The Poetical Works of James Thomson The City of Dreadful Night: By James Thomson ("B. V."): Edited by Bertram Dobell: With a Memoir of the Author: In two volumes |
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| LAST POEMS |
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 | The Poetical Works of James Thomson |  |
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LAST POEMS
3
A VOICE FROM THE NILE
I come from mountains under other stars
Than those reflected in my waters here;
Athwart broad realms, beneath large skies, I flow,
Between the Libyan and Arabian hills,
And merge at last into the great Mid-Sea;
And make this land of Egypt. All is mine:
The palm-trees and the doves among the palms,
The corn-fields and the flowers among the corn,
The patient oxen and the crocodiles,
The ibis and the heron and the hawk,
The lotus and the thick papyrus reeds,
The slant-sailed boats that flit before the wind
Or up my rapids ropes hale heavily;
Yea, even all the massive temple-fronts
With all their columns and huge effigies,
The pyramids and Memnon and the Sphinx,
This Cairo and the City of the Greek
As Memphis and the hundred-gated Thebes,
Sais and Denderah of Isis queen;
Have grown because I fed them with full life,
And flourish only while I feed them still.
For if I stint my fertilising flood,
Gaunt famine reaps among the sons of men
Who have not corn to reap for all they sowed,
And blight and languishment are everywhere;
And when I have withdrawn or turned aside
To other realms my ever-flowing streams,
The old realms withered from their old renown,
The sands came over them, the desert-sands
Incessantly encroaching, numberless
Beyond my water-drops, and buried them,
And all is silence, solitude, and death,
Exanimate silence while the waste winds howl
Over the sad immeasurable waste.
Than those reflected in my waters here;
Athwart broad realms, beneath large skies, I flow,
Between the Libyan and Arabian hills,
And merge at last into the great Mid-Sea;
And make this land of Egypt. All is mine:
The palm-trees and the doves among the palms,
The corn-fields and the flowers among the corn,
The patient oxen and the crocodiles,
The ibis and the heron and the hawk,
The lotus and the thick papyrus reeds,
The slant-sailed boats that flit before the wind
Or up my rapids ropes hale heavily;
Yea, even all the massive temple-fronts
With all their columns and huge effigies,
The pyramids and Memnon and the Sphinx,
This Cairo and the City of the Greek
4
Sais and Denderah of Isis queen;
Have grown because I fed them with full life,
And flourish only while I feed them still.
For if I stint my fertilising flood,
Gaunt famine reaps among the sons of men
Who have not corn to reap for all they sowed,
And blight and languishment are everywhere;
And when I have withdrawn or turned aside
To other realms my ever-flowing streams,
The old realms withered from their old renown,
The sands came over them, the desert-sands
Incessantly encroaching, numberless
Beyond my water-drops, and buried them,
And all is silence, solitude, and death,
Exanimate silence while the waste winds howl
Over the sad immeasurable waste.
Dusk memories haunt me of an infinite past,
Ages and cycles brood above my springs,
Though I remember not my primal birth.
So ancient is my being and august,
I know not anything more venerable;
Unless, perchance, the vaulting skies that hold
The sun and moon and stars that shine on me;
The air that breathes upon me with delight;
And Earth, All-Mother, all-beneficent,
Who held her mountains forth like opulent breasts
To cradle me and feed me with their snows,
And hollowed out the great sea to receive
My overplus of flowing energy:
Blessèd for ever be our Mother Earth.
Ages and cycles brood above my springs,
Though I remember not my primal birth.
So ancient is my being and august,
I know not anything more venerable;
Unless, perchance, the vaulting skies that hold
The sun and moon and stars that shine on me;
The air that breathes upon me with delight;
And Earth, All-Mother, all-beneficent,
Who held her mountains forth like opulent breasts
5
And hollowed out the great sea to receive
My overplus of flowing energy:
Blessèd for ever be our Mother Earth.
Only, the mountains that must feed my springs
Year after year and every year with snows
As they have fed innumerable years,
These mountains they are evermore the same,
Rooted and motionless; the solemn heavens
Are evermore the same in stable rest;
The sun and moon and stars that shine on me
Are evermore the same although they move:
I solely, moving ever without pause,
Am evermore the same and not the same;
Pouring myself away into the sea,
And self-renewing from the farthest heights;
Ever-fresh waters streaming down and down,
The one old Nilus constant through their change.
Year after year and every year with snows
As they have fed innumerable years,
These mountains they are evermore the same,
Rooted and motionless; the solemn heavens
Are evermore the same in stable rest;
The sun and moon and stars that shine on me
Are evermore the same although they move:
I solely, moving ever without pause,
Am evermore the same and not the same;
Pouring myself away into the sea,
And self-renewing from the farthest heights;
Ever-fresh waters streaming down and down,
The one old Nilus constant through their change.
The creatures also whom I breed and feed
Perpetually perish and dissolve,
And other creatures like them take their place,
To perish in their turn and be no more:
My profluent waters perish not from life,
Absorbed into the ever-living sea
Whose life is in their full replenishment.
Perpetually perish and dissolve,
And other creatures like them take their place,
To perish in their turn and be no more:
My profluent waters perish not from life,
Absorbed into the ever-living sea
Whose life is in their full replenishment.
6
Of all these creatures whom I breed and feed,
One only with his works is strange to me,
Is strange and admirable and pitiable,
As homeless where all others are at home.
My crocodiles are happy in my slime,
And bask and seize their prey, each for itself,
And leave their eggs to hatch in the hot sun,
And die, their lives fulfilled, and are no more,
And others bask and prey and leave their eggs.
My doves they build their nests, each pair its own,
And feed their callow young, each pair its own,
None serves another, each one serves itself;
All glean alike about my fields of grain,
And all the nests they build them are alike,
And are the self-same nests they built of old
Before the rearing of the pyramids,
Before great Hekatompylos was reared;
Their cooing is the cooing soft and sweet
That murmured plaintively at evening-tide
In pillared Karnak as its pillars rose;
And they are happy floating through my palms.
One only with his works is strange to me,
Is strange and admirable and pitiable,
As homeless where all others are at home.
My crocodiles are happy in my slime,
And bask and seize their prey, each for itself,
And leave their eggs to hatch in the hot sun,
And die, their lives fulfilled, and are no more,
And others bask and prey and leave their eggs.
My doves they build their nests, each pair its own,
And feed their callow young, each pair its own,
None serves another, each one serves itself;
All glean alike about my fields of grain,
And all the nests they build them are alike,
And are the self-same nests they built of old
Before the rearing of the pyramids,
Before great Hekatompylos was reared;
Their cooing is the cooing soft and sweet
That murmured plaintively at evening-tide
In pillared Karnak as its pillars rose;
And they are happy floating through my palms.
But Man, the admirable, the pitiable,
These sad-eyed peoples of the sons of men,
Are as the children of an alien race
Planted among my children, not at home,
Changelings aloof from all my family.
The one is servant and the other lord,
And many myriads serve a single lord:
So was it when the pyramids were reared,
And sphinxes and huge columns and wrought stones
Were haled long lengthening leagues adown my banks
By hundreds groaning with the stress of toil
And groaning under the taskmaster's scourge,
With many falling foredone by the way,
Half-starved on lentils, onions, and scant bread;
So is it now with these poor fellaheen
To whom my annual bounty brings fierce toil
With scarce enough of food to keep-in life.
They build mud huts and spacious palaces;
And in the huts the moiling millions dwell,
And in the palaces their sumptuous lords
Pampered with all the choicest things I yield:
Most admirable, most pitiable Man.
These sad-eyed peoples of the sons of men,
Are as the children of an alien race
Planted among my children, not at home,
Changelings aloof from all my family.
The one is servant and the other lord,
7
So was it when the pyramids were reared,
And sphinxes and huge columns and wrought stones
Were haled long lengthening leagues adown my banks
By hundreds groaning with the stress of toil
And groaning under the taskmaster's scourge,
With many falling foredone by the way,
Half-starved on lentils, onions, and scant bread;
So is it now with these poor fellaheen
To whom my annual bounty brings fierce toil
With scarce enough of food to keep-in life.
They build mud huts and spacious palaces;
And in the huts the moiling millions dwell,
And in the palaces their sumptuous lords
Pampered with all the choicest things I yield:
Most admirable, most pitiable Man.
Also their peoples ever are at war,
Slaying and slain, burning and ravaging,
And one yields to another and they pass,
While I flow evermore the same great Nile,
The ever-young and ever-ancient Nile:
The swarthy is succeeded by the dusk,
The dusky by the pale, the pale again
By sunburned turbaned tribes long-linen-robed:
And with these changes all things change and pass,
All things but Me and this old Land of mine,
Their dwellings, habitudes, and garbs, and tongues:
I hear strange voices; never more the voice
Austere priests chanted to the boat of death
Gliding across the Acherusian lake,
Or satraps parleyed in the Pharaoh's halls;
Never the voice of mad Cambyses' hosts,
Never the voice of Alexander's Greece,
Never the voice of Cæsar's haughty Rome:
And with the peoples and the languages,
With the great Empires still the great Creeds change;
They shift, they change, they vanish like thin dreams,
As unsubstantial as the mists that rise
After my overflow from out my fields,
In silver fleeces, golden volumes, rise,
And melt away before the mounting sun;
While I flow onward solely permanent
Amidst their swiftly-passing pageantry.
Slaying and slain, burning and ravaging,
And one yields to another and they pass,
While I flow evermore the same great Nile,
The ever-young and ever-ancient Nile:
The swarthy is succeeded by the dusk,
The dusky by the pale, the pale again
By sunburned turbaned tribes long-linen-robed:
And with these changes all things change and pass,
All things but Me and this old Land of mine,
8
I hear strange voices; never more the voice
Austere priests chanted to the boat of death
Gliding across the Acherusian lake,
Or satraps parleyed in the Pharaoh's halls;
Never the voice of mad Cambyses' hosts,
Never the voice of Alexander's Greece,
Never the voice of Cæsar's haughty Rome:
And with the peoples and the languages,
With the great Empires still the great Creeds change;
They shift, they change, they vanish like thin dreams,
As unsubstantial as the mists that rise
After my overflow from out my fields,
In silver fleeces, golden volumes, rise,
And melt away before the mounting sun;
While I flow onward solely permanent
Amidst their swiftly-passing pageantry.
Poor men, most admirable, most pitiable,
With all their changes all their great Creeds change:
For Man, this alien in my family,
Is alien most in this, to cherish dreams
And brood on visions of eternity,
And build religions in his brooding brain
And in the dark depths awe-full of his soul.
My other children live their little lives,
Are born and reach their prime and slowly fail,
And all their little lives are self-fulfilled;
They die and are no more, content with age
And weary with infirmity. But Man
Has fear and hope and phantasy and awe,
And wistful yearnings and unsated loves,
That strain beyond the limits of his life,
And therefore Gods and Demons, Heaven and Hell:
This Man, the admirable, the pitiable.
With all their changes all their great Creeds change:
For Man, this alien in my family,
Is alien most in this, to cherish dreams
And brood on visions of eternity,
And build religions in his brooding brain
And in the dark depths awe-full of his soul.
My other children live their little lives,
9
And all their little lives are self-fulfilled;
They die and are no more, content with age
And weary with infirmity. But Man
Has fear and hope and phantasy and awe,
And wistful yearnings and unsated loves,
That strain beyond the limits of his life,
And therefore Gods and Demons, Heaven and Hell:
This Man, the admirable, the pitiable.
Lo, I look backward some few thousand years,
And see men hewing temples in my rocks
With seated forms gigantic fronting them,
And solemn labyrinthine catacombs
With tombs all pictured with fair scenes of life
And scenes and symbols of mysterious death;
And planting avenues of sphinxes forth,
Sphinxes couched calm, whose passionless regard
Sets timeless riddles to bewildered time,
Forth from my sacred banks to other fanes
Islanded in the boundless sea of air,
Upon whose walls and colonnades are carved
Tremendous hieroglyphs of secret things;
I see embalming of the bodies dead
And judging of the disembodied souls;
I see the sacred animals alive,
And statues of the various-headed gods,
Among them throned a woman and a babe,
The goddess crescent-horned, the babe divine,
Then I flow forward some few thousand years,
And see new temples shining with all grace,
Whose sculptured gods are beautiful human forms.
Then I flow forward not a thousand years,
And see again a woman and a babe,
The woman haloed and the babe divine;
And everywhere that symbol of the cross
I knew aforetime in the ancient days,
The emblem then of life, but now of death.
Then I flow forward some few hundred years,
And see again the crescent, now supreme
On lofty cupolas and minarets
Whence voices sweet and solemn call to prayer.
So the men change along my changeless stream,
And change their faiths; but I yield all alike
Sweet water for their drinking, sweet as wine,
And pure sweet water for their lustral rites:
For thirty generations of my corn
Outlast a generation of my men,
And thirty generations of my men
Outlast a generation of their gods:
O admirable, pitiable Man,
My child yet alien in my family.
And see men hewing temples in my rocks
With seated forms gigantic fronting them,
And solemn labyrinthine catacombs
With tombs all pictured with fair scenes of life
And scenes and symbols of mysterious death;
And planting avenues of sphinxes forth,
Sphinxes couched calm, whose passionless regard
Sets timeless riddles to bewildered time,
Forth from my sacred banks to other fanes
Islanded in the boundless sea of air,
Upon whose walls and colonnades are carved
Tremendous hieroglyphs of secret things;
I see embalming of the bodies dead
And judging of the disembodied souls;
I see the sacred animals alive,
And statues of the various-headed gods,
Among them throned a woman and a babe,
10
Then I flow forward some few thousand years,
And see new temples shining with all grace,
Whose sculptured gods are beautiful human forms.
Then I flow forward not a thousand years,
And see again a woman and a babe,
The woman haloed and the babe divine;
And everywhere that symbol of the cross
I knew aforetime in the ancient days,
The emblem then of life, but now of death.
Then I flow forward some few hundred years,
And see again the crescent, now supreme
On lofty cupolas and minarets
Whence voices sweet and solemn call to prayer.
So the men change along my changeless stream,
And change their faiths; but I yield all alike
Sweet water for their drinking, sweet as wine,
And pure sweet water for their lustral rites:
For thirty generations of my corn
Outlast a generation of my men,
And thirty generations of my men
Outlast a generation of their gods:
O admirable, pitiable Man,
My child yet alien in my family.
And I through all these generations flow
Of corn and men and gods, all-bountiful,
Perennial through their transientness, still fed
By earth with waters in abundancy;
And as I flowed here long before they were,
So may I flow when they no longer are,
Most like the serpent of eternity:
Blessèd for ever be our Mother Earth.
Of corn and men and gods, all-bountiful,
Perennial through their transientness, still fed
11
And as I flowed here long before they were,
So may I flow when they no longer are,
Most like the serpent of eternity:
Blessèd for ever be our Mother Earth.
November 1881.
12
RICHARD FOREST'S MID-SUMMER NIGHT
I.
The sun is setting in pale lucid gold,
From out that strange sweet green
The heavens through half their lucid breadth unfold,
Unfathomably serene.
From out that strange sweet green
The heavens through half their lucid breadth unfold,
Unfathomably serene.
The moon is risen, formless, vague and wan,
Until the glory wane;
Less moon as yet than thin white cloud, whereon
Young yearning eyes fix fain.
Until the glory wane;
Less moon as yet than thin white cloud, whereon
Young yearning eyes fix fain.
The splendour ripples on the broad calm bay
Where still some white sails gleam
Like sea-birds in the offing far away,
Suspended as in dream.
Where still some white sails gleam
Like sea-birds in the offing far away,
Suspended as in dream.
The wavelets whisper on the soft sands wide,
Soothing their thread of foam,
The silver fringe of the advancing tide,
Nearer and nearer home.
Soothing their thread of foam,
The silver fringe of the advancing tide,
Nearer and nearer home.
13
The hammers ringing on the building ships
Are ceasing from their chime;
Our toils are closing in this sweet eclipse
Of tranquil vesper-time.
Are ceasing from their chime;
Our toils are closing in this sweet eclipse
Of tranquil vesper-time.
O day slow-dying in the golden west,
O far flushed clouds above,
O slowly rising moon, your infinite rest
Brings infinite longing love.
O far flushed clouds above,
O slowly rising moon, your infinite rest
Brings infinite longing love.
II.
But what come forth with the dark,
With the dusk of the eve and the night?
When the lessening sails of that single barque
Shall be wholly lost to sight,
And the latest song of the latest lark
Shall be mute in the mute moonlight.
With the dusk of the eve and the night?
When the lessening sails of that single barque
Shall be wholly lost to sight,
And the latest song of the latest lark
Shall be mute in the mute moonlight.
All the stars come forth on high
Like spirits that cast their shrouds,
And the solemn depths of the darkening sky
Are filled with their radiant crowds,
And Hesper, lovely as Love's own eye,
Shines beneath purple clouds;
Like spirits that cast their shrouds,
And the solemn depths of the darkening sky
Are filled with their radiant crowds,
And Hesper, lovely as Love's own eye,
Shines beneath purple clouds;
And the maidens and youths on earth,
On the shores of the sands and the piers,
Like a sudden bountiful beautiful birth,
In the flower of their happy years,
With babble and laughter and musical mirth
Under the silent spheres.
On the shores of the sands and the piers,
14
In the flower of their happy years,
With babble and laughter and musical mirth
Under the silent spheres.
With the silent stars above,
And the maidens and youths below
With their murmurs sweeter than voice of the dove,
By the calm sea's plash and flow,
All the soft warm air breathes bliss and love
In the sunset's after-glow.
And the maidens and youths below
With their murmurs sweeter than voice of the dove,
By the calm sea's plash and flow,
All the soft warm air breathes bliss and love
In the sunset's after-glow.
For the burning hours are past,
And the toils of the day are done,
And the peace of the night is come at last,
And the moon succeeds the sun;
And the pulses of Heaven and Earth throb fast,
All the thousands throbbing as one.
And the toils of the day are done,
And the peace of the night is come at last,
And the moon succeeds the sun;
And the pulses of Heaven and Earth throb fast,
All the thousands throbbing as one.
III.
Oh, a myriad stars may shine,
But ever the one sole Moon,
The Queen of the stars and the night divine,
The Queen most fair and boon,
For her mystical shine is Love's best wine,
And her midnight Love's own noon.
But ever the one sole Moon,
The Queen of the stars and the night divine,
The Queen most fair and boon,
For her mystical shine is Love's best wine,
And her midnight Love's own noon.
15
I have heard that the smallest star
Is a much more mighty sphere,
Than the regnant moon in her silver car
That we love and worship here;
But behold, the star it is faint and far,
While our moon is bright and near.
Is a much more mighty sphere,
Than the regnant moon in her silver car
That we love and worship here;
But behold, the star it is faint and far,
While our moon is bright and near.
Let the star in its distant skies
Burn glorious and great,
A sun of life to the far-off eyes
In the planets that swell its state;
But it sways not the tides of our seas as it rides,
Nor the tides of our human fate.
Burn glorious and great,
A sun of life to the far-off eyes
In the planets that swell its state;
But it sways not the tides of our seas as it rides,
Nor the tides of our human fate.
So, there on the shining sand,
And there on the long curved pier,
Fair ladies circle fulgent and grand,
Each in her proper sphere;
But the sun so far is a little star,
While my Love is near and dear:
And there on the long curved pier,
Fair ladies circle fulgent and grand,
Each in her proper sphere;
But the sun so far is a little star,
While my Love is near and dear:
Is near and dear and bright,
The Queen of my Heavens above,
The pure sweet light of my darkest night,
My Lotus, my Lily, my Dove;
And my pulses flow and thrill and glow
In the sway of Her splendid love.
The Queen of my Heavens above,
The pure sweet light of my darkest night,
My Lotus, my Lily, my Dove;
And my pulses flow and thrill and glow
In the sway of Her splendid love.
16
IV.
Farewell, fair margent of the sea,
Fair city of the noble bay;
I seek my Love who looks for me,
Not far away, not far away,
Over the hill of wood and lea,
And near that other bay adown
The winding valley lone and lown.
Fair city of the noble bay;
I seek my Love who looks for me,
Not far away, not far away,
Over the hill of wood and lea,
And near that other bay adown
The winding valley lone and lown.
The valley with its tethered kine,
The orchard plots and fields of grain,
So tranquil in the broad sunshine,
More tranquil now the high stars reign,
And tranquil most and most divine
When over it comes floating soon
The mystic splendour of the moon.
The orchard plots and fields of grain,
So tranquil in the broad sunshine,
More tranquil now the high stars reign,
And tranquil most and most divine
When over it comes floating soon
The mystic splendour of the moon.
The cottage nestles sheltered well
Among rich apple-trees, embowered
In its side-nook of dimpled dell;
Roses and jasmine starry-flowered
Clothe all its front; the tide's long swell
Sounds up the valley slow and calm,
To ebb away a dying psalm.
Among rich apple-trees, embowered
In its side-nook of dimpled dell;
Roses and jasmine starry-flowered
Clothe all its front; the tide's long swell
Sounds up the valley slow and calm,
To ebb away a dying psalm.
Through clouds of delicate blossom white
The red tiles burn with steadfast glow,
Or through green leaves and apples bright
And hoary stems a-slanting low,
When morning crowns the eastern height;
The blue smoke quivering up the air
Its slender breath of household prayer;
The red tiles burn with steadfast glow,
17
And hoary stems a-slanting low,
When morning crowns the eastern height;
The blue smoke quivering up the air
Its slender breath of household prayer;
The sweet flowers flush and glow and yearn,
With wild bees humming in their bloom,
The lane comes winding like a burn
Through banks of golden gorse and broom,
And edged with grass and fringed with fern;
The rapturous larks are singing high
In all the regions of the sky.
With wild bees humming in their bloom,
The lane comes winding like a burn
Through banks of golden gorse and broom,
And edged with grass and fringed with fern;
The rapturous larks are singing high
In all the regions of the sky.
But that is day, these days of June
A-verging into hot July,
And this is night, more rich and boon,
Although its hours so swiftly fly:
O light of lovers, gracious moon,
My own Moon waits me full of love,
Brighter than all heaven's stars above.
A-verging into hot July,
And this is night, more rich and boon,
Although its hours so swiftly fly:
O light of lovers, gracious moon,
My own Moon waits me full of love,
Brighter than all heaven's stars above.
V.
Ere the road curves up through the shade
With its transverse moonlight bars,
While above in the leafy gloom of the glade
Hang the glittering fruits of the stars;
Let me pause for a moment and turn and look down
Beyond all the villa clumps duskily brown,
And beyond all the pale yellow lamps of the town;
With its transverse moonlight bars,
While above in the leafy gloom of the glade
Hang the glittering fruits of the stars;
18
Beyond all the villa clumps duskily brown,
And beyond all the pale yellow lamps of the town;
To the sea and the noble bay
Lulled asleep in the broad moonshine;
To the shore where our youths and our maidens stray
On the sands and the pier's long line,
Like a swarm of bees that suspend their flight
To gather the honey of love and delight
In the heart of the azure-leaved Flower of the Night.
Lulled asleep in the broad moonshine;
To the shore where our youths and our maidens stray
On the sands and the pier's long line,
Like a swarm of bees that suspend their flight
To gather the honey of love and delight
In the heart of the azure-leaved Flower of the Night.
Like a swarm of buzzing bees
Whose busy murmurs float
On the wide-wafting wings of the southerly breeze,
Merged into one vague note:
They are drunk with the honey of love and of bliss,
And they throb with the stars of the azure abyss,
And the air is as soft as a tremulous kiss.
Whose busy murmurs float
On the wide-wafting wings of the southerly breeze,
Merged into one vague note:
They are drunk with the honey of love and of bliss,
And they throb with the stars of the azure abyss,
And the air is as soft as a tremulous kiss.
I shall find Her all alone
At the wicket of garden and lane,
Or out of the porch by the rose o'ergrown
She will glide all flushed and fain:
So gather your honey, you bees that swarm,
I drink-in my nectar all golden and warm
From a flower-cup the fairest in colour and form.
At the wicket of garden and lane,
Or out of the porch by the rose o'ergrown
She will glide all flushed and fain:
So gather your honey, you bees that swarm,
I drink-in my nectar all golden and warm
From a flower-cup the fairest in colour and form.
19
VI.
Do I love you more for your own grand sake,
Or more for the bliss you bring to me?
You big black arms of the elms that make
The little white arms cling to me.
Or more for the bliss you bring to me?
You big black arms of the elms that make
The little white arms cling to me.
Do I love you more for your own sweet sake,
Or more for my heart's desire to me?
You flowers of the night whose perfumes make
The sweetest breath suspire to me.
Or more for my heart's desire to me?
You flowers of the night whose perfumes make
The sweetest breath suspire to me.
Do I love you more for your own dear sake,
Or more for the joys that rill through me?
You nightingales whose voices make
The dearest soft voice thrill through me.
Or more for the joys that rill through me?
You nightingales whose voices make
The dearest soft voice thrill through me.
Do I love you more for your own bright sake,
Or more for the joys that stream on me?
You stars of the heaven whose glances make
The brightest moist eyes beam on me.
Or more for the joys that stream on me?
You stars of the heaven whose glances make
The brightest moist eyes beam on me.
Do I love you more for your own dear sake,
Or more for the bliss possessing me?
You whispering waves of the sea that make
The dear lips mute caressing me.
Or more for the bliss possessing me?
You whispering waves of the sea that make
The dear lips mute caressing me.
20
Do I love you more for your own pure sake,
Or more for the Heavens you declare to me?
You naked moon, whose splendours make
The soul of her pure love bare to me.
Or more for the Heavens you declare to me?
You naked moon, whose splendours make
The soul of her pure love bare to me.
Oh, I love you all for your own love's sake,
And my love of my Love and her love to me,
Dear earth and sea and heavens that make
This life as the life above to me.
And my love of my Love and her love to me,
Dear earth and sea and heavens that make
This life as the life above to me.
VII.
She is not there at the rustic gate,
Nor in the garden, nor in the porch:
Lucy! the hour is not yet late,
The moon, our this night's signal torch,
The beacon-fire of our heart's desire,
Over the wooded promontory
Shines on our bay in all her glory.
Nor in the garden, nor in the porch:
Lucy! the hour is not yet late,
The moon, our this night's signal torch,
The beacon-fire of our heart's desire,
Over the wooded promontory
Shines on our bay in all her glory.
Good Father nods in his old arm-chair,
A-dozing over his evening pipe,
The old brown jug at his elbow there
Half-full of the old ale humming-ripe;
For his work is done with the set o' the sun,
And he settles down content and placid,
Sweetness without one drop of acid.
A-dozing over his evening pipe,
The old brown jug at his elbow there
Half-full of the old ale humming-ripe;
For his work is done with the set o' the sun,
And he settles down content and placid,
Sweetness without one drop of acid.
21
And our little Mother upright sits,
Under her glasses glancing keen
And listening sharp as she knits and knits;
Nothing unheard, nothing unseen;
Her work is not done with the set o' the sun,
And she never nods and she never dozes
Until her head in the bed reposes.
Under her glasses glancing keen
And listening sharp as she knits and knits;
Nothing unheard, nothing unseen;
Her work is not done with the set o' the sun,
And she never nods and she never dozes
Until her head in the bed reposes.
Or else the dear old couple play
Some game they have played this thirty year;
Cribbage,—and how she pegs away!
Perhaps Don Pedro when I appear,
And Lucy and I must join and try
Which shall prove the more prompt and able,
Or youth or eld at the old oak-table.
Some game they have played this thirty year;
Cribbage,—and how she pegs away!
Perhaps Don Pedro when I appear,
And Lucy and I must join and try
Which shall prove the more prompt and able,
Or youth or eld at the old oak-table.
But Lucy, Lucy, where is She?
Not in the garden, not at the gate,
Not in the porch a-looking for me,
Not at the parlour-lattice in wait!
Can she sew or read and take no heed
How the stars are bright and the moon is shining,
And I am without here longing and pining?
Not in the garden, not at the gate,
Not in the porch a-looking for me,
Not at the parlour-lattice in wait!
Can she sew or read and take no heed
How the stars are bright and the moon is shining,
And I am without here longing and pining?
O Lucy, Lucy! can you dream
O'er the loves in a book with your own Love near?—
Out from the back-shade darts a gleam;
Lucy is here! Lucy is here!
Dancing light in her eyes of a wicked surprise,
White rose in her hair, red rose in her fingers,
How she hastens!—and how she lingers!
O'er the loves in a book with your own Love near?—
22
Lucy is here! Lucy is here!
Dancing light in her eyes of a wicked surprise,
White rose in her hair, red rose in her fingers,
How she hastens!—and how she lingers!
Oh, the smile of your mouth!—but I want my own kiss!
Oh, the flush of your face!—but your head on my breast!
Oh, the rose in your yellow hair fragrant with bliss!
Oh, the rose in your hand by my own hand caressed!
O dear form I enlace in this perfect embrace,
My Love all a-tremble with passion and yearning,
While under my kisses the pure neck is burning!
Oh, the flush of your face!—but your head on my breast!
Oh, the rose in your yellow hair fragrant with bliss!
Oh, the rose in your hand by my own hand caressed!
O dear form I enlace in this perfect embrace,
My Love all a-tremble with passion and yearning,
While under my kisses the pure neck is burning!
VIII.
Oh, how the nights are short,
These heavenly nights of June!
The long day all amort
With toil, the time to court
So stinted in its boon!
These heavenly nights of June!
The long day all amort
With toil, the time to court
So stinted in its boon!
23
In winter brief work-days,
Long rest-nights dark and cold,
Dank mists and miry ways,
Black boughs and leafless sprays,
No sweet birds singing bold.
Long rest-nights dark and cold,
Dank mists and miry ways,
Black boughs and leafless sprays,
No sweet birds singing bold.
I find this order strange,
And not at all the right;
Not thus would I arrange:
May I propose a change
In seasons, day and night?
And not at all the right;
Not thus would I arrange:
May I propose a change
In seasons, day and night?
Cold days, warm nights, be long,
Cold nights, warm days, be brief:
Warm nights of scent and song,
Nights long as love is strong,—
Oh, Love should have relief!
Cold nights, warm days, be brief:
Warm nights of scent and song,
Nights long as love is strong,—
Oh, Love should have relief!
Yet some days we would spare,
Long days of love and rest,
So long, so rich, so rare,
When but to breathe the air
Is to be fully blest.
Long days of love and rest,
So long, so rich, so rare,
When but to breathe the air
Is to be fully blest.
When deep in fern we lie
With golden gorse above;
Deep sapphire sea and sky,
Ringing of larks on high,
Our whole world breathing love.
With golden gorse above;
24
Ringing of larks on high,
Our whole world breathing love.
Long days of perfect rest!
Long days of infinite bliss!
Your head upon my breast;
Possessing and possessed,
Dissolving in a kiss.
Long days of infinite bliss!
Your head upon my breast;
Possessing and possessed,
Dissolving in a kiss.
IX.
Oh, how the nights are short,
These heavenly nights of June!
The long hot day amort
With toil, the time to court
So stinted in its boon!
These heavenly nights of June!
The long hot day amort
With toil, the time to court
So stinted in its boon!
But three or four brief hours
Between the afterglow
And dawnlight; while the flowers
Are dreaming in their bowers,
And birds their song forego;
Between the afterglow
And dawnlight; while the flowers
Are dreaming in their bowers,
And birds their song forego;
And in the noon of night,
As in the noon of day,
Flowers close on their delight,
Birds nestle from their flight,
Deep stillness holdeth sway:
As in the noon of day,
Flowers close on their delight,
Birds nestle from their flight,
Deep stillness holdeth sway:
25
Only the nightingales
Yet sing to moon and stars,
Although their full song fails;
The corn-crake never quails,
But through the silence jars.
Yet sing to moon and stars,
Although their full song fails;
The corn-crake never quails,
But through the silence jars.
So few brief hours of peace;
And only one for us,
Alone, in toil's surcease,
To feed on love's increase:
It is too cruel thus!
And only one for us,
Alone, in toil's surcease,
To feed on love's increase:
It is too cruel thus!
Did little Mother chide
Because our sewing dropped
And we sat dreamy-eyed?
Dear Mother, good betide,
The scolding must be stopped.
Because our sewing dropped
And we sat dreamy-eyed?
Dear Mother, good betide,
The scolding must be stopped.
Dear Mother, good and true,
All-loving while you blame,
When spring brings skies of blue
And buds and flowers anew,
I come in with my claim!
All-loving while you blame,
When spring brings skies of blue
And buds and flowers anew,
I come in with my claim!
I claim my Love, my Own,
Yet ever yours the while,
Under whose care hath grown
The sweetest blossom blown
In all our flower-loved isle.
Yet ever yours the while,
Under whose care hath grown
The sweetest blossom blown
In all our flower-loved isle.
26
The Spring renews its youth
And youth renews its Spring:
Love's wildest dreams are truth,
Magic is sober sooth;
Charm of the Magic Ring!
And youth renews its Spring:
Love's wildest dreams are truth,
Magic is sober sooth;
Charm of the Magic Ring!
X.
As we gaze and gaze on the sleeping sea
Beneath the moon's soft splendour,
The wide expanse inspires a trance
Most solemn and most tender.
Beneath the moon's soft splendour,
The wide expanse inspires a trance
Most solemn and most tender.
The heavens all silent with their stars,
The sweet air hardly breathing,
The liquid light of ripples bright
Wreathing and interwreathing.
The sweet air hardly breathing,
The liquid light of ripples bright
Wreathing and interwreathing.
The tide self-poised now at the full,
Scarce swaying, almost soundless;
The sea between twin skies serene,
Calm, fathomless and boundless.
Scarce swaying, almost soundless;
The sea between twin skies serene,
Calm, fathomless and boundless.
What specks are we in this vast world,
Our little lives how fleeting!
While star on star is throbbing far,
What matter two hearts beating?
Our little lives how fleeting!
While star on star is throbbing far,
What matter two hearts beating?
27
How many many million years
Those living lights supernal
Shone ere our birth on this small earth!
Yet they are not eternal.
Those living lights supernal
Shone ere our birth on this small earth!
Yet they are not eternal.
How many many million years,
When we have passed death's portal,
Those stars shall shine as now divine!
Yet they are not immortal.
When we have passed death's portal,
Those stars shall shine as now divine!
Yet they are not immortal.
Deep as may be the deepest sea,
Yet deeper is our love, dear;
Our souls dilate with bliss as great
As all the heavens above, dear.
Yet deeper is our love, dear;
Our souls dilate with bliss as great
As all the heavens above, dear.
We float in dream until we seem
With all these worlds revolving;
Our love intense, our bliss immense,
Throughout the whole dissolving.
With all these worlds revolving;
Our love intense, our bliss immense,
Throughout the whole dissolving.
A calm profound and infinite
Within us as without us;
Our pulses beat in union sweet
With all the Life about us.
Within us as without us;
Our pulses beat in union sweet
With all the Life about us.
We are the whole World yet ourself
By some divine illusion;
The I in Thee and Thou in Me
By mystic interfusion.
By some divine illusion;
The I in Thee and Thou in Me
By mystic interfusion.
28
Our soul-tides poising at the full,
Scarce swaying, tranced in glory,
Have reached the clime of timeless time
Amid the transitory.
Scarce swaying, tranced in glory,
Have reached the clime of timeless time
Amid the transitory.
We have not spoken now so long,
But mute in still caressing,
Without one kiss have breathed the bliss
Too perfect for expressing.
But mute in still caressing,
Without one kiss have breathed the bliss
Too perfect for expressing.
XI.
Good night; good night! how truly hath been sung,
It is good night then only when the tongue
Need never say Good night;
When hearts may beat together till the morrow
Dawns on long hours fulfilled of bliss not sorrow,
And eyes that close for darkness, frayed and stung
By the so less sweet light.
It is good night then only when the tongue
Need never say Good night;
When hearts may beat together till the morrow
Dawns on long hours fulfilled of bliss not sorrow,
And eyes that close for darkness, frayed and stung
By the so less sweet light.
Good night; good night! I leave you to sweet sleep
And lovely dreams of love divinely deep;
May this be your good night:
My straining arms reluctantly surrender
Into the arms of sleep divinely tender
My Dearest thus, to safely surely keep
Until the morn shines bright.
And lovely dreams of love divinely deep;
May this be your good night:
My straining arms reluctantly surrender
Into the arms of sleep divinely tender
My Dearest thus, to safely surely keep
Until the morn shines bright.
29
Good night; good night! I leave you and go back
Into the silent city; and, alack!
Can this be my good night?
Yet Love, Bliss, Memory, radiant Hope are burning
In brain all throbbing and in heart all yearning,
As moon and stars in skies that else were black
With glorifying might.
Into the silent city; and, alack!
Can this be my good night?
Yet Love, Bliss, Memory, radiant Hope are burning
In brain all throbbing and in heart all yearning,
As moon and stars in skies that else were black
With glorifying might.
Good night; good night! If parting when so brief
Is yet so bitter, what would be our grief
With Good-bye for Good night!—
Farewell! for weeks, for months, for years, for ever!
Alas for Lovers whom the Fates thus sever!
Where can they look for comfort or relief?
Oh, worse than mortal blight!
Is yet so bitter, what would be our grief
With Good-bye for Good night!—
Farewell! for weeks, for months, for years, for ever!
Alas for Lovers whom the Fates thus sever!
Where can they look for comfort or relief?
Oh, worse than mortal blight!
Good night; good night! for more than twenty hours!
The sleeping time of all the birds and flowers,
For whom it is good night;
The waking time of all the sun's wide glory:
Ere yet the moon has crowned yon promontory
To-morrow evening, back to Eden's bowers
I come with swerveless flight.
The sleeping time of all the birds and flowers,
For whom it is good night;
The waking time of all the sun's wide glory:
Ere yet the moon has crowned yon promontory
To-morrow evening, back to Eden's bowers
I come with swerveless flight.
30
Good night; good night! my Life, my Love, my Bliss!
But one more last embrace, one more last kiss,
To sweeten sour Good night:
O dear Heavens, have her in your holy keeping!
O moon and stars, watch tenderly her sleeping!
O sun, thou regent of our World-abyss,
Awake her to delight!
But one more last embrace, one more last kiss,
To sweeten sour Good night:
O dear Heavens, have her in your holy keeping!
O moon and stars, watch tenderly her sleeping!
O sun, thou regent of our World-abyss,
Awake her to delight!
December 1881.
31
INSOMNIA
“Sleepless himself to give to others sleep.”
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
I heard the sounding of the midnight hour;
The others one by one had left the room,
In calm assurance that the gracious power
Of sleep's fine alchemy would bless the gloom,
Transmuting all its leaden weight to gold,
To treasures of rich virtues manifold,
New strength, new health, new life;
Just weary enough to nestle softly, sweetly,
Into divine unconsciousness, completely
Delivered from the world of toil and care and strife.
The others one by one had left the room,
In calm assurance that the gracious power
Of sleep's fine alchemy would bless the gloom,
Transmuting all its leaden weight to gold,
To treasures of rich virtues manifold,
New strength, new health, new life;
Just weary enough to nestle softly, sweetly,
Into divine unconsciousness, completely
Delivered from the world of toil and care and strife.
Just weary enough to feel assured of rest,
Of Sleep's divine oblivion and repose,
Renewing heart and brain for richer zest
Of waking life when golden morning glows,
As young and pure and glad as if the first
That ever on the void of darkness burst
With ravishing warmth and light;
On dewy grass and flowers and blithe birds singing,
And shining waters, all enraptured springing,
Fragrance and shine and song, out of the womb of night.
Of Sleep's divine oblivion and repose,
Renewing heart and brain for richer zest
Of waking life when golden morning glows,
As young and pure and glad as if the first
That ever on the void of darkness burst
With ravishing warmth and light;
32
And shining waters, all enraptured springing,
Fragrance and shine and song, out of the womb of night.
But I with infinite weariness outworn,
Haggard with endless nights unblessed by sleep,
Ravaged by thoughts unutterably forlorn,
Plunged in despairs unfathomably deep,
Went cold and pale and trembling with affright
Into the desert vastitude of Night,
Arid and wild and black;
Foreboding no oasis of sweet slumber,
Counting beforehand all the countless number
Of sands that are its minutes on my desolate track.
Haggard with endless nights unblessed by sleep,
Ravaged by thoughts unutterably forlorn,
Plunged in despairs unfathomably deep,
Went cold and pale and trembling with affright
Into the desert vastitude of Night,
Arid and wild and black;
Foreboding no oasis of sweet slumber,
Counting beforehand all the countless number
Of sands that are its minutes on my desolate track.
And so I went, the last, to my drear bed,
Aghast as one who should go down to lie
Among the blissfully unconscious dead,
Assured that as the endless years flowed by
Over the dreadful silence and deep gloom
And dense oppression of the stifling tomb,
He only of them all,
Nerveless and impotent to madness, never
Could hope oblivion's perfect trance for ever:
An agony of life eternal in death's pall.
Aghast as one who should go down to lie
Among the blissfully unconscious dead,
Assured that as the endless years flowed by
Over the dreadful silence and deep gloom
And dense oppression of the stifling tomb,
He only of them all,
Nerveless and impotent to madness, never
Could hope oblivion's perfect trance for ever:
An agony of life eternal in death's pall.
33
But that would be for ever, without cure!—
And yet the agony be not more great;
Supreme fatigue and pain, while they endure,
Into Eternity their time translate;
Be it of hours and days or countless years,
And boundless æons, it alike appears
To the crushed victim's soul;
Utter despair foresees no termination,
But feels itself of infinite duration;
The smallest fragment instant comprehends the whole.
And yet the agony be not more great;
Supreme fatigue and pain, while they endure,
Into Eternity their time translate;
Be it of hours and days or countless years,
And boundless æons, it alike appears
To the crushed victim's soul;
Utter despair foresees no termination,
But feels itself of infinite duration;
The smallest fragment instant comprehends the whole.
The absolute of torture as of bliss
Is timeless, each transcending time and space;
The one an infinite obscure abyss,
The other an eternal Heaven of grace.—
Keeping a little lamp of glimmering light
Companion through the horror of the night,
I laid me down aghast
As he of all who pass death's quiet portal
Malignantly reserved alone immortal,
In consciousness of bale that must for ever last.
Is timeless, each transcending time and space;
The one an infinite obscure abyss,
The other an eternal Heaven of grace.—
Keeping a little lamp of glimmering light
Companion through the horror of the night,
I laid me down aghast
As he of all who pass death's quiet portal
Malignantly reserved alone immortal,
In consciousness of bale that must for ever last.
I laid me down and closed my heavy eyes,
As if sleep's mockery might win true sleep;
And grew aware, with awe but not surprise,
Blindly aware through all the silence deep,
Of some dark Presence watching by my bed,
The awful image of a nameless dread;
But I lay still fordone;
And felt its Shadow on me dark and solemn
And steadfast as a monumental column,
And thought drear thoughts of Doom, and heard the bells chime One.
As if sleep's mockery might win true sleep;
And grew aware, with awe but not surprise,
Blindly aware through all the silence deep,
34
The awful image of a nameless dread;
But I lay still fordone;
And felt its Shadow on me dark and solemn
And steadfast as a monumental column,
And thought drear thoughts of Doom, and heard the bells chime One.
And then I raised my weary eyes and saw,
By some slant moonlight on the ceiling thrown
And faint lamp-gleam, that Image of my awe,
Still as a pillar of basaltic stone,
But all enveloped in a sombre shroud
Except the wan face drooping heavy-browed,
With sad eyes fixed on mine;
Sad weary yearning eyes, but fixed remorseless
Upon my eyes yet wearier, that were forceless
To bear the cruel pressure; cruel, unmalign.
By some slant moonlight on the ceiling thrown
And faint lamp-gleam, that Image of my awe,
Still as a pillar of basaltic stone,
But all enveloped in a sombre shroud
Except the wan face drooping heavy-browed,
With sad eyes fixed on mine;
Sad weary yearning eyes, but fixed remorseless
Upon my eyes yet wearier, that were forceless
To bear the cruel pressure; cruel, unmalign.
Wherefore I asked for what I knew too well:
O ominous midnight Presence, What art Thou?
Whereto in tones that sounded like a knell:
“I am the Second Hour, appointed now
To watch beside thy slumberless unrest.”
Then I: Thus both, unlike, alike unblest;
For I should sleep, you fly:
Are not those wings beneath thy mantle moulded?
O Hour! unfold those wings so straitly folded,
And urge thy natural flight beneath the moonlit sky.
O ominous midnight Presence, What art Thou?
Whereto in tones that sounded like a knell:
“I am the Second Hour, appointed now
To watch beside thy slumberless unrest.”
Then I: Thus both, unlike, alike unblest;
For I should sleep, you fly:
Are not those wings beneath thy mantle moulded?
O Hour! unfold those wings so straitly folded,
And urge thy natural flight beneath the moonlit sky.
35
“My wings shall open when your eyes shall close
In real slumber from this waking drear;
Your wild unrest is my enforced repose;
Ere I move hence you must not know me here.”
Could not your wings fan slumber through my brain,
Soothing away its weariness and pain?
“Your sleep must stir my wings:
Sleep, and I bear you gently on my pinions
Athwart my span of hollow night's dominions,
Whence hour on hour shall bear to morning's golden springs.”
In real slumber from this waking drear;
Your wild unrest is my enforced repose;
Ere I move hence you must not know me here.”
Could not your wings fan slumber through my brain,
Soothing away its weariness and pain?
“Your sleep must stir my wings:
Sleep, and I bear you gently on my pinions
Athwart my span of hollow night's dominions,
Whence hour on hour shall bear to morning's golden springs.”
That which I ask of you, you ask of me,
O weary Hour, thus standing sentinel
Against your nature, as I feel and see
Against my own your form immovable:
Could I bring Sleep to set you on the wing,
What other thing so gladly would I bring?
Truly the poet saith:
If that is best whose absence we deplore most,
Whose presence in our longings is the foremost,
What blessings equal Sleep save only love and death?
O weary Hour, thus standing sentinel
Against your nature, as I feel and see
Against my own your form immovable:
Could I bring Sleep to set you on the wing,
What other thing so gladly would I bring?
Truly the poet saith:
If that is best whose absence we deplore most,
Whose presence in our longings is the foremost,
What blessings equal Sleep save only love and death?
I let my lids fall, sick of thought and sense,
But felt that Shadow heavy on my heart;
And saw the night before me an immense
Black waste of ridge-walls, hour by hour apart,
Dividing deep ravines: from ridge to ridge
Sleep's flying hour was an aërial bridge;
But I, whose hours stood fast,
Must climb down painfully each steep side hither,
And climb more painfully each steep side thither,
And so make one hour's span for years of travail last.
But felt that Shadow heavy on my heart;
And saw the night before me an immense
Black waste of ridge-walls, hour by hour apart,
36
Sleep's flying hour was an aërial bridge;
But I, whose hours stood fast,
Must climb down painfully each steep side hither,
And climb more painfully each steep side thither,
And so make one hour's span for years of travail last.
Thus I went down into that first ravine,
Wearily, slowly, blindly, and alone,
Staggering, stumbling, sinking depths unseen,
Shaken and bruised and gashed by stub and stone;
And at the bottom paven with slipperiness,
A torrent-brook rushed headlong with such stress
Against my feeble limbs,
Such fury of wave and foam and icy bleakness
Buffeting insupportably my weakness
That when I would recall dazed memory swirls and swims.
Wearily, slowly, blindly, and alone,
Staggering, stumbling, sinking depths unseen,
Shaken and bruised and gashed by stub and stone;
And at the bottom paven with slipperiness,
A torrent-brook rushed headlong with such stress
Against my feeble limbs,
Such fury of wave and foam and icy bleakness
Buffeting insupportably my weakness
That when I would recall dazed memory swirls and swims.
How I got through I know not, faint as death;
And then I had to climb the awful scarp,
Creeping with many a pause for panting breath,
Clinging to tangled root and rock-jut sharp;
Perspiring with faint chills instead of heat,
Trembling, and bleeding hands and knees and feet;
Falling, to rise anew;
Until, with lamentable toil and travel
Upon the ridge of arid sand and gravel
I lay supine half-dead and heard the bells chime Two;
And then I had to climb the awful scarp,
Creeping with many a pause for panting breath,
Clinging to tangled root and rock-jut sharp;
Perspiring with faint chills instead of heat,
Trembling, and bleeding hands and knees and feet;
37
Until, with lamentable toil and travel
Upon the ridge of arid sand and gravel
I lay supine half-dead and heard the bells chime Two;
And knew a change of Watchers in the room
Without a stir or sound beside my bed;
Only the tingling silence of the gloom,
The muffled pulsing of the night's deep dread;
And felt an image mightier to appal,
And looked; the moonlight on the bed-foot wall
And corniced ceiling white
Was slanting now; and in the midst stood solemn
And hopeless as a black sepulchral column
A steadfast shrouded Form, the Third Hour of the night.
Without a stir or sound beside my bed;
Only the tingling silence of the gloom,
The muffled pulsing of the night's deep dread;
And felt an image mightier to appal,
And looked; the moonlight on the bed-foot wall
And corniced ceiling white
Was slanting now; and in the midst stood solemn
And hopeless as a black sepulchral column
A steadfast shrouded Form, the Third Hour of the night.
The fixed regard implacably austere,
Yet none the less ineffably forlorn.
Something transcending all my former fear
Came jarring through my shattered frame outworn:
I knew that crushing rock could not be stirred;
I had no heart to say a single word,
But closed my eyes again;
And set me shuddering to the task stupendous
Of climbing down and up that gulf tremendous
Unto the next hour-ridge beyond Hope's farthest ken.
Yet none the less ineffably forlorn.
Something transcending all my former fear
Came jarring through my shattered frame outworn:
I knew that crushing rock could not be stirred;
I had no heart to say a single word,
But closed my eyes again;
And set me shuddering to the task stupendous
Of climbing down and up that gulf tremendous
Unto the next hour-ridge beyond Hope's farthest ken.
38
Men sigh and plain and wail how life is brief:
Ah yes, our bright eternities of bliss
Are transient, rare, minute beyond belief,
Mere star-dust meteors in Time's night-abyss;
Ah no, our black eternities intense
Of bale are lasting, dominant, immense,
As Time which is their breath;
The memory of the bliss is yearning sorrow,
The memory of the bale clouds every morrow
Darkening through nights and days unto the night of Death.
Ah yes, our bright eternities of bliss
Are transient, rare, minute beyond belief,
Mere star-dust meteors in Time's night-abyss;
Ah no, our black eternities intense
Of bale are lasting, dominant, immense,
As Time which is their breath;
The memory of the bliss is yearning sorrow,
The memory of the bale clouds every morrow
Darkening through nights and days unto the night of Death.
No human words could paint my travail sore
In the thick darkness of the next ravine,
Deeper immeasurably than that before;
When hideous agonies, unheard, unseen,
In overwhelming floods of torture roll,
And horrors of great darkness drown the soul,
To be is not to be
In memory save as ghastliest impression,
And chaos of demoniacal possession. . . . .
I shuddered on the ridge, and heard the bells chime Three.
In the thick darkness of the next ravine,
Deeper immeasurably than that before;
When hideous agonies, unheard, unseen,
In overwhelming floods of torture roll,
And horrors of great darkness drown the soul,
To be is not to be
In memory save as ghastliest impression,
And chaos of demoniacal possession. . . . .
I shuddered on the ridge, and heard the bells chime Three.
And like a pillar of essential gloom,
Most terrible in stature and regard,
Black in the moonlight filling all the room
The Image of the Fourth Hour, evil-starred,
Stood over me; but there was Something more,
Something behind It undiscerned before,
More dreadful than Its dread,
Which overshadowed it as with a fateful
Inexorable fascination hateful,—
A wan and formless Shade from regions of the dead.
Most terrible in stature and regard,
Black in the moonlight filling all the room
The Image of the Fourth Hour, evil-starred,
39
Something behind It undiscerned before,
More dreadful than Its dread,
Which overshadowed it as with a fateful
Inexorable fascination hateful,—
A wan and formless Shade from regions of the dead.
I shut my eyes against that spectral Shade,
Which yet allured them with a deadly charm,
And that black Image of the Hour, dismayed
By such tremendous menacing of harm;
And so into the gulf as into Hell;
Where what immeasurable depths I fell,
With seizures of the heart
Whose each clutch seemed the end of all pulsation,
And tremors of exanimate prostration,
Are horrors in my soul that never can depart.
Which yet allured them with a deadly charm,
And that black Image of the Hour, dismayed
By such tremendous menacing of harm;
And so into the gulf as into Hell;
Where what immeasurable depths I fell,
With seizures of the heart
Whose each clutch seemed the end of all pulsation,
And tremors of exanimate prostration,
Are horrors in my soul that never can depart.
If I for hope or wish had any force,
It was that I might rush down sharply hurled
From rock to rock until a mangled corse
Down with the fury of the torrent whirled,
The fury of black waters and white foam,
To where the homeless find their only home,
In the immense void Sea,
Whose isles are worlds, surrounding, unsurrounded,
Whose depths no mortal plummet ever sounded,
Beneath all surface storm calm in Eternity.
It was that I might rush down sharply hurled
From rock to rock until a mangled corse
Down with the fury of the torrent whirled,
The fury of black waters and white foam,
To where the homeless find their only home,
In the immense void Sea,
Whose isles are worlds, surrounding, unsurrounded,
Whose depths no mortal plummet ever sounded,
Beneath all surface storm calm in Eternity.
40
Such hope or wish was as a feeble spark,
A little lamp's pale glimmer in a tomb,
To just reveal the hopeless deadly dark
And wordless horrors of my soul's fixed doom:
Yet some mysterious instinct obstinate,
Blindly unconscious as a law of Fate,
Still urged me on and bore
My shattered being through the unfeared peril
Of death less hateful than the life as sterile:
I shuddered on the ridge, and heard the bells chime Four.
A little lamp's pale glimmer in a tomb,
To just reveal the hopeless deadly dark
And wordless horrors of my soul's fixed doom:
Yet some mysterious instinct obstinate,
Blindly unconscious as a law of Fate,
Still urged me on and bore
My shattered being through the unfeared peril
Of death less hateful than the life as sterile:
I shuddered on the ridge, and heard the bells chime Four.
The Image of that Fifth Hour of the night
Was blacker in the moonlight now aslant
Upon its left than on its shrouded right;
And over and behind It, dominant,
The shadow not Its shadow cast its spell,
Most vague and dim and wan and terrible,
Death's ghastly aureole,
Pregnant with overpowering fascination,
Commanding by repulsive instigation,
Despair's envenomed anodyne to tempt the Soul.
Was blacker in the moonlight now aslant
Upon its left than on its shrouded right;
And over and behind It, dominant,
The shadow not Its shadow cast its spell,
Most vague and dim and wan and terrible,
Death's ghastly aureole,
Pregnant with overpowering fascination,
Commanding by repulsive instigation,
Despair's envenomed anodyne to tempt the Soul.
I closed my eyes, but could no longer keep
Under that Image and most awful Shade,
Supine in mockery of blissful sleep,
Delirious with such fierce thirst unallayed;
Of all worst agonies the most unblest
Is passive agony of wild unrest:
Trembling and faint I rose,
And dressed with painful efforts, and descended
With furtive footsteps and with breath suspended,
And left the slumbering house with my unslumbering woes.
Under that Image and most awful Shade,
Supine in mockery of blissful sleep,
Delirious with such fierce thirst unallayed;
41
Is passive agony of wild unrest:
Trembling and faint I rose,
And dressed with painful efforts, and descended
With furtive footsteps and with breath suspended,
And left the slumbering house with my unslumbering woes.
Constrained to move through the unmoving hours,
Accurst from rest because the hours stood still;
Feeling the hands of the Infernal Powers
Heavy upon me for enormous ill,
Inscrutable intolerable pain,
Against which mortal pleas and prayers are vain,
Gaspings of dying breath,
And human struggles, dying spasms yet vainer:
Renounce defence when Doom is the Arraigner;
Let impotence of Life subside appeased in Death.
Accurst from rest because the hours stood still;
Feeling the hands of the Infernal Powers
Heavy upon me for enormous ill,
Inscrutable intolerable pain,
Against which mortal pleas and prayers are vain,
Gaspings of dying breath,
And human struggles, dying spasms yet vainer:
Renounce defence when Doom is the Arraigner;
Let impotence of Life subside appeased in Death.
I paced the silent and deserted streets
In cold dark shade and chillier moonlight grey;
Pondering a dolorous series of defeats
And black disasters from life's opening day,
Invested with the shadow of a doom
That filled the Spring and Summer with a gloom
Most wintry bleak and drear;
Gloom from within as from a sulphurous censer
Making the glooms without for ever denser,
To blight the buds and flowers and fruitage of my year.
In cold dark shade and chillier moonlight grey;
Pondering a dolorous series of defeats
And black disasters from life's opening day,
Invested with the shadow of a doom
That filled the Spring and Summer with a gloom
Most wintry bleak and drear;
Gloom from within as from a sulphurous censer
Making the glooms without for ever denser,
To blight the buds and flowers and fruitage of my year.
42
Against a bridge's stony parapet
I leaned, and gazed into the waters black;
And marked an angry morning red and wet
Beneath a livid and enormous rack
Glare out confronting the belated moon,
Huddled and wan and feeble as the swoon
Of featureless Despair:
When some stray workman, half-asleep but lusty,
Passed urgent through the rain pour wild and gusty,
I felt a ghost already, planted watching there.
I leaned, and gazed into the waters black;
And marked an angry morning red and wet
Beneath a livid and enormous rack
Glare out confronting the belated moon,
Huddled and wan and feeble as the swoon
Of featureless Despair:
When some stray workman, half-asleep but lusty,
Passed urgent through the rain pour wild and gusty,
I felt a ghost already, planted watching there.
As phantom to its grave, or to its den
Some wild beast of the night when night is sped,
I turned unto my homeless home again
To front a day only less charged with dread
Than that dread night; and after day, to front
Another night of—what would be the brunt?
I put the thought aside,
To be resumed when common life unfolded
In common daylight had my brain remoulded;
Meanwhile the flaws of rain refreshed and fortified.
Some wild beast of the night when night is sped,
I turned unto my homeless home again
To front a day only less charged with dread
Than that dread night; and after day, to front
Another night of—what would be the brunt?
I put the thought aside,
To be resumed when common life unfolded
In common daylight had my brain remoulded;
Meanwhile the flaws of rain refreshed and fortified.
The day passed, and the night; and other days,
And other nights; and all of evil doom;
The sun-hours in a sick bewildering haze,
The star-hours in a thick enormous gloom,
With rending lightnings and with thunder-knells;
The ghastly hours of all the timeless Hells:—
Bury them with their bane!
I look back on the words already written,
And writhe by cold rage stung, by self-scorn smitten,
They are so weak and vain and infinitely inane. . . .
And other nights; and all of evil doom;
The sun-hours in a sick bewildering haze,
The star-hours in a thick enormous gloom,
43
The ghastly hours of all the timeless Hells:—
Bury them with their bane!
I look back on the words already written,
And writhe by cold rage stung, by self-scorn smitten,
They are so weak and vain and infinitely inane. . . .
“How from those hideous Malebolges deep
I ever could win back to upper earth,
Restored to human nights of blessed sleep
And healthy waking with the new day's birth?”—
How do men climb back from a swoon whose stress,
Crushing far deeper than all consciousness,
Is deep as deep death seems?
Who can the steps and stages mete and number
By which we re-emerge from nightly slumber?—
Our poor vast petty life is one dark maze of dreams.
I ever could win back to upper earth,
Restored to human nights of blessed sleep
And healthy waking with the new day's birth?”—
How do men climb back from a swoon whose stress,
Crushing far deeper than all consciousness,
Is deep as deep death seems?
Who can the steps and stages mete and number
By which we re-emerge from nightly slumber?—
Our poor vast petty life is one dark maze of dreams.
March 1882.
44
HE HEARD HER SING
We were now in the midmost Maytime, in the full green flood of the Spring,
When the air is sweet all the daytime with the blossoms and birds that sing;
When the air is rich all the night, and richest of all in its noon
When the nightingales pant the delight and keen stress of their love to the moon;
When the almond and apple and pear spread wavering wavelets of snow
In the light of the soft warm air far-flushed with a delicate glow;
When the towering chestnuts uphold their masses of spires red or white,
And the pendulous tresses of gold of the slim laburnum burn bright,
And the lilac guardeth the bowers with the gleam of a lifted spear,
And the scent of the hawthorn flowers breathes all the new life of the year,
And the linden's tender pink bud by the green of the leaf is o'errun,
And the bronze-beech shines like blood in the light of the morning sun,
And the leaf-buds seem spangling some network of gossamer flung on the elm,
And the hedges are filling their fretwork with every sweet green of Spring's realm;
And the flowers are everywhere budding and blowing about our feet,
The green of the meadows star-studding and the bright green blades of the wheat.
When the air is sweet all the daytime with the blossoms and birds that sing;
When the air is rich all the night, and richest of all in its noon
When the nightingales pant the delight and keen stress of their love to the moon;
When the almond and apple and pear spread wavering wavelets of snow
In the light of the soft warm air far-flushed with a delicate glow;
When the towering chestnuts uphold their masses of spires red or white,
And the pendulous tresses of gold of the slim laburnum burn bright,
And the lilac guardeth the bowers with the gleam of a lifted spear,
And the scent of the hawthorn flowers breathes all the new life of the year,
45
And the bronze-beech shines like blood in the light of the morning sun,
And the leaf-buds seem spangling some network of gossamer flung on the elm,
And the hedges are filling their fretwork with every sweet green of Spring's realm;
And the flowers are everywhere budding and blowing about our feet,
The green of the meadows star-studding and the bright green blades of the wheat.
An evening and night of song. For first when I left the town,
And took the lane that is long and came out on the breeze-swept down,
The sunset heavens were all ringing wide over the golden gorse
With the skylarks' rapturous singing, a revel of larks in full force,
A revel of larks in the raptures surpassing all raptures of Man,
Who ponders the blessings he captures and finds in each blessing some ban.
And then I went on down the dale in the light of the afterglow,
In that strange light green and pale and serene and pathetic and slow
In its fading round to the north, while the light of the unseen moon
From the east comes brightening forth an ever-increasing boon.
And there in the cottage my Alice, through the hours so short and so long,
Kept filled to the brim love's chalice with the wine of music and song:
And first with colossal Beethoven, the gentlest spirit sublime
Of the harmonies interwoven, Eternity woven with Time;
Of the melodies slowly and slowly dissolving away through the soul,
While it dissolves with them wholly and our being is lost in the Whole;
As gentle as Dante the Poet, for only the lulls of the stress
Of the mightiest spirits can know it, this ineffable gentleness:
And then with the delicate tender fantastic dreamer of night,
Whose splendour is starlike splendour and his light a mystic moonlight,
Nocturn on nocturn dreaming while the mind floats far in the haze
And the dusk and the shadow and gleaming of a realm that has no days:
And then she sang ballads olden, ballads of love and of woe,
Love all burningly golden, grief with heart's-blood in its flow;
Those ballads of Scotland that thrill you, keen from the heart to the heart,
Till their pathos is seeming to kill you, with an exquisite bliss in the smart.
And took the lane that is long and came out on the breeze-swept down,
The sunset heavens were all ringing wide over the golden gorse
With the skylarks' rapturous singing, a revel of larks in full force,
A revel of larks in the raptures surpassing all raptures of Man,
Who ponders the blessings he captures and finds in each blessing some ban.
And then I went on down the dale in the light of the afterglow,
In that strange light green and pale and serene and pathetic and slow
46
From the east comes brightening forth an ever-increasing boon.
And there in the cottage my Alice, through the hours so short and so long,
Kept filled to the brim love's chalice with the wine of music and song:
And first with colossal Beethoven, the gentlest spirit sublime
Of the harmonies interwoven, Eternity woven with Time;
Of the melodies slowly and slowly dissolving away through the soul,
While it dissolves with them wholly and our being is lost in the Whole;
As gentle as Dante the Poet, for only the lulls of the stress
Of the mightiest spirits can know it, this ineffable gentleness:
And then with the delicate tender fantastic dreamer of night,
Whose splendour is starlike splendour and his light a mystic moonlight,
Nocturn on nocturn dreaming while the mind floats far in the haze
And the dusk and the shadow and gleaming of a realm that has no days:
47
Love all burningly golden, grief with heart's-blood in its flow;
Those ballads of Scotland that thrill you, keen from the heart to the heart,
Till their pathos is seeming to kill you, with an exquisite bliss in the smart.
And then we went out of the valley and over the spur of the hill,
And down by a woodland alley where the sprinkled moonlight lay still;
For the breeze in the boughs was still and the breeze was still in the sprays,
And the leaves had scarcely a thrill in the stream of the silver rays,
But looked as if drawn on the sky or etched with a graver keen,
Sharp shadows thrown from on high deep out of the azure serene:
And a certain copse we knew, where never in Maytime fails,
While the night distils sweet dew, the song of the nightingales:
And there together we heard the lyrical drama of love
Of the wonderful passionate bird which swelleth the heart so above
All other thought of this life, all other care of this earth,
Be it of pleasure or strife, be it of sorrow or mirth,
Saving the one intense imperious passion supreme
Kindling the soul and the sense, making the world but a dream,
The dream of an aching delight and a yearning afar and afar,
While the music thrills all the void night to the loftiest pulsating star:—
“Love, love only, for ever; love with its torture and bliss;
All the world's glories can never equal two souls in one kiss.”
And down by a woodland alley where the sprinkled moonlight lay still;
For the breeze in the boughs was still and the breeze was still in the sprays,
And the leaves had scarcely a thrill in the stream of the silver rays,
But looked as if drawn on the sky or etched with a graver keen,
Sharp shadows thrown from on high deep out of the azure serene:
And a certain copse we knew, where never in Maytime fails,
While the night distils sweet dew, the song of the nightingales:
And there together we heard the lyrical drama of love
Of the wonderful passionate bird which swelleth the heart so above
48
Be it of pleasure or strife, be it of sorrow or mirth,
Saving the one intense imperious passion supreme
Kindling the soul and the sense, making the world but a dream,
The dream of an aching delight and a yearning afar and afar,
While the music thrills all the void night to the loftiest pulsating star:—
“Love, love only, for ever; love with its torture and bliss;
All the world's glories can never equal two souls in one kiss.”
And when I had bidden farewell to my Love at the cottage door,
For a night and a day farewell, for a night and a day and no more,
I went down to the shining strand of our own belovèd bay,
To the shore of soft white sand caressed by the pure white spray,
In the arms of the hills serene, clothed from the base to the crest
With garments of manifold green, curving to east and to west;
And high in the pale blue south where the clouds were white as wool,
Over the little bay-mouth the moon shone near the full;
And I walked by the waves' soft moan, for my heart was beyond control,
And I needed to be alone with the night and my love and my soul,
And I could not think of sleep in the moonlight broad and clear,
For a music solemn and deep filled all my spirit's sphere,
A music interwoven of all that night I had heard,
From the music of mighty Beethoven to the song of the little brown bird.
For a night and a day farewell, for a night and a day and no more,
I went down to the shining strand of our own belovèd bay,
To the shore of soft white sand caressed by the pure white spray,
In the arms of the hills serene, clothed from the base to the crest
With garments of manifold green, curving to east and to west;
49
Over the little bay-mouth the moon shone near the full;
And I walked by the waves' soft moan, for my heart was beyond control,
And I needed to be alone with the night and my love and my soul,
And I could not think of sleep in the moonlight broad and clear,
For a music solemn and deep filled all my spirit's sphere,
A music interwoven of all that night I had heard,
From the music of mighty Beethoven to the song of the little brown bird.
And thus as I paced the shore beneath the azure abyss,
And my soul thrilled more and more with a yearning and sadness of bliss,
A voice came over the water from over the eastern cape,
Like the voice of some ocean daughter wailing a lover's escape,—
A voice so plaintive and distant, as faint as a wounded dove,
Whose wings are scarcely resistant to the air beneath and above,
Wavering, panting, urging from the farthest east to the west,
Over some wild sea surging in the hope forlorn of its nest;
A voice that quivered and trembled, with falls of a broken heart,
And then like that dove reassembled its forces to play out its part;
Till it came to a fall that was dying, the end of an infinite grief,
A sobbing and throbbing and sighing that death was a welcome relief:
And so there was silence once more, and the moonlight looked sad as a pall,
And I stood entranced on the shore and marvelled what next would befall.
And my soul thrilled more and more with a yearning and sadness of bliss,
A voice came over the water from over the eastern cape,
Like the voice of some ocean daughter wailing a lover's escape,—
A voice so plaintive and distant, as faint as a wounded dove,
Whose wings are scarcely resistant to the air beneath and above,
50
Over some wild sea surging in the hope forlorn of its nest;
A voice that quivered and trembled, with falls of a broken heart,
And then like that dove reassembled its forces to play out its part;
Till it came to a fall that was dying, the end of an infinite grief,
A sobbing and throbbing and sighing that death was a welcome relief:
And so there was silence once more, and the moonlight looked sad as a pall,
And I stood entranced on the shore and marvelled what next would befall.
And thus all-expectant abiding I waited not long, for soon
A boat came gliding and gliding out in the light of the moon,
Gliding with muffled oars, slowly, a thin dark line,
Round from the shadowing shores into the silver shine
Of the clear moon westering now, and still drew on and on,
While the water before its prow breaking and glistering shone,
Slowly in silence strange; and the rower rowed till it lay
Afloat within easy range deep in the curve of the bay:
And besides the rower were two; a Woman, who sat in the stern,
And Her by her fame I knew, one of those fames that burn,
Startling and kindling the world, one whose likeness we everywhere see;
And a man reclining half-curled with an indolent grace at her knee,
The Signor, lord of her choice; and he lightly touched a guitar;—
A guitar for that glorious voice! Illumine the sun with a star!
She sat superb and erect, stately, all-happy, serene,
Her right hand toying unchecked with the hair of that page of a Queen;
With her head and her throat and her bust like the bust and the throat and the head
Of Her who has long been dust, of her who shall never be dead,
Preserved by the potent art made trebly potent by love,
While the transient ages depart from under the heavens above,—
Preserved in the colour and line on the canvas fulgently flung
By Him the Artist divine who triumphed and vanished so young:
Surely there rarely hath been a lot more to be envied in life
Than thy lot, O Fornarina, whom Raphael's heart took to wife.
A boat came gliding and gliding out in the light of the moon,
Gliding with muffled oars, slowly, a thin dark line,
Round from the shadowing shores into the silver shine
Of the clear moon westering now, and still drew on and on,
While the water before its prow breaking and glistering shone,
51
Afloat within easy range deep in the curve of the bay:
And besides the rower were two; a Woman, who sat in the stern,
And Her by her fame I knew, one of those fames that burn,
Startling and kindling the world, one whose likeness we everywhere see;
And a man reclining half-curled with an indolent grace at her knee,
The Signor, lord of her choice; and he lightly touched a guitar;—
A guitar for that glorious voice! Illumine the sun with a star!
She sat superb and erect, stately, all-happy, serene,
Her right hand toying unchecked with the hair of that page of a Queen;
With her head and her throat and her bust like the bust and the throat and the head
Of Her who has long been dust, of her who shall never be dead,
Preserved by the potent art made trebly potent by love,
While the transient ages depart from under the heavens above,—
52
By Him the Artist divine who triumphed and vanished so young:
Surely there rarely hath been a lot more to be envied in life
Than thy lot, O Fornarina, whom Raphael's heart took to wife.
There was silence yet for a time save the tinkling capricious and quaint,
Then She lifted her voice sublime, no longer tender and faint,
Pathetic and tremulous, no! but firm as a column it rose,
Rising solemn and slow with a full rich swell to the close,
Firm as a marble column soaring with noble pride
In a triumph of rapture solemn to some Hero deified;
In a rapture of exultation made calm by its stress intense,
In a triumph of consecration and a jubilation immense.
And the Voice flowed on and on, and ever it swelled as it poured,
Till the stars that throbbed as they shone seemed throbbing with it in accord;
Till the moon herself in my dream, still Empress of all the night,
Was only that voice supreme translated into pure light:
And I lost all sense of the earth though I still had sense of the sea;
And I saw the stupendous girth of a tree like the Norse World-Tree;
And its branches filled all the sky, and the deep sea watered its root,
And the clouds were its leaves on high and the stars were its silver fruit;
Yet the stars were the notes of the singing and the moon was the voice of the song,
Through the vault of the firmament ringing and swelling resistlessly strong;
And the whole vast night was a shell for that music of manifold might,
And was strained by the stress of the swell of the music yet vaster than night.
And I saw as a crystal fountain whose shaft was a column of light
More high than the loftiest mountain ascend the abyss of the night;
And its spray filled all the sky, and the clouds were the clouds of its spray,
Which glittered in star-points on high and filled with pure silver the bay;
And ever in rising and falling it sang as it rose and it fell,
And the heavens with their pure azure walling all pulsed with the pulse of its swell,
For the stars were the notes of the singing and the moon was the voice of the song
Through the vault of the firmament ringing and swelling ineffably strong;
And the whole vast night was a shell for that music of manifold might,
And was strained by the stress of the swell of the music yet vaster than night:
And the fountain in swelling and soaring and filling beneath and above,
Grew flushed with red fire in outpouring, transmuting great power into love,
Great power with a greater love flushing, immense and intense and supreme,
As if all the World's heart-blood outgushing ensanguined the trance of my dream;
And the waves of its blood seemed to dash on the shore of the sky to the cope
With the stress of the fire of a passion and yearning of limitless scope,
Vast fire of a passion and yearning, keen torture of rapture intense,
A most unendurable burning consuming the soul with the sense:—
“Love, love only, forever; love with its torture of bliss;
All the world's glories can never equal two souls in one kiss:
Love, and ever love wholly; love in all time and all space;
Life is consummate then solely in the death of a burning embrace.”
Then She lifted her voice sublime, no longer tender and faint,
Pathetic and tremulous, no! but firm as a column it rose,
Rising solemn and slow with a full rich swell to the close,
Firm as a marble column soaring with noble pride
In a triumph of rapture solemn to some Hero deified;
In a rapture of exultation made calm by its stress intense,
In a triumph of consecration and a jubilation immense.
And the Voice flowed on and on, and ever it swelled as it poured,
Till the stars that throbbed as they shone seemed throbbing with it in accord;
53
Was only that voice supreme translated into pure light:
And I lost all sense of the earth though I still had sense of the sea;
And I saw the stupendous girth of a tree like the Norse World-Tree;
And its branches filled all the sky, and the deep sea watered its root,
And the clouds were its leaves on high and the stars were its silver fruit;
Yet the stars were the notes of the singing and the moon was the voice of the song,
Through the vault of the firmament ringing and swelling resistlessly strong;
And the whole vast night was a shell for that music of manifold might,
And was strained by the stress of the swell of the music yet vaster than night.
And I saw as a crystal fountain whose shaft was a column of light
More high than the loftiest mountain ascend the abyss of the night;
And its spray filled all the sky, and the clouds were the clouds of its spray,
Which glittered in star-points on high and filled with pure silver the bay;
54
And the heavens with their pure azure walling all pulsed with the pulse of its swell,
For the stars were the notes of the singing and the moon was the voice of the song
Through the vault of the firmament ringing and swelling ineffably strong;
And the whole vast night was a shell for that music of manifold might,
And was strained by the stress of the swell of the music yet vaster than night:
And the fountain in swelling and soaring and filling beneath and above,
Grew flushed with red fire in outpouring, transmuting great power into love,
Great power with a greater love flushing, immense and intense and supreme,
As if all the World's heart-blood outgushing ensanguined the trance of my dream;
And the waves of its blood seemed to dash on the shore of the sky to the cope
With the stress of the fire of a passion and yearning of limitless scope,
Vast fire of a passion and yearning, keen torture of rapture intense,
A most unendurable burning consuming the soul with the sense:—
55
All the world's glories can never equal two souls in one kiss:
Love, and ever love wholly; love in all time and all space;
Life is consummate then solely in the death of a burning embrace.”
And at length when that Voice sank mute, and silence fell over all
Save the tinkling thin of that lute, the deep heavens rushed down like a pall,
The stars and the moon for a time with all their splendours of light,
Were quenched with that Voice sublime, and great darkness filled the night . . . .
When I felt again the scent of the night-flowers rich and sweet,
As ere my senses went, and knew where I stood on my feet,
And saw the yet-bright bay and the moon gone low in my dream,
The boat had passed away with Her the Singer supreme;
She was gone, the marvellous Singer whose wonderful world-wide fame
Could never possibly bring her a tithe of her just acclaim.
And I wandered all night in a trance of rapture and yearning and love,
And saw the dim grey expanse flush far with the dawning above;
And I passed that copse in the night, but the nightingales all were dumb
From their passionate aching delight, and perhaps whoever should come
On the morrow would find, I have read, under its bush or its tree
Some poor little brown bird dead, dead of its melody,
Slain by the agitation, by the stress and the strain of the strife,
And the pang of the vain emulation in the music yet dearer than life.
And I heard the skylarks singing high in the morning sun,
All the sunrise heavens ringing as the sunset heavens had done:
And ever I dreamed and pondered while over the fragrant soil,
My happy footsteps wandered before I resumed my toil:—
Truly, my darling, my Alice, truly the whole night long
Have I filled to the brim love's chalice with the wine of music and song.
I have passed and repassed your door from the singing until the dawn
A dozen times and more, and ever the curtains drawn;
And now that the morn is breaking out of the stillness deep,
Sweet as my visions of waking be all your visions of sleep!
Could you but wake, O my dearest, a moment, and give one glance,
Just a furtive peep the merest, to learn the day's advance!
For I must away up the dale and over the hill to my toil,
And the night's rich dreams grow pale in the working day's turmoil;
But to-night, O my darling, my Alice, till night it will not be long,
We will fill to the brim love's chalice with the wine of music and song;
And never the memory fails of what I have learnt in my dream
From the song of the nightingales and the song of the Singer supreme:—
“Love, love only, for ever; love with its torture and bliss;
All the world's glories can never equal two souls in one kiss:
Love, love ever and wholly; love in all time and all space;
Love is consummate then solely in the death of a burning embrace.”
Save the tinkling thin of that lute, the deep heavens rushed down like a pall,
The stars and the moon for a time with all their splendours of light,
Were quenched with that Voice sublime, and great darkness filled the night . . . .
When I felt again the scent of the night-flowers rich and sweet,
As ere my senses went, and knew where I stood on my feet,
And saw the yet-bright bay and the moon gone low in my dream,
The boat had passed away with Her the Singer supreme;
She was gone, the marvellous Singer whose wonderful world-wide fame
Could never possibly bring her a tithe of her just acclaim.
56
And saw the dim grey expanse flush far with the dawning above;
And I passed that copse in the night, but the nightingales all were dumb
From their passionate aching delight, and perhaps whoever should come
On the morrow would find, I have read, under its bush or its tree
Some poor little brown bird dead, dead of its melody,
Slain by the agitation, by the stress and the strain of the strife,
And the pang of the vain emulation in the music yet dearer than life.
And I heard the skylarks singing high in the morning sun,
All the sunrise heavens ringing as the sunset heavens had done:
And ever I dreamed and pondered while over the fragrant soil,
My happy footsteps wandered before I resumed my toil:—
Truly, my darling, my Alice, truly the whole night long
Have I filled to the brim love's chalice with the wine of music and song.
57
A dozen times and more, and ever the curtains drawn;
And now that the morn is breaking out of the stillness deep,
Sweet as my visions of waking be all your visions of sleep!
Could you but wake, O my dearest, a moment, and give one glance,
Just a furtive peep the merest, to learn the day's advance!
For I must away up the dale and over the hill to my toil,
And the night's rich dreams grow pale in the working day's turmoil;
But to-night, O my darling, my Alice, till night it will not be long,
We will fill to the brim love's chalice with the wine of music and song;
And never the memory fails of what I have learnt in my dream
From the song of the nightingales and the song of the Singer supreme:—
“Love, love only, for ever; love with its torture and bliss;
All the world's glories can never equal two souls in one kiss:
58
Love is consummate then solely in the death of a burning embrace.”
February 1882.
59
TO H. A. B.
ON MY FORTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY.
Wednesday, November 23, 1881.
When one is forty years and seven,
Is seven and forty sad years old,
He looks not onward for his Heaven,
The future is too blank and cold,
Its pale flowers smell of graveyard mould;
He looks back to his lifeful past;
If age is silver, youth is gold:—
Could youth but last, could youth but last!
Is seven and forty sad years old,
He looks not onward for his Heaven,
The future is too blank and cold,
Its pale flowers smell of graveyard mould;
He looks back to his lifeful past;
If age is silver, youth is gold:—
Could youth but last, could youth but last!
He turns back toward his youthful past
A-throb with life and love and hope,
Whose long-dead joys in memory last,
Whose shining days had ample scope;
He turns and lingers on the slope
Whose dusk leads down to sightless death:—
The sun once crowned that darkening cope,
And song once thrilled this weary breath.
A-throb with life and love and hope,
Whose long-dead joys in memory last,
Whose shining days had ample scope;
He turns and lingers on the slope
Whose dusk leads down to sightless death:—
The sun once crowned that darkening cope,
And song once thrilled this weary breath.
60
Ah, he plods wearily to death,
Adown the gloaming into night,
But other lives breathe joyous breath
In morning's boundless golden light;
Their feet are swift, their eyes are bright,
Their hearts beat rhythms of hope and love,
Their being is a pure delight
In earth below and heaven above.
Adown the gloaming into night,
But other lives breathe joyous breath
In morning's boundless golden light;
Their feet are swift, their eyes are bright,
Their hearts beat rhythms of hope and love,
Their being is a pure delight
In earth below and heaven above.
And you have hope and joy and love,
And you have youth's abounding life,
Whose crystal currents flow above
The stones and sands of care and strife.
May all your years with joys be rife,
May you grow calmly to your prime,
A maiden sweet, a cherished wife,
A happy mother in due time.
And you have youth's abounding life,
Whose crystal currents flow above
The stones and sands of care and strife.
May all your years with joys be rife,
May you grow calmly to your prime,
A maiden sweet, a cherished wife,
A happy mother in due time.
All good you wish me, past my prime,
I wish with better hope to you,
And richer blessings than old Time
And Fate or Fortune found my due:
For you are kind and good and true,
And so when you are forty-seven
May spouse and children in your view
Make Home the happiest life-long Heaven.
I wish with better hope to you,
And richer blessings than old Time
And Fate or Fortune found my due:
For you are kind and good and true,
And so when you are forty-seven
May spouse and children in your view
Make Home the happiest life-long Heaven.
61
PROEM
O antique fables! beautiful and bright
And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;
O antique fables! for a little light
Of what which shineth in you evermore,
To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes,
And bathe our old world with a new surprise
Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.
And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;
O antique fables! for a little light
Of what which shineth in you evermore,
To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes,
And bathe our old world with a new surprise
Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.
We stagger under the enormous weight
Of all the heavy ages piled on us,
With all their grievous wrongs inveterate,
And all their disenchantments dolorous,
And all the monstrous tasks they have bequeathed;
And we are stifled with the airs they breathed;
And read in theirs our dooms calamitous.
Of all the heavy ages piled on us,
With all their grievous wrongs inveterate,
And all their disenchantments dolorous,
And all the monstrous tasks they have bequeathed;
And we are stifled with the airs they breathed;
And read in theirs our dooms calamitous.
Our world is all stript naked of their dreams;
No deities in sky or sun or moon,
No nymphs in woods and hills and seas and streams;
Mere earth and water, air and fire, their boon;
No God in all our universe we trace,
No Heaven in the infinitude of space,
No life beyond death—coming not too soon.
No deities in sky or sun or moon,
No nymphs in woods and hills and seas and streams;
Mere earth and water, air and fire, their boon;
62
No Heaven in the infinitude of space,
No life beyond death—coming not too soon.
Our souls are stript of their illusions sweet,
Our hopes at best in some far future years
For others, not ourselves; whose bleeding feet
Wander this rocky waste where broken spears
And bleaching bones lie scattered on the sand;
Who know we shall not reach the Promised Land;—
Perhaps a mirage glistening through our tears.
Our hopes at best in some far future years
For others, not ourselves; whose bleeding feet
Wander this rocky waste where broken spears
And bleaching bones lie scattered on the sand;
Who know we shall not reach the Promised Land;—
Perhaps a mirage glistening through our tears.
And if there be this Promised Land indeed,
Our children's children's children's heritage,
Oh, what a prodigal waste of precious seed,
Of myriad myriad lives from age to age,
Of woes and agonies and blank despairs,
Through countless cycles, that some fortunate heirs
May enter, and conclude the pilgrimage!
Our children's children's children's heritage,
Oh, what a prodigal waste of precious seed,
Of myriad myriad lives from age to age,
Of woes and agonies and blank despairs,
Through countless cycles, that some fortunate heirs
May enter, and conclude the pilgrimage!
But if it prove a mirage after all!
Our last illusion leaves us wholly bare,
To bruise against Fate's adamantine wall,
Consumed or frozen in the pitiless air;
In all our world, beneath, around, above,
One only refuge, solace, triumph,—Love,
Sole star of light in infinite black despair.
Our last illusion leaves us wholly bare,
To bruise against Fate's adamantine wall,
Consumed or frozen in the pitiless air;
In all our world, beneath, around, above,
One only refuge, solace, triumph,—Love,
Sole star of light in infinite black despair.
63
O antique fables! beautiful and bright,
And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;
O antique fables! for a little light
Of that which shineth in you evermore,
To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes,
And bathe our old world with a new surprise
Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.
And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;
O antique fables! for a little light
Of that which shineth in you evermore,
To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes,
And bathe our old world with a new surprise
Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.
January 1882.
64
THE POET AND HIS MUSE
I sighed unto my Muse, “O gentle Muse,
Would you but come and kiss my aching brow,
And thus a little life and joy infuse
Into my brain and heart so weary now;
Into my heart so sad with emptiness
Even when unafflicted by the stress
Of all our kind's poor life;
Into my brain so feeble and so listless,
Crushed down by burthens of dark thought resistless
Of all our want and woe and unresulting strife.
Would you but come and kiss my aching brow,
And thus a little life and joy infuse
Into my brain and heart so weary now;
Into my heart so sad with emptiness
Even when unafflicted by the stress
Of all our kind's poor life;
Into my brain so feeble and so listless,
Crushed down by burthens of dark thought resistless
Of all our want and woe and unresulting strife.
“Would you but come and kiss me on the brow,
Would you but kiss me on the pallid lips
That have so many years been songless now,
And on the eyes involved in drear eclipse;
That thus the barren brain long overwrought
Might yield again some blossoms of glad thought,
And the long-mute lips sing,
And the long-arid eyes grow moist and tender
With some new vision of the ancient splendour
Of beauty and delight that lives in everything.
Would you but kiss me on the pallid lips
That have so many years been songless now,
And on the eyes involved in drear eclipse;
That thus the barren brain long overwrought
Might yield again some blossoms of glad thought,
And the long-mute lips sing,
And the long-arid eyes grow moist and tender
With some new vision of the ancient splendour
Of beauty and delight that lives in everything.
65
“Would you but kiss me on the silent lips
And teach them thus to sing some new sweet song;
Would you but kiss my eyes from their eclipse
With some new tale of old-world right and wrong:
Some song of love and joy or tender grief
Whose sweetness is its own divine relief,
Whose joy is golden bliss;
Some solemn and impassioned antique story
Where love against dark doom burns out in glory,
Where life is freely staked to win one mutual kiss.
And teach them thus to sing some new sweet song;
Would you but kiss my eyes from their eclipse
With some new tale of old-world right and wrong:
Some song of love and joy or tender grief
Whose sweetness is its own divine relief,
Whose joy is golden bliss;
Some solemn and impassioned antique story
Where love against dark doom burns out in glory,
Where life is freely staked to win one mutual kiss.
“Would you but sing to me some new dear song
Of love in bliss or bale alike supreme;
Some story of our old-world right and wrong
With noble passion burning through the theme:
What though the story be of darkest doom,
If loyal spirits shining through its gloom
Throb to us from afar?
What though the song with heavy sorrows languish,
If loving hearts pulse to us through its anguish?
Is not the whole black night enriched by one pure star?”
Of love in bliss or bale alike supreme;
Some story of our old-world right and wrong
With noble passion burning through the theme:
What though the story be of darkest doom,
If loyal spirits shining through its gloom
Throb to us from afar?
What though the song with heavy sorrows languish,
If loving hearts pulse to us through its anguish?
Is not the whole black night enriched by one pure star?”
And lo! She came, the ever-gentle Muse,
Sad as my heart, and languid as my brain;
Too gentle in her loving to refuse,
Although her steps were weariness and pain;
Although her eyes were blank and lustreless,
Although her form was clothed with heaviness
And drooped beneath the weight;
Although her lips were blanched from all their blooming,
Her pure face pallid as from long entombing,
Her bright regard and smile sombre and desolate.—
Sad as my heart, and languid as my brain;
Too gentle in her loving to refuse,
Although her steps were weariness and pain;
66
Although her form was clothed with heaviness
And drooped beneath the weight;
Although her lips were blanched from all their blooming,
Her pure face pallid as from long entombing,
Her bright regard and smile sombre and desolate.—
“Sad as thy heart and languid as thy brain
I come unto thy sighing through the gloom,
I come with mortal weariness and pain,
I come as one compelled to leave her tomb:
Behold, am I not wrapt as in the cloud
Of death's investiture and sombre shroud?
Am I not wan as death?
Look at the withered leafage of my garland,
Is it not nightshade from the sad dim far land
Of night and old oblivion and no mortal breath?
I come unto thy sighing through the gloom,
I come with mortal weariness and pain,
I come as one compelled to leave her tomb:
Behold, am I not wrapt as in the cloud
Of death's investiture and sombre shroud?
Am I not wan as death?
Look at the withered leafage of my garland,
Is it not nightshade from the sad dim far land
Of night and old oblivion and no mortal breath?
“I come unto thy sighing through the gloom,
My hair dishevelled dank with dews of night,
Reluctantly constrained to leave my tomb;
With eyes that have for ever lost their light;
My vesture mouldering with deep death's disgrace,
My heart as chill and bloodless as my face,
My forehead like a stone;
My spirit sightless as my eyes are sightless,
My inmost being nerveless, soulless, lightless,
My joyous singing voice a harsh sepulchral moan.
My hair dishevelled dank with dews of night,
Reluctantly constrained to leave my tomb;
With eyes that have for ever lost their light;
My vesture mouldering with deep death's disgrace,
My heart as chill and bloodless as my face,
67
My spirit sightless as my eyes are sightless,
My inmost being nerveless, soulless, lightless,
My joyous singing voice a harsh sepulchral moan.
“My hair dishevelled dank with dews of night,
From that far region of dim death I come,
With eyes and soul and spirit void of light,
With lips more sad in speech than stark and dumb:
Lo, you have ravaged me with dolorous thought
Until my brain was wholly overwrought,
Barren of flowers and fruit;
Until my heart was bloodless for all passion,
Until my trembling lips could no more fashion
Sweet words to fit sweet airs of trembling lyre and lute.
From that far region of dim death I come,
With eyes and soul and spirit void of light,
With lips more sad in speech than stark and dumb:
Lo, you have ravaged me with dolorous thought
Until my brain was wholly overwrought,
Barren of flowers and fruit;
Until my heart was bloodless for all passion,
Until my trembling lips could no more fashion
Sweet words to fit sweet airs of trembling lyre and lute.
“From the sad regions of dim death I come;
We tell no tales there for our tale is told,
We sing no songs there for our lips are dumb,
Likewise our hearts and brains are graveyard mould;
No wreaths of laurel, myrtle, ivy or vine,
About our pale and pulseless brows entwine,
And that sad frustrate realm
Nor amaranths nor asphodels can nourish,
But aconite and black-red poppies flourish
On such Lethean dews as fair life overwhelm.
We tell no tales there for our tale is told,
We sing no songs there for our lips are dumb,
Likewise our hearts and brains are graveyard mould;
No wreaths of laurel, myrtle, ivy or vine,
About our pale and pulseless brows entwine,
And that sad frustrate realm
Nor amaranths nor asphodels can nourish,
But aconite and black-red poppies flourish
On such Lethean dews as fair life overwhelm.
68
“We tell no tales more, we whose tale is told;
As your brain withered and your heart grew chill
My heart and brain were turned to churchyard mould,
Wherefore my singing voice sank ever still;
And I, all heart and brain and voice, am dead;
It is my Phantom here beside your bed
That speaketh to you now;
Though you exist still, a mere form inurning
The ashes of dead fires of thought and yearning,
Dead faith, dead love, dead hope, in hollow breast and brow.”
As your brain withered and your heart grew chill
My heart and brain were turned to churchyard mould,
Wherefore my singing voice sank ever still;
And I, all heart and brain and voice, am dead;
It is my Phantom here beside your bed
That speaketh to you now;
Though you exist still, a mere form inurning
The ashes of dead fires of thought and yearning,
Dead faith, dead love, dead hope, in hollow breast and brow.”
When It had moaned these words of hopeless doom,
The Phantom of the Muse once young and fair,
Pallid and dim from its disastrous tomb,
Of Her so sweet and young and débonnaire,
So rich of heart and brain and singing voice,
So quick to shed sweet tears and to rejoice
And smile with ravishing grace;
My soul was stupefied by its own reaping,
Then burst into a flood of passionate weeping,
Tears bitter as black blood streaming adown my face.
The Phantom of the Muse once young and fair,
Pallid and dim from its disastrous tomb,
Of Her so sweet and young and débonnaire,
So rich of heart and brain and singing voice,
So quick to shed sweet tears and to rejoice
And smile with ravishing grace;
My soul was stupefied by its own reaping,
Then burst into a flood of passionate weeping,
Tears bitter as black blood streaming adown my face.
69
“O Muse, so young and sweet and glad and fair,
O Muse of hope and faith and joy and love,
O Muse so gracious and so débonnaire,
Darling of earth beneath and heaven above;
If Thou art gone into oblivious death,
Why should I still prolong my painful breath?
Why still exist, the urn
Holding of once-great fires the long dead ashes,
No sole spark left of all their glow and flashes,
Fires never to rekindle more and shine and burn?
O Muse of hope and faith and joy and love,
O Muse so gracious and so débonnaire,
Darling of earth beneath and heaven above;
If Thou art gone into oblivious death,
Why should I still prolong my painful breath?
Why still exist, the urn
Holding of once-great fires the long dead ashes,
No sole spark left of all their glow and flashes,
Fires never to rekindle more and shine and burn?
“O Muse of hope and faith and joy and love,
Soul of my soul, if Thou in truth art dead,
A mournful alien in our world above,
A Phantom moaning by my midnight bed;
How can I be alive, a hollow form
With ashes of dead fires once bright and warm?
What thing is worth my strife?
The Past a great regret, the Present sterile,
The Future hopeless, with the further peril
Of withering down and down to utter death-in-life.
Soul of my soul, if Thou in truth art dead,
A mournful alien in our world above,
A Phantom moaning by my midnight bed;
How can I be alive, a hollow form
With ashes of dead fires once bright and warm?
What thing is worth my strife?
The Past a great regret, the Present sterile,
The Future hopeless, with the further peril
Of withering down and down to utter death-in-life.
“Soul of my soul, canst Thou indeed be dead?
What mean for me if I accept their lore;
Thy words, O Phantom moaning by my bed,
‘I cannot sing again for evermore’?
I nevermore can think or feel or dream
Or hope or love—the fatal loss supreme!
I am a soulless clod;
No germ of life within me that surpasses
The little germs of weeds and flowers and grasses
Wherewith our liberal Mother decks the graveyard sod.
What mean for me if I accept their lore;
Thy words, O Phantom moaning by my bed,
‘I cannot sing again for evermore’?
70
Or hope or love—the fatal loss supreme!
I am a soulless clod;
No germ of life within me that surpasses
The little germs of weeds and flowers and grasses
Wherewith our liberal Mother decks the graveyard sod.
“I am half-torpid yet I spurn this lore,
I am long silent yet cannot avow
My singing voice is lost for evermore;
For lo, this beating heart, this burning brow,
This spirit gasping in keen spasms of dread
And fierce revulsion that it is not dead,
This agony of the sting:
What soulless clod could have these tears and sobbings,
These terrors that are hopes, these passionate throbbings?
Dear Muse, revive! we yet may dream and love and sing!”
I am long silent yet cannot avow
My singing voice is lost for evermore;
For lo, this beating heart, this burning brow,
This spirit gasping in keen spasms of dread
And fierce revulsion that it is not dead,
This agony of the sting:
What soulless clod could have these tears and sobbings,
These terrors that are hopes, these passionate throbbings?
Dear Muse, revive! we yet may dream and love and sing!”
February 1882.
71
THE SLEEPER
The fire is in a steadfast glow,
The curtains drawn against the night;
Upon the red couch soft and low
Between the fire and lamp alight
She rests half-sitting, half-reclining,
Encompassed by the cosy shining,
Her ruby dress with lace trimmed white.
The curtains drawn against the night;
Upon the red couch soft and low
Between the fire and lamp alight
She rests half-sitting, half-reclining,
Encompassed by the cosy shining,
Her ruby dress with lace trimmed white.
Her left hand shades her drooping eyes
Against the fervour of the fire,
The right upon her cincture lies
In languid grace beyond desire,
A lily fallen among roses;
So placidly her form reposes,
It scarcely seemeth to respire.
Against the fervour of the fire,
The right upon her cincture lies
In languid grace beyond desire,
A lily fallen among roses;
So placidly her form reposes,
It scarcely seemeth to respire.
She is not surely all awake,
As yet she is not all asleep;
The eyes with lids half-open take
A startled deprecating peep
Of quivering drowsiness, then slowly
The lids sink back, before she wholly
Resigns herself to slumber deep.
As yet she is not all asleep;
The eyes with lids half-open take
A startled deprecating peep
72
The lids sink back, before she wholly
Resigns herself to slumber deep.
The side-neck gleams so pure beneath
The underfringe of gossamer,
The tendrils of whose faery wreath
The softest sigh suppressed would stir.
The little pink-shell ear-rim flushes
With her young blood's translucent blushes,
Nestling in tresses warm as fur.
The underfringe of gossamer,
The tendrils of whose faery wreath
The softest sigh suppressed would stir.
The little pink-shell ear-rim flushes
With her young blood's translucent blushes,
Nestling in tresses warm as fur.
The contour of her cheek and chin
Is curved in one delicious line,
Pure as a vase of porcelain thin
Through which a tender light may shine;
Her brow and blue-veined temple gleaming
Beneath the dusk of hair back-streaming
Are as a virgin's marble shrine.
Is curved in one delicious line,
Pure as a vase of porcelain thin
Through which a tender light may shine;
Her brow and blue-veined temple gleaming
Beneath the dusk of hair back-streaming
Are as a virgin's marble shrine.
The ear is burning crimson fire,
The flush is brightening on the face,
The lips are parting to suspire,
The hair grows restless in its place
As if itself new tangles wreathing;
The bosom with her deeper breathing
Swells and subsides with ravishing grace.
The flush is brightening on the face,
The lips are parting to suspire,
The hair grows restless in its place
As if itself new tangles wreathing;
The bosom with her deeper breathing
Swells and subsides with ravishing grace.
73
The hand slides softly to caress,
Unconscious, that fine-pencilled curve
“Her lip's contour and downiness,”
Unbending with a sweet reserve;
A tender darkness that abashes
Steals out beneath the long dark lashes,
Whose sightless eyes make eyesight swerve.
Unconscious, that fine-pencilled curve
“Her lip's contour and downiness,”
Unbending with a sweet reserve;
A tender darkness that abashes
Steals out beneath the long dark lashes,
Whose sightless eyes make eyesight swerve.
The hand on chin and throat downslips,
Then softly, softly on her breast;
A dream comes fluttering o'er the lips,
And stirs the eyelids in their rest,
And makes their undershadows quiver,
And like a ripple on a river
Glides through her breathing manifest.
Then softly, softly on her breast;
A dream comes fluttering o'er the lips,
And stirs the eyelids in their rest,
And makes their undershadows quiver,
And like a ripple on a river
Glides through her breathing manifest.
I feel an awe to read this dream
So clearly written in her smile;
A pleasant not a passionate theme,
A little love, a little guile;
I fear lest she should speak revealing
The secret of some maiden feeling
I have no right to hear the while.
So clearly written in her smile;
A pleasant not a passionate theme,
A little love, a little guile;
I fear lest she should speak revealing
The secret of some maiden feeling
I have no right to hear the while.
The dream has passed without a word
Of all that hovered finely traced;
The hand has slipt down, gently stirred
To join the other at her waist;
Her breath from that light agitation
Has settled to its slow pulsation;
She is by deep sleep re-embraced.
Of all that hovered finely traced;
The hand has slipt down, gently stirred
To join the other at her waist;
74
Has settled to its slow pulsation;
She is by deep sleep re-embraced.
Deep sleep, so holy in its calm,
So helpless, yet so awful too;
Whose silence sheds as sweet a balm
As ever sweetest voice could do;
Whose trancèd eyes, unseen, unseeing
Shadowed by pure love, thrill our being
With tender yearnings through and through.
So helpless, yet so awful too;
Whose silence sheds as sweet a balm
As ever sweetest voice could do;
Whose trancèd eyes, unseen, unseeing
Shadowed by pure love, thrill our being
With tender yearnings through and through.
Sweet sleep; no hope, no fear, no strife;
The solemn sanctity of death,
With all the loveliest bloom of life;
Eternal peace in mortal breath:
Pure sleep from which she will awaken
Refreshed as one who hath partaken
New strength, new hope, new love, new faith.
The solemn sanctity of death,
With all the loveliest bloom of life;
Eternal peace in mortal breath:
Pure sleep from which she will awaken
Refreshed as one who hath partaken
New strength, new hope, new love, new faith.
January 1882.
75
MODERN PENELOPE
(RIDDLE SOLVED.)
What did she mean by that crochet work?
The work that never got done,
Lolling as indolent as a Turk,
Looking demure as a Nun:
What subtle mystery might lurk
(Of course there must be one)
In that Penelope web of work,
The work that never got done?
The work that never got done,
Lolling as indolent as a Turk,
Looking demure as a Nun:
What subtle mystery might lurk
(Of course there must be one)
In that Penelope web of work,
The work that never got done?
She lolled on the low couch just under the light
So very serene and staid:
We had some other guests that night,
One sang, another played,
A couple discovered the stars were bright,
Of course a youth and a maid,
I watched her knitting under the light
So very serene and staid.
So very serene and staid:
We had some other guests that night,
One sang, another played,
A couple discovered the stars were bright,
Of course a youth and a maid,
I watched her knitting under the light
So very serene and staid.
I knew that she was a rogue in her heart,
As roguish as ever could be,
And she knew that I knew, yet would not dart
A single glance at me,
But seemed as it were withdrawn apart
Amid the companie,
A nun in her face with a rogue in her heart
As roguish as ever could be.
As roguish as ever could be,
And she knew that I knew, yet would not dart
A single glance at me,
76
Amid the companie,
A nun in her face with a rogue in her heart
As roguish as ever could be.
I like a riddle when its knot
Involves a pretty girl,
I puzzle about, now cold, now hot,
Through every loop and twirl,
For the question is “Who” as well as “What”?
And the answer is thus a pearl,
And really you cannot study the knot,
Unless you study the girl.
Involves a pretty girl,
I puzzle about, now cold, now hot,
Through every loop and twirl,
For the question is “Who” as well as “What”?
And the answer is thus a pearl,
And really you cannot study the knot,
Unless you study the girl.
With a graceful lazy kittypuss air
She fingered the net and the ball:
At first she started to work on the square,
And then she undid all:
To make it round was next her care,
But the progress was strangely small,
With a graceful lazy kittypuss air
Trifling with net and ball.
She fingered the net and the ball:
At first she started to work on the square,
And then she undid all:
To make it round was next her care,
But the progress was strangely small,
With a graceful lazy kittypuss air
Trifling with net and ball.
About her lips a quiet smile
Came hovering, then took rest:
A butterfly in the selfsame style
Will choose some sweet flower's breast:
Her eyes were drooping all the while,
But the drooping lids expressed
The satisfaction of a smile
Like a butterfly at rest.
Came hovering, then took rest:
A butterfly in the selfsame style
Will choose some sweet flower's breast:
77
But the drooping lids expressed
The satisfaction of a smile
Like a butterfly at rest.
Her hands kept floating to and fro
Like a pair of soft white doves,
In gentle dalliance coy and slow
Around a nest of Loves:
And against my chair her couch was low,
And six was the size of her gloves,
They were charming those hands there to and fro
Like a pair of soft white doves.
Like a pair of soft white doves,
In gentle dalliance coy and slow
Around a nest of Loves:
And against my chair her couch was low,
And six was the size of her gloves,
They were charming those hands there to and fro
Like a pair of soft white doves.
Her fair face opened like a flower,
And a sigh thrilled the smile on her lips,
And her eyes shone out with a dazzling power
From the dream of their half-eclipse
As she welcomed the trill of “A summer shower”
With plausive finger-tips—
Oh! her eyes so bright, and her face like a flower,
And the exquisite smile of her lips!
And a sigh thrilled the smile on her lips,
And her eyes shone out with a dazzling power
From the dream of their half-eclipse
As she welcomed the trill of “A summer shower”
With plausive finger-tips—
Oh! her eyes so bright, and her face like a flower,
And the exquisite smile of her lips!
Those hands kept floating soft and white
Our hearts to mesmerise,
Those dark eyes keep half-veiled their light
To lure and lure our eyes;
That web is but a subtle sleight
To mesh us by surprise:
Do I not read your riddle right,
Penelope the wise?
Our hearts to mesmerise,
Those dark eyes keep half-veiled their light
To lure and lure our eyes;
78
To mesh us by surprise:
Do I not read your riddle right,
Penelope the wise?
O you nun in face with the rogue in your heart
As roguish as ever can be,
You have played an immensely wiser part
Than the old Penelope:
You have caught twin loves in the toils of your art,
And neither will ever get free:
You have won the game of a heart for a heart,
And when shall the settling be?
As roguish as ever can be,
You have played an immensely wiser part
Than the old Penelope:
You have caught twin loves in the toils of your art,
And neither will ever get free:
You have won the game of a heart for a heart,
And when shall the settling be?
1882.
79
AT BELVOIR
Sunday, July 3, 1881.
A BALLAD, HISTORICAL AND PROPHETIC.
(“In maiden meditation, fancy free.”)
My thoughts go back to last July,
Sweet happy thoughts and tender;—
“The bridal of the earth and sky,”
A day of noble splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In joy a true believer;
When two good friends we roamed apart
The shady walks of Belvoir.
Sweet happy thoughts and tender;—
“The bridal of the earth and sky,”
A day of noble splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In joy a true believer;
When two good friends we roamed apart
The shady walks of Belvoir.
A maiden like a budding rose,
Unconscious of the golden
And fragrant bliss of love that glows
Deep in her heart infolden;
A Poet old in years and thought,
Yet not too old for pleasance,
Made young again and fancy-fraught
By such a sweet friend's presence.
Unconscious of the golden
And fragrant bliss of love that glows
Deep in her heart infolden;
A Poet old in years and thought,
Yet not too old for pleasance,
Made young again and fancy-fraught
By such a sweet friend's presence.
80
The other two beyond our ken
Most shamefully deserted,
And far from all the ways of men
Their stealthy steps averted:
Of course our Jack would go astray,
Erotic and erratic;
But Mary!—well, I own the day
Was really too ecstatic.
Most shamefully deserted,
And far from all the ways of men
Their stealthy steps averted:
Of course our Jack would go astray,
Erotic and erratic;
But Mary!—well, I own the day
Was really too ecstatic.
We roamed with many a merry jest
And many a ringing laughter;
The slow calm hours too rich in zest
To heed before and after:
Yet lingering down the lovely walks
Soft strains anon came stealing,
A finer music through our talks
Of sweeter, deeper feeling:
And many a ringing laughter;
The slow calm hours too rich in zest
To heed before and after:
Yet lingering down the lovely walks
Soft strains anon came stealing,
A finer music through our talks
Of sweeter, deeper feeling:
Yes, now and then a quiet word
Of seriousness dissembling
In smiles would touch some hidden chord
And set it all a-trembling:
I trembled too, and felt it strange;—
Could I be in possession
Of music richer in its range
Than yet had found expression?
Of seriousness dissembling
In smiles would touch some hidden chord
And set it all a-trembling:
I trembled too, and felt it strange;—
Could I be in possession
Of music richer in its range
Than yet had found expression?
81
The cattle standing in the mere,
The swans upon it gliding,
The sunlight on the waters clear,
The radiant clouds dividing;
The solemn sapphire sky above,
The foliage lightly waving,
The soft air's Sabbath peace and love
To satisfy all craving.
The swans upon it gliding,
The sunlight on the waters clear,
The radiant clouds dividing;
The solemn sapphire sky above,
The foliage lightly waving,
The soft air's Sabbath peace and love
To satisfy all craving.
We mapped the whole fair region out
As Country of the Tender,
From first pursuit in fear and doubt
To final glad surrender:
Each knoll and arbour got its name,
Each vista, covert, dingle;—
No young pair now may track the same
And long continue single!
As Country of the Tender,
From first pursuit in fear and doubt
To final glad surrender:
Each knoll and arbour got its name,
Each vista, covert, dingle;—
No young pair now may track the same
And long continue single!
And in the spot most thrilling-sweet
Of all this Love-Realm rosy
Our truant pair had found retreat,
Unblushing, calm and cosy:
Where seats too wide for one are placed,
And yet for two but narrow,
It's “Let my arm steal round your waist,
And be my winsome marrow!”
Of all this Love-Realm rosy
Our truant pair had found retreat,
Unblushing, calm and cosy:
Where seats too wide for one are placed,
And yet for two but narrow,
It's “Let my arm steal round your waist,
And be my winsome marrow!”
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Reclining on a pleasant lea
Such tender scenes rehearsing,
A freakish fit seized him and me
For wildly foolish versing:
We versed of this, we versed of that,
A pair of mocking sinners,
While our lost couple strayed or sat
Oblivious of their dinners.
Such tender scenes rehearsing,
A freakish fit seized him and me
For wildly foolish versing:
We versed of this, we versed of that,
A pair of mocking sinners,
While our lost couple strayed or sat
Oblivious of their dinners.
But what was strange, our maddest rhymes
In all their divagations
Were charged and over-charged at times
With deep vaticinations:
I yearn with wonder at the power
Of Poetry prophetic
Which in my soul made that blithe hour
With this hour sympathetic.
In all their divagations
Were charged and over-charged at times
With deep vaticinations:
I yearn with wonder at the power
Of Poetry prophetic
Which in my soul made that blithe hour
With this hour sympathetic.
For though we are in winter now,
My heart is in full summer:
Old Year, old Wish, have made their bow;
I welcome each new-comer.
“The King is dead, long live the King!
The throne is vacant never!”
Is true, I read, of everything,
So of my heart for ever!
My heart is in full summer:
Old Year, old Wish, have made their bow;
I welcome each new-comer.
“The King is dead, long live the King!
The throne is vacant never!”
Is true, I read, of everything,
So of my heart for ever!
83
My thoughts go on to next July,
More happy thoughts, more tender;
“The bridal of the earth and sky,”
A day of perfect splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In bliss a firm believer;
When two True Loves may roam apart
The shadiest walks of Belvoir.
More happy thoughts, more tender;
“The bridal of the earth and sky,”
A day of perfect splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In bliss a firm believer;
When two True Loves may roam apart
The shadiest walks of Belvoir.
There may be less of merry jest
And less of ringing laughter,
Yet life be much more rich in zest
And richer still thereafter;
The love-scenes of that region fair
Have very real rehearsing,
And tremulous kisses thrill the air
Far sweetlier than sweet versing;
And less of ringing laughter,
Yet life be much more rich in zest
And richer still thereafter;
The love-scenes of that region fair
Have very real rehearsing,
And tremulous kisses thrill the air
Far sweetlier than sweet versing;
The bud full blown at length reveal
Its deepest golden burning;
The heart inspired with love unseal
Its inmost passionate yearning:
The music of the hidden chord
At length find full expression;
The Seraph of the Flaming Sword
Assume divine possession.
Its deepest golden burning;
The heart inspired with love unseal
Its inmost passionate yearning:
The music of the hidden chord
At length find full expression;
The Seraph of the Flaming Sword
Assume divine possession.
January 1882.
84
A STRANGER
I.
It is not surely, this, a little thing,
That day and night and every Sabbath day
Throughout these months of winterless glad Spring,
That day and night and every Sabbath day
Throughout these months of winterless glad Spring,
March mild as April, April sweet as May,
And May as rich as June in common years,
It has been given me upon my way,
And May as rich as June in common years,
It has been given me upon my way,
Given to me and all my village peers,
But most to me as my full heart knows well,
Brimming my eyes with tender wistful tears
But most to me as my full heart knows well,
Brimming my eyes with tender wistful tears
And throbbing with strange awe ineffable,
To meet and pass, to follow with slow pace,
Or on the street or in our quiet dell
To meet and pass, to follow with slow pace,
Or on the street or in our quiet dell
Or through the fields, that Lady of all grace
With sweet sad eyes and noble mournful face.
With sweet sad eyes and noble mournful face.
85
II.
We know not who she is or whence she came,
She and her little boy with her own eyes
And brow and patient smile, whose Christian name
She and her little boy with her own eyes
And brow and patient smile, whose Christian name
Without the surname tells us where he lies
With her heart buried in the self-same grave:
The larks were singing in the soft blue skies,
With her heart buried in the self-same grave:
The larks were singing in the soft blue skies,
And even some few violets were brave
To breathe faint sweetness on the bland warm air,
Good Valentine such benediction gave,
To breathe faint sweetness on the bland warm air,
Good Valentine such benediction gave,
When she arrived with him, her anxious care,
Her only joy, her terrible dark grief:
In early April he was lying there;
Her only joy, her terrible dark grief:
In early April he was lying there;
The Spring all blithe with bud and flower and leaf
And scent and song above his Spring so brief.
And scent and song above his Spring so brief.
III.
Only the Christian name upon the stone
Above the date of birth and date of death;
Two syllables of everlasting moan,
Above the date of birth and date of death;
Two syllables of everlasting moan,
86
Immortal sorrow breathing mortal breath,
Continual weeping that would fain not weep,
Sad comforting that vainly comforteth
Continual weeping that would fain not weep,
Sad comforting that vainly comforteth
The deadly anguish graven far more deep
Upon the heart than on the marble cold,
“For so He giveth His belovèd sleep.”
Upon the heart than on the marble cold,
“For so He giveth His belovèd sleep.”
Yet with a lofty patience she controlled
The outward signs of anguish; eve and morn
Tending that little bed of sacred mould
The outward signs of anguish; eve and morn
Tending that little bed of sacred mould
And others near it that were left forlorn;
Praying, I think, to sleep herself outworn.
Praying, I think, to sleep herself outworn.
IV.
Her sorrow flowed with blessings from above;
Her heart of joy and hope was in that tomb,
But not her heart of sympathy and love:
Her heart of joy and hope was in that tomb,
But not her heart of sympathy and love:
While her young flower was fading from its bloom
She had been wonderfully sweet and kind;
And now that it was buried in the gloom
She had been wonderfully sweet and kind;
And now that it was buried in the gloom
Her own sore suffering did but closelier bind
Her heart to other hearts in all distress;
The little angel in her sad soul shrined
Her heart to other hearts in all distress;
The little angel in her sad soul shrined
87
Was a true angel of pure gentleness
And soft compassion and unwearying will
To soothe and aid and with all solace bless:
And soft compassion and unwearying will
To soothe and aid and with all solace bless:
Our joys and sorrows take our nature still;
Hers wrought bright good from her own darkest ill.
Hers wrought bright good from her own darkest ill.
V.
Tenderness, worship, bliss in yearning pain!—
To see her young and fair and more than fair,
Amidst us yet not of us, sole remain
To see her young and fair and more than fair,
Amidst us yet not of us, sole remain
As sanctified already unaware;
To see the peacefulness of pure white brow
Beneath the smoothness of the rich brown hair;
To see the peacefulness of pure white brow
Beneath the smoothness of the rich brown hair;
The cloistral solitude without the vow;
The self-renunciation mild and meek
With meekness that is ever glad to bow,
The self-renunciation mild and meek
With meekness that is ever glad to bow,
Evading honours such as others seek,
Yet in its stooping cannot help but rise;
To hear that soft slow voice its good words speak;
Yet in its stooping cannot help but rise;
To hear that soft slow voice its good words speak;
To feel the fascination of those eyes,
Solemn and dark and deep as midnight skies.
Solemn and dark and deep as midnight skies.
88
VI.
I did not wonder she could be so pure
Amidst our petty cares and sordid strife,
But how our common meanness could endure
Amidst our petty cares and sordid strife,
But how our common meanness could endure
Beneath the lofty radiance of her life;
Until I saw how, fine and soft and clear
As starbeams quivering through the darkness rise,
Until I saw how, fine and soft and clear
As starbeams quivering through the darkness rise,
Her effluence shone on souls all dull and drear:
Then as the Moon in moving through the Night
Bears round her ever her own hemisphere
Then as the Moon in moving through the Night
Bears round her ever her own hemisphere
Of tranquil beauty and entrancing light
By solemn shadows more mysterious made,
Her regnant beauty turned all darkness bright
By solemn shadows more mysterious made,
Her regnant beauty turned all darkness bright
Or glorified mysteriously its shade;
Fair Queen most queenly as in Night arrayed.
Fair Queen most queenly as in Night arrayed.
VII.
Oh, joyless joy of this most bounteous June,
For with the Maytide She is gone, is gone!
All men adore and love the one sole Moon;
For with the Maytide She is gone, is gone!
All men adore and love the one sole Moon;
But she of all on whom her light has shone,
Of all her pure and gracious light has blest,
Discerns no mortal save Endymion,
Of all her pure and gracious light has blest,
Discerns no mortal save Endymion,
89
To him alone unveils her virgin breast,
On him alone outpours her love divine.
What shall we do who undistinguished rest?
On him alone outpours her love divine.
What shall we do who undistinguished rest?
Shall we against her solemn choice repine?
Or shall we rather lift our souls above
To hold her ever in a crystal shrine,
Or shall we rather lift our souls above
To hold her ever in a crystal shrine,
The perfect beauty of Heaven's brooding Dove,
The sacred vision of Heaven's reachless Love?
The sacred vision of Heaven's reachless Love?
March 1882.
90
LAW v. GOSPEL
The Gospel and the Law of late
Have been at sad dissension
Before the Judge and Magistrate:
Old Satan's last invention.
Of course the Law upholds the Law,
The Gospel over-ruling;
And those who have St. Paul in awe
Must seek more modern schooling.
Have been at sad dissension
Before the Judge and Magistrate:
Old Satan's last invention.
Of course the Law upholds the Law,
The Gospel over-ruling;
And those who have St. Paul in awe
Must seek more modern schooling.
The Gospel says, Swear not at all;
The Law, or good or bad law,
Says, You must swear, whate'er befall,
Or else I fine you, Bradlaugh.
Whereon he goes and swears himself
In solemn legal banter;
His fellow-members on the shelf
Deposit him instanter.
The Law, or good or bad law,
Says, You must swear, whate'er befall,
Or else I fine you, Bradlaugh.
Whereon he goes and swears himself
In solemn legal banter;
His fellow-members on the shelf
Deposit him instanter.
91
And then we have that narrow sect
Of most Peculiar People,
Who by the Book their way direct,
And not by the Church steeple.
They read how Asa sought not God,
But doctors, being sickly;
And therefore slept beneath the sod
With his forefathers quickly.
Of most Peculiar People,
Who by the Book their way direct,
And not by the Church steeple.
They read how Asa sought not God,
But doctors, being sickly;
And therefore slept beneath the sod
With his forefathers quickly.
St. James enjoins, When one is ill,
Send for an elder straightway;
Anoint and pray (no doctor's bill!)
And thus elude Death's gateway.
So said so done; and then report
Of death of son or daughter,
And parents sentenced by the Court
To prison for manslaughter.
Send for an elder straightway;
Anoint and pray (no doctor's bill!)
And thus elude Death's gateway.
So said so done; and then report
Of death of son or daughter,
And parents sentenced by the Court
To prison for manslaughter.
And now a new and noisy set—
The Army of Salvation—
Our equal-minded justice fret
With constant botheration:
For sometimes they obstruct the way,
And sometimes cause a riot;
Too much of zeal—too much, we say,
Why can't the fools keep quiet?
The Army of Salvation—
Our equal-minded justice fret
With constant botheration:
For sometimes they obstruct the way,
And sometimes cause a riot;
Too much of zeal—too much, we say,
Why can't the fools keep quiet?
92
The dean and canons in their stalls
Are placid as stalled cattle,
And never rush out from St. Paul's
To give the devil battle.
In streets and lanes to brawl and fight
Is far too low and rowdy;
No, if he wants a spar, invite
Him home to Mrs. Proudie.
Are placid as stalled cattle,
And never rush out from St. Paul's
To give the devil battle.
In streets and lanes to brawl and fight
Is far too low and rowdy;
No, if he wants a spar, invite
Him home to Mrs. Proudie.
On Tuesday, March, the fourteenth day,
Before Sir Thomas Owden,
A youth was brought who blocked the way,
Already over-crowden—
Threadneedle-street—the wild War Cry,
This well-dressed youth was selling:
A camel and a needle's eye—
The rest requires no telling.
Before Sir Thomas Owden,
A youth was brought who blocked the way,
Already over-crowden—
Threadneedle-street—the wild War Cry,
This well-dressed youth was selling:
A camel and a needle's eye—
The rest requires no telling.
Sir Thomas said he understood
How men in shabby raiment,
To get a living, bad or good,
Should do this thing for payment;
But he could never understand
How any young man, dressed all
In decent clothes, could join the band,
Like this young Henry Restall.
How men in shabby raiment,
To get a living, bad or good,
Should do this thing for payment;
But he could never understand
How any young man, dressed all
In decent clothes, could join the band,
Like this young Henry Restall.
93
“It's not to get a living, sir,”
This youth spoke fast and faster;
“I have been called to minister—
I work for God, my Master.”
Sir Thomas answered (much I grieve
If you don't find it bon sens),
He never could be made believe
In such outrageous nonsense.
This youth spoke fast and faster;
“I have been called to minister—
I work for God, my Master.”
Sir Thomas answered (much I grieve
If you don't find it bon sens),
He never could be made believe
In such outrageous nonsense.
This hardened youth he made reply,
“We have reformed some thousand
Poor drunkards;” Sir T. winked full sly,
And sneezing sneered, “Der Tausend!”
And for a fortnight did remand,
Upon his good behaviour,
That youth, who now should understand
He mustn't cry his Saviour.
“We have reformed some thousand
Poor drunkards;” Sir T. winked full sly,
And sneezing sneered, “Der Tausend!”
And for a fortnight did remand,
Upon his good behaviour,
That youth, who now should understand
He mustn't cry his Saviour.
Just think of Simon Peter thus,
And all the zealous dozen,
Brought up before Asinius,
Our Owden's great fore-cousin.
He would have quickly stopped their prate
On a police-court summons;
We should have no Archbishop Tait,
No pious House of Commons!
And all the zealous dozen,
Brought up before Asinius,
Our Owden's great fore-cousin.
He would have quickly stopped their prate
On a police-court summons;
We should have no Archbishop Tait,
No pious House of Commons!
94
'Tis true they were but fishermen
And suchlike, poor and humble;
And thus might earn a living then
Approved by every Bumble.
But preach a Gospel not for pelf!
Absurd to Owden thinkers!—
Just keep your Good News to yourself,
And cease reforming drinkers!
And suchlike, poor and humble;
And thus might earn a living then
Approved by every Bumble.
But preach a Gospel not for pelf!
Absurd to Owden thinkers!—
Just keep your Good News to yourself,
And cease reforming drinkers!
March 1882.
This and the two pieces following are reprinted from the Weekly Dispatch. “Despotism Tempered by Dynamite” was the last poem written by the author.
95
THE OLD STORY AND THE NEW STOREY
(House of Commons, Thursday, March 23.)
“For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have
more abundance: but whosoever hath not, from him shall
be taken away even that he hath.”
—Matthew xiii. 12.
The Old Story says: We've another
Young prince who will wed like a man;
Let us give him, because of his mother,
An extra ten thousand per ann.
She has barely enough for herself, sirs;
Not five hundred a week is his sum;
Some of you have vastly more pelf, sirs;
Let our vote be unanimous, come!
Young prince who will wed like a man;
Let us give him, because of his mother,
An extra ten thousand per ann.
She has barely enough for herself, sirs;
Not five hundred a week is his sum;
Some of you have vastly more pelf, sirs;
Let our vote be unanimous, come!
The New Storey
says—(It is mentioned
How, hating such meanness to hear,
The noble array of the pensioned
Assailed him with laughter and jeer)—
He says: Public money should solely
For good public service be spent.
(Dear lords, what a doctrine unholy!
Why it saps at your rights to your rent!)
How, hating such meanness to hear,
The noble array of the pensioned
Assailed him with laughter and jeer)—
96
For good public service be spent.
(Dear lords, what a doctrine unholy!
Why it saps at your rights to your rent!)
He says: What I urge 'gainst a wasteful
And unjust proposal like this
Must to many of you be distasteful,
And the wherefore too palpable is;
Since one hundred and ten of your body,
And one hundred and twenty-six peers,
For no service, or service of shoddy,
Keep bleeding us numberless years.
And unjust proposal like this
Must to many of you be distasteful,
And the wherefore too palpable is;
Since one hundred and ten of your body,
And one hundred and twenty-six peers,
For no service, or service of shoddy,
Keep bleeding us numberless years.
He says: This ten thousand per annum
You would lavish on one wealthy pair—
Many hundred a grandad and grannam
Would keep in a comfort too rare;
Or in Sunderland—that's my own borough—
A small place—laugh on!—would secure
Education quite free and quite thorough
Without any rate on the poor.
You would lavish on one wealthy pair—
Many hundred a grandad and grannam
Would keep in a comfort too rare;
Or in Sunderland—that's my own borough—
A small place—laugh on!—would secure
Education quite free and quite thorough
Without any rate on the poor.
He says: These same princes as dummies
In army and navy fill posts,
While veterans, scorched up like mummies,
Must starve in the cold like their ghosts.
He says: Sweep away lordly flunkeys,
If you really this money must clutch,
Those bedizened and posturing monkeys—
Your Gold Sticks in Waiting and such.
In army and navy fill posts,
While veterans, scorched up like mummies,
Must starve in the cold like their ghosts.
97
If you really this money must clutch,
Those bedizened and posturing monkeys—
Your Gold Sticks in Waiting and such.
He says—But fine ears we won't batter
With more of his speech unpolite;
So we'll give our own view of the matter,
And our view of course is the right.
We say: When your State-ship you're building,
If you will have a gilt figure-head,
Of course you must pay for the gilding;
We say—there's no more to be said.
With more of his speech unpolite;
So we'll give our own view of the matter,
And our view of course is the right.
We say: When your State-ship you're building,
If you will have a gilt figure-head,
Of course you must pay for the gilding;
We say—there's no more to be said.
It is true that the head a ship carries
In proportion costs little when built;
It is true that this head never marries
And breeds little heads to be gilt.
It is true—but sane words are a treasure
Too precious for subjects like these—
Having set up such heads at your pleasure,
You can set them aside when you please.
In proportion costs little when built;
It is true that this head never marries
And breeds little heads to be gilt.
It is true—but sane words are a treasure
Too precious for subjects like these—
Having set up such heads at your pleasure,
You can set them aside when you please.
April 1882.
98
DESPOTISM TEMPERED BY DYNAMITE
There is no other title in the world
So proud as mine, who am no law-cramped king,
No mere imperial monarch absolute,
The White Tsar worshipped as a visible God,
As Lord of Heaven no less than Lord of Earth—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
So proud as mine, who am no law-cramped king,
No mere imperial monarch absolute,
The White Tsar worshipped as a visible God,
As Lord of Heaven no less than Lord of Earth—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
Through half of Europe my dominions spread,
And then through half of Asia to the shores
Of Earth's great ocean washing the New World;
And nothing bounds them to the Northern Pole,
They merge into the everlasting ice—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
And then through half of Asia to the shores
Of Earth's great ocean washing the New World;
And nothing bounds them to the Northern Pole,
They merge into the everlasting ice—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
Full eighty million subjects worship me—
Their father, high priest, monarch, God on earth;
My children who but hold their lives with mine
For our most Holy Russia dear and great,
Whose might is concentrated in my hands—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
Their father, high priest, monarch, God on earth;
My children who but hold their lives with mine
For our most Holy Russia dear and great,
Whose might is concentrated in my hands—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
99
I chain and gag with chains and gags of iron
The impious hands and mouths that dare express
A word against my sacred sovranty;
The half of Asia is my prison-house,
Myriads of convicts lost in its Immense—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
The impious hands and mouths that dare express
A word against my sacred sovranty;
The half of Asia is my prison-house,
Myriads of convicts lost in its Immense—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
I cannot chain and gag the evil thoughts
Of men and women poisoned by the West,
Frenzied in soul by the anarchic West;
These thoughts transmute themselves to dynamite;
My sire was borne all shattered to his tomb—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
Of men and women poisoned by the West,
Frenzied in soul by the anarchic West;
These thoughts transmute themselves to dynamite;
My sire was borne all shattered to his tomb—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
My peasants rise to their unvarying toil,
And go to sleep outwearied by their toil,
Without the hope of any better life.
But with no hope they have no deadly fear,
They sleep and eat their scanty food in peace—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
And go to sleep outwearied by their toil,
Without the hope of any better life.
But with no hope they have no deadly fear,
They sleep and eat their scanty food in peace—
I look with terror to my crowning day.
My palaces are prisons to myself;
I taste no food that may not poison me;
I plant no footstep sure it will not stir
Instant destruction of explosive fire;
I look with terror to each day and night—
With tenfold terror to my crowning day.
I taste no food that may not poison me;
I plant no footstep sure it will not stir
Instant destruction of explosive fire;
I look with terror to each day and night—
With tenfold terror to my crowning day.
May 1882.
100
ADDRESS ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW HALL OF THE LEICESTER SECULAR SOCIETY, March 6, 1881.
“So Man created god in His own image, in the image of Man created
He him; male and female created He them.”
—The New Book of Genesis.
Lo, all the lands wherein our wandering race
Have led their flocks, or fixed their dwelling-place
To till with patient toil the fruitful sod,
Abound with altars To the Unknown God
Or Gods, whom Man created from of old,
In His own image, one yet manifold,
And ignorantly worshipped. We now dare,
Taught by millenniums of barren prayer,
Of mutual scorn and hate and bloody strife
With which these dreams have poisoned our poor life,
To build our temples on another plan,
Devoting them to god's Creator, Man;
Not to Man's creature, god. And thus, indeed,
All men and women, of whatever creed,
We welcome gladly if they love their kind;
No other valid test of worth we find.
We gaze into the living world and mark
Infinite mysteries for ever dark:
And if there is a god beyond our thought
(How could he be within its compass brought?);
He will not blame the eyes he made so dim
That they cannot discern a trace of him;
He must approve the pure sincerity
Which, seeing not, declares it cannot see;
He cannot love the blasphemous pretence
Of puny mannikins with purblind sense
To see him thoroughly, to know him well,
His secret purposes, His Heaven and hell,
His inmost nature—formulating this
With calmest chemical analysis,
Or vivisecting it, as if it were
Some compound gas, or dog with brain laid bare.
And if we have a life beyond our death,
A life of nobler aims and ampler breath,
What better preparation for such bliss
Than honest work to make the best of this?
Have led their flocks, or fixed their dwelling-place
To till with patient toil the fruitful sod,
Abound with altars To the Unknown God
Or Gods, whom Man created from of old,
In His own image, one yet manifold,
And ignorantly worshipped. We now dare,
Taught by millenniums of barren prayer,
Of mutual scorn and hate and bloody strife
With which these dreams have poisoned our poor life,
To build our temples on another plan,
Devoting them to god's Creator, Man;
Not to Man's creature, god. And thus, indeed,
All men and women, of whatever creed,
We welcome gladly if they love their kind;
No other valid test of worth we find.
101
Infinite mysteries for ever dark:
And if there is a god beyond our thought
(How could he be within its compass brought?);
He will not blame the eyes he made so dim
That they cannot discern a trace of him;
He must approve the pure sincerity
Which, seeing not, declares it cannot see;
He cannot love the blasphemous pretence
Of puny mannikins with purblind sense
To see him thoroughly, to know him well,
His secret purposes, His Heaven and hell,
His inmost nature—formulating this
With calmest chemical analysis,
Or vivisecting it, as if it were
Some compound gas, or dog with brain laid bare.
And if we have a life beyond our death,
A life of nobler aims and ampler breath,
What better preparation for such bliss
Than honest work to make the best of this?
He who is faithful in a few things found
Becomes the lord of many; he whose pound
Is well employed may look for many more;
Waste adds to waste as store increaseth store.
Who cannot run a mile will win no place
Among the champions for a ten-mile race;
Who cannot order well a little farm
Shall have no great estate to bring to harm;
Who squanders months and years can never be
Entrusted with an immortality;
Who loveth not the brother at his side,
How can he love a dim dream deified?
Becomes the lord of many; he whose pound
Is well employed may look for many more;
Waste adds to waste as store increaseth store.
Who cannot run a mile will win no place
Among the champions for a ten-mile race;
102
Shall have no great estate to bring to harm;
Who squanders months and years can never be
Entrusted with an immortality;
Who loveth not the brother at his side,
How can he love a dim dream deified?
We know our lives at best are full of care,
But we may learn to bear and to forbear,
By sympathy and human fellowship,—
Sweet cup of solace to the parching lip,
Doubling all joy, diminishing all grief,
Soothing despair itself with some relief.
But we may learn to bear and to forbear,
By sympathy and human fellowship,—
Sweet cup of solace to the parching lip,
Doubling all joy, diminishing all grief,
Soothing despair itself with some relief.
Each life is as a little plot of ground,
Whose owner should not blankly wall it round
To shut it in from others, shutting out
Himself from those that neighbour it about:
The plots must differ both in size and soil,
The poorest will reward kind care and toil
With fruits of sustenance and flowers of grace;
All good, though varying in every case.
Down with our dead walls!—let us all enjoy
Our neighbours' industry without alloy;
The bloom and odours of their fruits and flowers
Which are so like and yet so unlike ours;
The singing of the birds among their trees,
Their glancing butterflies and honey-bees:
And sharing thus the pleasures of the whole,
Tend that which is within our own control
More cheerfully, more earnestly, lest weeds
Disgracing ours, taint theirs with wafted seeds;
And let us cherish kindly interchange
Of help and produce in our social range.
Whose owner should not blankly wall it round
To shut it in from others, shutting out
Himself from those that neighbour it about:
The plots must differ both in size and soil,
The poorest will reward kind care and toil
With fruits of sustenance and flowers of grace;
All good, though varying in every case.
Down with our dead walls!—let us all enjoy
Our neighbours' industry without alloy;
The bloom and odours of their fruits and flowers
Which are so like and yet so unlike ours;
The singing of the birds among their trees,
Their glancing butterflies and honey-bees:
103
Tend that which is within our own control
More cheerfully, more earnestly, lest weeds
Disgracing ours, taint theirs with wafted seeds;
And let us cherish kindly interchange
Of help and produce in our social range.
This is the spirit in which we have wrought
To build our little Temple of Free Thought
And mere Humanity—to us Divine
Above the deity of any shrine:
This modest Hall for Club and Institute
Which we now open; may it bear good fruit!
No rigid barriers of sex or sect
Or party in these walls do we erect:
Inclusion not exclusion is our aim:
Whatever freedom for ourselves we claim,
We wish all others to enjoy the same,
In simple womanhood's and manhood's name!
Freedom within one law of sacred might,
Trench not on any other's equal right.
To build our little Temple of Free Thought
And mere Humanity—to us Divine
Above the deity of any shrine:
This modest Hall for Club and Institute
Which we now open; may it bear good fruit!
No rigid barriers of sex or sect
Or party in these walls do we erect:
Inclusion not exclusion is our aim:
Whatever freedom for ourselves we claim,
We wish all others to enjoy the same,
In simple womanhood's and manhood's name!
Freedom within one law of sacred might,
Trench not on any other's equal right.
Our creed is simple, All men are one man!
Our sole commandment, Do what good you can.
We gladly welcome truth where'er it shines,
The gold and silver of the ancient mines,
Dug out and smelted by good men of yore,
And mines but newly opened, still in ore;
Submitting old and modern to the test,
Most surely fallible but yet our best,
Of self-experience, knowledge, reason; then
Inviting the assays of other men.
Buddha and Jesus, Zeno, Socrates,
Mohammed, Paine, Voltaire,—alike from these
The precious metals we accept with joy;
But pray, friends, spare us from the proved alloy!
Our sole commandment, Do what good you can.
We gladly welcome truth where'er it shines,
The gold and silver of the ancient mines,
Dug out and smelted by good men of yore,
And mines but newly opened, still in ore;
104
Most surely fallible but yet our best,
Of self-experience, knowledge, reason; then
Inviting the assays of other men.
Buddha and Jesus, Zeno, Socrates,
Mohammed, Paine, Voltaire,—alike from these
The precious metals we accept with joy;
But pray, friends, spare us from the proved alloy!
Having no rich endowments from the State,
Our means are small as our good-will is great:—
A platform for Free Thought in courteous speech,
And free discussion of the views of each;
Some books, our true “Communion of the Saints,”
To feed the mind and cheer the heart that faints;
Some classes for instruction and delight;
A club wherein our members may unite
For cordial converse and such innocent pleasure
As makes a blessing, not a curse, of leisure!
Some social gatherings, where we trust to see
Not the Man only but the Family,
Where poetry and music, dance and song,
Shall make the sweet hours blithely dance along.
Our means are small as our good-will is great:—
A platform for Free Thought in courteous speech,
And free discussion of the views of each;
Some books, our true “Communion of the Saints,”
To feed the mind and cheer the heart that faints;
Some classes for instruction and delight;
A club wherein our members may unite
For cordial converse and such innocent pleasure
As makes a blessing, not a curse, of leisure!
Some social gatherings, where we trust to see
Not the Man only but the Family,
Where poetry and music, dance and song,
Shall make the sweet hours blithely dance along.
Thus all our youths and maidens, girls and boys,
Must link this place with all their purest joys,
And growing in their turn husbands and wives,
Fathers and mothers, may devote their lives,
Not as an irksome task, but gracious duty,
Full-fraught with light and sweetness, love and beauty,
To cherish, cultivate, and propagate,
Or here or elsewhere as shall be their fate,
When we ourselves are dead save in our deeds,
This nursling from the ever-precious seeds
Which we have in our time inherited
From the brave culture of our noble Dead;
Our small addition to their great work done,
The present work in our loved town begun
This Sunday, March sixth, Eighteen eighty-one.
Must link this place with all their purest joys,
And growing in their turn husbands and wives,
Fathers and mothers, may devote their lives,
105
Full-fraught with light and sweetness, love and beauty,
To cherish, cultivate, and propagate,
Or here or elsewhere as shall be their fate,
When we ourselves are dead save in our deeds,
This nursling from the ever-precious seeds
Which we have in our time inherited
From the brave culture of our noble Dead;
Our small addition to their great work done,
The present work in our loved town begun
This Sunday, March sixth, Eighteen eighty-one.
| The Poetical Works of James Thomson | |