 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
Orestes
ORESTES
And see the mother of the nest brings in
Food to her young under the cornice there,
And little wings are fluttering as she comes
And the beaks meet, and the young swallows cry
In joy and love, and cluster to her breast.
Doth her heart lie and would she dash them down
Helpless, half-fledged upon the flags below?
O world of death, O God's sweet lying show
Of lovely things unlovely underneath,
Brimming with poison and sick lees of Hell,
With a fair skin set over them. O Earth,
Why should thy dew of morning cheat the flower
To open in such joy its small fresh bud,
While thou the while preparest a night-blast
To snap it half expanded? Let it be—
Let it be clay—it asked no life of thee:
Thou only madest it so fair to reap
The greater joy in tainting it with death:
O thou sick time, and horrible strong wheels
Of moving destiny, a helpless life
I break myself against you, and cry out,
And the cry reaches the ambrosial gates,
Nor is there any answer: Mother, mother,—
The word is gone awry, it breaks my lips—
Thou hast sealed up the fountains of pure love
Forever: thou hast filled their waves with blood,
And set a snake to guard them. O, arise,
Take thou thy fill of scornful joy, make bright
The blade; in cradle yonder thy babe sleeps;
There shall be little trembling of the hand;
Strike deep, and smile not overmuch the while,
Lest thy smile weaken thy sure deadly hand,
And thy heart all mirth-shaken with the deed
Weaken thy aim like mercy; and this done
Float out in royal beauty with a song
Of love between thy lips. O mother, mother,
The sweet earth cannot be the lie of love
That you would make it. Take your full desire:
I will begone from these accursed halls,
And vex you with my weakness never more.
Taste thou the vintage of thy glory sweet.
Be thine an ample and a royal day,
Full of rewards, and dignified with pride
Of stately rule: I will go forth alone;
This Atè is a very watchful fiend,
And I will think I only feel her hand
And not thy guilt, my mother. And I know
That I shall not go forth wholly alone,
There is one sweet soul loves me of them all,
I do believe she loves me; I am fallen
Not much that she should change her fair faith now;
For when she pitied me I had no friend,
Therefore my fortune has not ebbed one wave,
Being merely friendless now. If she will set
Her patient feet to share an exile's road,
Why, I will scorn this peevish Atè's blows:
If this hope also cracks—why then, tired limbs
Must pack to bed, as night grows cold in the west—
I have loved much, and learnt that loving means
To comprehend all sadness. To be great,
Is only great capacity to taste
The illimitable evils of the earth;
Which, if a man be but a little wise,
The gods assign him envying his repose.
But they allow the fool to feed and sleep
Disdaining much to trouble his swine's rest—
Behold ye how my morning floats this way:
Now, thou good demon of my soul, behold
My life is in the scale of this maid's hands,
Weigh down with unseen aid the side of hope.
ORESTES
And see the mother of the nest brings in
Food to her young under the cornice there,
And little wings are fluttering as she comes
And the beaks meet, and the young swallows cry
In joy and love, and cluster to her breast.
Doth her heart lie and would she dash them down
Helpless, half-fledged upon the flags below?
O world of death, O God's sweet lying show
Of lovely things unlovely underneath,
Brimming with poison and sick lees of Hell,
With a fair skin set over them. O Earth,
Why should thy dew of morning cheat the flower
To open in such joy its small fresh bud,
While thou the while preparest a night-blast
To snap it half expanded? Let it be—
Let it be clay—it asked no life of thee:
Thou only madest it so fair to reap
The greater joy in tainting it with death:
O thou sick time, and horrible strong wheels
Of moving destiny, a helpless life
I break myself against you, and cry out,
And the cry reaches the ambrosial gates,
Nor is there any answer: Mother, mother,—
The word is gone awry, it breaks my lips—
Thou hast sealed up the fountains of pure love
Forever: thou hast filled their waves with blood,
And set a snake to guard them. O, arise,
Take thou thy fill of scornful joy, make bright
The blade; in cradle yonder thy babe sleeps;
There shall be little trembling of the hand;
Strike deep, and smile not overmuch the while,
Lest thy smile weaken thy sure deadly hand,
And thy heart all mirth-shaken with the deed
Weaken thy aim like mercy; and this done
Float out in royal beauty with a song
Of love between thy lips. O mother, mother,
The sweet earth cannot be the lie of love
246
I will begone from these accursed halls,
And vex you with my weakness never more.
Taste thou the vintage of thy glory sweet.
Be thine an ample and a royal day,
Full of rewards, and dignified with pride
Of stately rule: I will go forth alone;
This Atè is a very watchful fiend,
And I will think I only feel her hand
And not thy guilt, my mother. And I know
That I shall not go forth wholly alone,
There is one sweet soul loves me of them all,
I do believe she loves me; I am fallen
Not much that she should change her fair faith now;
For when she pitied me I had no friend,
Therefore my fortune has not ebbed one wave,
Being merely friendless now. If she will set
Her patient feet to share an exile's road,
Why, I will scorn this peevish Atè's blows:
If this hope also cracks—why then, tired limbs
Must pack to bed, as night grows cold in the west—
I have loved much, and learnt that loving means
To comprehend all sadness. To be great,
Is only great capacity to taste
The illimitable evils of the earth;
Which, if a man be but a little wise,
The gods assign him envying his repose.
But they allow the fool to feed and sleep
Disdaining much to trouble his swine's rest—
Behold ye how my morning floats this way:
Now, thou good demon of my soul, behold
My life is in the scale of this maid's hands,
Weigh down with unseen aid the side of hope.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |