And manhood's gleam of glory
Who will remember
In the long, long, dismal hours,
In the days of December?
Better not be, than be thus!
To see through this brief day
Hope fall from hope away
And to blank Nothing leave us!
O still our vague unrest,
God's voice within the breast!
For in God's eternal Summer
Who will remember
The long, long, dismal hours,
And the days of December?
Lyrical Poems | ||