 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
10
MISOLONGHI
The rosy dawn broke from her ocean bed—
A sailor pointed to the north, and said
The one word, ‘Misolonghi!’ Lifted high,
Between the mists of water and of sky,
In the mirage of sunrise, there it lay,
The heart of Hellas in her darkest day.
A sailor pointed to the north, and said
The one word, ‘Misolonghi!’ Lifted high,
Between the mists of water and of sky,
In the mirage of sunrise, there it lay,
The heart of Hellas in her darkest day.
And there and then, across that morning sea,
The eager heart went throbbing back to thee,
For here, dead poet of my dreams of youth,
Thy long denial learned the one hard truth.
The eager heart went throbbing back to thee,
For here, dead poet of my dreams of youth,
Thy long denial learned the one hard truth.
Oft with thee since, my poet, where the steep
Of Sunium sees red evening dye the deep,
Where broad Eurotas cleaves the garden lands
That knew no walls but Spartan hearts and hands,
Where snowy-crested into cloudless skies
The two throne-mountains of the muses rise;
Mount up, O poet, still they seem to say,
Pathless and lonely winds the starward way,
Look never back, thou hast thy song to sing,
Thy life is winter, so thy death be spring.
Oft with thee after, when the sun went down
Behind Morea, through the violet crown,
Seen from the broken temples, when the ray
Transforms Hymettus from noon's silver grey
To one rose jewel, when the islands be
Like broken sapphires on a milky sea,
And still thy mute voice echoes near; but most
A moment later when the light is lost,
And Athens sobers in the afterglow
Of such a spiritual twilight as I know
No other spot of sea and earth can show;
Thou art grown one with these things, and thy fame
Links a new memory to each sacred name.
Of Sunium sees red evening dye the deep,
Where broad Eurotas cleaves the garden lands
That knew no walls but Spartan hearts and hands,
Where snowy-crested into cloudless skies
The two throne-mountains of the muses rise;
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Pathless and lonely winds the starward way,
Look never back, thou hast thy song to sing,
Thy life is winter, so thy death be spring.
Oft with thee after, when the sun went down
Behind Morea, through the violet crown,
Seen from the broken temples, when the ray
Transforms Hymettus from noon's silver grey
To one rose jewel, when the islands be
Like broken sapphires on a milky sea,
And still thy mute voice echoes near; but most
A moment later when the light is lost,
And Athens sobers in the afterglow
Of such a spiritual twilight as I know
No other spot of sea and earth can show;
Thou art grown one with these things, and thy fame
Links a new memory to each sacred name.
Oh formed for loving, and condemned by fate,
By some obstruction of the heart, to hate,
Cursed with the spirit of an evil doubt,
That would not open when love knocked without,
Doomed to rebellion, and untimely born,
To mar high music with the note of scorn,
Appealing still against thyself in song,
How I had loved thee, erring, proud, and strong!
By some obstruction of the heart, to hate,
Cursed with the spirit of an evil doubt,
That would not open when love knocked without,
Doomed to rebellion, and untimely born,
To mar high music with the note of scorn,
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How I had loved thee, erring, proud, and strong!
Yet, let me think here by these haunted seas,
Too fair to need their dower of memories;
Here, where the whisperings of spring-tide eve
Bring kinship with the infinite, and weave
Bright rosaries of stars, where never fails
Incense of thyme, and hymn of nightingales,
That oft the beauty of this fair world stole
Across the tumult of thy lonely soul,
Till the ice thawed, and the storm broke in spray,
The cold heart warmed, and knew the better way,
To see some hope in human things, to crave
That late remorse of love men lavished on thy grave.
Too fair to need their dower of memories;
Here, where the whisperings of spring-tide eve
Bring kinship with the infinite, and weave
Bright rosaries of stars, where never fails
Incense of thyme, and hymn of nightingales,
That oft the beauty of this fair world stole
Across the tumult of thy lonely soul,
Till the ice thawed, and the storm broke in spray,
The cold heart warmed, and knew the better way,
To see some hope in human things, to crave
That late remorse of love men lavished on thy grave.
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |