 | Carol and Cadence |  |
WRECK AND PORT.
In the middle passion of light and life,
When the surge of the rose-red years began
To broaden and brighten out to the span
That beareth the ultimate life of man
Through the fair free fields, where the corn burns rife
And the distance heaves with the gold
Of the mountains, shining and sweet to behold,
Wherein hope harbours for young and old,
At the time when I girt myself for the strife,
With the radiant joy of a man's desire,
Who hath learnt to what aim his thoughts aspire,
What work to his hand is right,
There fell on my soul a scathing fire,
A lightning of barren and waste desire;
And sudden my day was night
And my Summer blight.
When the surge of the rose-red years began
To broaden and brighten out to the span
That beareth the ultimate life of man
Through the fair free fields, where the corn burns rife
And the distance heaves with the gold
Of the mountains, shining and sweet to behold,
Wherein hope harbours for young and old,
At the time when I girt myself for the strife,
With the radiant joy of a man's desire,
Who hath learnt to what aim his thoughts aspire,
What work to his hand is right,
There fell on my soul a scathing fire,
A lightning of barren and waste desire;
And sudden my day was night
And my Summer blight.
I had said to myself for many a year,
Lo, many there be and to spare that strain
For wealth and worship, for grace and gain
And splendid safety from toil and pain.
They are many and bold and strong, and clear
Their voices and bright their eyes:
Yea, surely, for nothing beneath the skies,
Not even for winning of Paradise,
Their strength and their skill might flinch or fear.
They have girt them with valour and faith and mirth
For gaining the guerdons of Heaven and Earth,
The prizes of land and sea,
So valiant they are and so worship-worth.
These are the chosen of Life's first birth.
Is there any thing left for me,
Where such men be?
Lo, many there be and to spare that strain
For wealth and worship, for grace and gain
And splendid safety from toil and pain.
They are many and bold and strong, and clear
Their voices and bright their eyes:
Yea, surely, for nothing beneath the skies,
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Their strength and their skill might flinch or fear.
They have girt them with valour and faith and mirth
For gaining the guerdons of Heaven and Earth,
The prizes of land and sea,
So valiant they are and so worship-worth.
These are the chosen of Life's first birth.
Is there any thing left for me,
Where such men be?
The beautiful youths with the flowering hair
And the eyes that lighten with lovely flame,
The rose-red mouths and the lips that claim
The love of all women in Beauty's name,
When these, that are many and fierce and fair,
All over the love-lands go
And set maids' hearts and their cheeks aglow
With the languorous words from their lips that flow,
Whilst the conquering charm of their beauty rare
Brims women's souls with a wildering bliss,
So their mouths lift up of themselves for their kiss
And they clasp breast to breast,
I said to myself, “Is there room to miss
For a man like me in a world like this?
Am I not, mid the rest,
An unbid guest?
And the eyes that lighten with lovely flame,
The rose-red mouths and the lips that claim
The love of all women in Beauty's name,
When these, that are many and fierce and fair,
All over the love-lands go
And set maids' hearts and their cheeks aglow
With the languorous words from their lips that flow,
Whilst the conquering charm of their beauty rare
Brims women's souls with a wildering bliss,
So their mouths lift up of themselves for their kiss
And they clasp breast to breast,
I said to myself, “Is there room to miss
For a man like me in a world like this?
Am I not, mid the rest,
An unbid guest?
Is there room for me in the midst of these,
Hawkeyed and splendid with strong desire,
Of these that are fashioned of iron and fire,
That know no sadness nor ever tire,
Till their hand have won them their bodies' ease,
Power and the praise of men,
Whose strength for desire is the strength of ten,
Bearing them onward o'er waste and fen,
Through maze of mountain and surge of seas,
Till had their hope and their wish is won
And into the sunset reddens their sun?
Is there any place for me
To press with their feet through the darkness dun?
I shall surely weary, hardly begun;
I shall faint by the way maybe
Or sink in the sea.
Hawkeyed and splendid with strong desire,
Of these that are fashioned of iron and fire,
That know no sadness nor ever tire,
Till their hand have won them their bodies' ease,
Power and the praise of men,
Whose strength for desire is the strength of ten,
Bearing them onward o'er waste and fen,
Through maze of mountain and surge of seas,
Till had their hope and their wish is won
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Is there any place for me
To press with their feet through the darkness dun?
I shall surely weary, hardly begun;
I shall faint by the way maybe
Or sink in the sea.
For, lo, full stern is the battle's stress
And the field is full of the men of war,
Horsemen and footmen, and passing sore
The blows they barter. The battle's roar
Rises like thunder right pitiless
And only the strong win through.
Men's life-blood rains, like a ruddy dew,
And many a heart, that is weak and true,
Sinks down to death for the day's duresse.
Art thou strong to buckle on helmet and mail
And conquer, alas! when so many fail
And fall in the front of faith?
And I said to myself, “I am weak and pale;
My voice is the voice of the winds that wail:
I am strong for nothing but death;
I am scant of breath.”
And the field is full of the men of war,
Horsemen and footmen, and passing sore
The blows they barter. The battle's roar
Rises like thunder right pitiless
And only the strong win through.
Men's life-blood rains, like a ruddy dew,
And many a heart, that is weak and true,
Sinks down to death for the day's duresse.
Art thou strong to buckle on helmet and mail
And conquer, alas! when so many fail
And fall in the front of faith?
And I said to myself, “I am weak and pale;
My voice is the voice of the winds that wail:
I am strong for nothing but death;
I am scant of breath.”
“Are they worth the winning, indeed?” I said,
“The prizes of Life that men pursue
And weary after, the loves they woo,
The fames they conquer with derring-do?
The laurels that light on the heavy head,
When life is failing fast,
Is it worth the struggle to clutch them at last,
When youth and passion and faith are past
And the hope of the heart is with the dead,
To lie alone in a living tomb
And watch the phantoms of youth and bloom
That over the gravestones stray?
Surely, to sit in the uttermost room,
Unheeded, were better than such a doom.
Shall I venture on such a way?”
And I answered, “Nay.”
“The prizes of Life that men pursue
And weary after, the loves they woo,
The fames they conquer with derring-do?
The laurels that light on the heavy head,
When life is failing fast,
Is it worth the struggle to clutch them at last,
When youth and passion and faith are past
And the hope of the heart is with the dead,
To lie alone in a living tomb
And watch the phantoms of youth and bloom
That over the gravestones stray?
Surely, to sit in the uttermost room,
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Shall I venture on such a way?”
And I answered, “Nay.”
So I bound up the yearnings of youth in my soul,
As those that prune off the budded rose,
Or e'er at the flowertide its beauty blows,
And lo, in the heart of the shrouding snows,
The blooms, that blew not when the land was whole,
Under the summer sun,
Burst out at the Yule and the flowerets' queen
Shines ruddy and sweet in her robe of green,
Sweeter for hoarding her scented soul.
I heartened myself to be dumb and wait,
Content with the calm of a low estate,
Careless of aught but rest:
And “Haply,” I said, “if it pleases Fate,
Some rose in my life shall ripen late.
Meanwhile I will bear in my breast
Peace, that is best.”
As those that prune off the budded rose,
Or e'er at the flowertide its beauty blows,
And lo, in the heart of the shrouding snows,
The blooms, that blew not when the land was whole,
Under the summer sun,
Burst out at the Yule and the flowerets' queen
Shines ruddy and sweet in her robe of green,
Sweeter for hoarding her scented soul.
I heartened myself to be dumb and wait,
Content with the calm of a low estate,
Careless of aught but rest:
And “Haply,” I said, “if it pleases Fate,
Some rose in my life shall ripen late.
Meanwhile I will bear in my breast
Peace, that is best.”
So I made for myself a nest of calm,
A harbour of quiet and fair content,
And dwelt there and watched, whilst the wild years went
To the goal of their flight in the far extent
Of the Future, singing their wailing psalm
Of passion and toil and woe.
I looked from my coign on their whirling flow
And hoped with each hope that the noble know
And joyed in each vision of peace and balm:
I was one with all faiths and all loves that strain
From the mire of the world to the azure plain
And the rifts where the sun shines through:
I was one with the flowers and the stars and the rain;
For my soul was unperjured and pure from stain
And the phantoms that men pursue
I never knew.
A harbour of quiet and fair content,
And dwelt there and watched, whilst the wild years went
To the goal of their flight in the far extent
Of the Future, singing their wailing psalm
Of passion and toil and woe.
I looked from my coign on their whirling flow
And hoped with each hope that the noble know
And joyed in each vision of peace and balm:
I was one with all faiths and all loves that strain
From the mire of the world to the azure plain
And the rifts where the sun shines through:
I was one with the flowers and the stars and the rain;
For my soul was unperjured and pure from stain
And the phantoms that men pursue
I never knew.
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My thought was a desert under the sky
Of a lonely land in the wastes of air,
And never the foot of the fiend came there
Nor the shapes of magic, that bring despair,
When the mirage they conjure is flitted by
And the world lies bare and cold.
The voice of its birds was the songs of old
And its winds, in the flight of their wings of gold,
Were filled with the harmonies fair and high,
That spring, for the balm of the weary ways,
From the lips of the bard and his hand that plays
With the strings of the harp of life.
The dews that fell there were love and praise;
Content was its sun and its moon of days;
Love-lys in its paths was rife
And red loose-strife.
Of a lonely land in the wastes of air,
And never the foot of the fiend came there
Nor the shapes of magic, that bring despair,
When the mirage they conjure is flitted by
And the world lies bare and cold.
The voice of its birds was the songs of old
And its winds, in the flight of their wings of gold,
Were filled with the harmonies fair and high,
That spring, for the balm of the weary ways,
From the lips of the bard and his hand that plays
With the strings of the harp of life.
The dews that fell there were love and praise;
Content was its sun and its moon of days;
Love-lys in its paths was rife
And red loose-strife.
And so, as the days and the years grew long,
The dew and the rain and the sun and the wind
And all things gracious and fair and kind,
That had gathered and harboured with me, combined
To stir in my heart the seeds of song:
And lo, in the lonely land
It blossomed and burgeoned on every hand:
The flowers flamed up in a glorious band
And forth of my heart, in a tuneful throng,
The thrushes startled, the linnets flew,
Singing their hearts out in ditties new.
The grey of the sky grew bright:
At the sound and the scent, the sun thrust through,
The air rained gold and the day broke blue.
I had won from the womb of Night
Its soul of light.
The dew and the rain and the sun and the wind
And all things gracious and fair and kind,
That had gathered and harboured with me, combined
To stir in my heart the seeds of song:
And lo, in the lonely land
It blossomed and burgeoned on every hand:
The flowers flamed up in a glorious band
And forth of my heart, in a tuneful throng,
The thrushes startled, the linnets flew,
Singing their hearts out in ditties new.
The grey of the sky grew bright:
At the sound and the scent, the sun thrust through,
The air rained gold and the day broke blue.
I had won from the womb of Night
Its soul of light.
Oh, how the hope and the love flowered out
In blossom of ballad and carol and lay,
That had hidden in silentness many a day!
There is never a wood in the middle May,
When the Springtide wakens the warbling rout
Of linnet and lark and wren,
That thrills with sweet sound as my heart thrilled then.
I sang for myself and not for men,
As a happy child in the sun will shout.
Though my heart with the music wept and bled,
They were tears of delight, the tears I shed,
Joy from the dusk unbound.
Song fed me not yet with bitter bread;
I cared not who listened to what I said.
The love in my life had found
Its gate of sound.
In blossom of ballad and carol and lay,
That had hidden in silentness many a day!
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When the Springtide wakens the warbling rout
Of linnet and lark and wren,
That thrills with sweet sound as my heart thrilled then.
I sang for myself and not for men,
As a happy child in the sun will shout.
Though my heart with the music wept and bled,
They were tears of delight, the tears I shed,
Joy from the dusk unbound.
Song fed me not yet with bitter bread;
I cared not who listened to what I said.
The love in my life had found
Its gate of sound.
So life lay lovesome with song and Spring,
Until one morn, at the dawning hour,
The height of the heavens was all a-flower
With flakes of crimson, as if a shower
Of roses before the coming king
The skies in the sun's way cast;
And scarce was the moment of daybreak past
When up in the East, as a curtain vast,
The portals of Paradise opening,
From over the face of the heavens there drew;
And forth of the deeps of the radiant blue,
Down-fluttering from above,
Through the golden webs of the morning-dew,
An angel for me there came to view,
A seraph, half maid, half dove,
Whose name was Love.
Until one morn, at the dawning hour,
The height of the heavens was all a-flower
With flakes of crimson, as if a shower
Of roses before the coming king
The skies in the sun's way cast;
And scarce was the moment of daybreak past
When up in the East, as a curtain vast,
The portals of Paradise opening,
From over the face of the heavens there drew;
And forth of the deeps of the radiant blue,
Down-fluttering from above,
Through the golden webs of the morning-dew,
An angel for me there came to view,
A seraph, half maid, half dove,
Whose name was Love.
She sank through the shimmering sunshot air,
All robed and rounded with flowering fires.
The silver sound of the seraph-choirs
With hymning voices and smitten lyres,
That hailed their sister from Heaven's stair,
Sang round her, as she came.
Like a sweet saint stepped from a missal-frame,
Unhastening, light as a flower of flame,
She floated down, through the dawning fair,
To where I waited in rapt amaze,
My whole soul whelmed in my ravished gaze,
And lit at my feet to rest;
Then, fluttering up, like a rosy haze,
That wanders at dawn in the meadow-ways,
She fled to my longing breast,
As a bird to its nest.
All robed and rounded with flowering fires.
The silver sound of the seraph-choirs
With hymning voices and smitten lyres,
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Sang round her, as she came.
Like a sweet saint stepped from a missal-frame,
Unhastening, light as a flower of flame,
She floated down, through the dawning fair,
To where I waited in rapt amaze,
My whole soul whelmed in my ravished gaze,
And lit at my feet to rest;
Then, fluttering up, like a rosy haze,
That wanders at dawn in the meadow-ways,
She fled to my longing breast,
As a bird to its nest.
The Springtides over were all, in sum;
There was nothing left of the pleasant Prime:
The season of lilac and leafing lime
Was all fordone by the new sweet time;
The glory of golden Summer come,
The magic of middle June,
In cloth of gold of the radiant noon
And silver clad of the flooding moon,
Had ousted the flowertide frolicsome:
The cowslip-clusters their bloom had shed;
The windflowers, the violets all were dead,
The day of the primrose done.
With roses yellow and white and red
And gold-heart lilies the land was spread:
The world-all was overrun
With flooding sun.
There was nothing left of the pleasant Prime:
The season of lilac and leafing lime
Was all fordone by the new sweet time;
The glory of golden Summer come,
The magic of middle June,
In cloth of gold of the radiant noon
And silver clad of the flooding moon,
Had ousted the flowertide frolicsome:
The cowslip-clusters their bloom had shed;
The windflowers, the violets all were dead,
The day of the primrose done.
With roses yellow and white and red
And gold-heart lilies the land was spread:
The world-all was overrun
With flooding sun.
Spring's birds had followed her banished feet;
No nightingales sang in the hawthorn brake;
No merles made music for April's sake;
No throstles warbled by hill and lake;
No cuckoos fluted; no finches fleet
Fled, trilling, from tree to tree.
But a myriad songsters from oversea,
Kingbird and cardinal, colibri,
Tanager, piped in the heart of the heat.
With living jewels the woods did blaze:
The rose-red doves of the fairy days,
The golden loriots trolled;
The bluebirds of Paradise sang on the sprays;
The lyre-birds flashed through the forest-ways
And the martlets of pearl and gold
Of the fables old.
No nightingales sang in the hawthorn brake;
No merles made music for April's sake;
No throstles warbled by hill and lake;
No cuckoos fluted; no finches fleet
Fled, trilling, from tree to tree.
But a myriad songsters from oversea,
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Tanager, piped in the heart of the heat.
With living jewels the woods did blaze:
The rose-red doves of the fairy days,
The golden loriots trolled;
The bluebirds of Paradise sang on the sprays;
The lyre-birds flashed through the forest-ways
And the martlets of pearl and gold
Of the fables old.
High summer harboured in holt and shaw;
The days were woven of gold and rose;
The land was lush with the ripe repose,
The state serene of the summer shows;
And life was the life without a flaw
Of the noontide of the year.
But woe unto him for whom o'er dear
Is life, who knows not of doubt or fear!
E'en Love must hearken to Nature's law
That all things end, as they have begun.
One day, at the hour when light is done
And dusk the dark foresaith,
My angel fled back to her home in the sun;
And down in her place came another one,
Black-vestured and cold of breath,
Whose name was Death.
The days were woven of gold and rose;
The land was lush with the ripe repose,
The state serene of the summer shows;
And life was the life without a flaw
Of the noontide of the year.
But woe unto him for whom o'er dear
Is life, who knows not of doubt or fear!
E'en Love must hearken to Nature's law
That all things end, as they have begun.
One day, at the hour when light is done
And dusk the dark foresaith,
My angel fled back to her home in the sun;
And down in her place came another one,
Black-vestured and cold of breath,
Whose name was Death.
He blew on the world with his breath of ice;
And the sun and the Summer straight were gone;
The grasses faded from lea and lawn
And sad as the dusk was the tearful dawn.
He breathed on the landscape once and twice,
And sudden the sky grew grey:
The flowers all shrivelled; from bough and spray
The dead leaves dropped and the birds away
Fled back oversea. He breathed on it thrice
And over the meadows the mists stooped low,
The land with the pall of the shrouding snow
Lay silent on every hand;
The frost-chains fettered the waters' flow;
And whereas mine eyes turned to and fro,
They saw but, for Summer bland,
A winter land.
And the sun and the Summer straight were gone;
The grasses faded from lea and lawn
And sad as the dusk was the tearful dawn.
He breathed on the landscape once and twice,
And sudden the sky grew grey:
The flowers all shrivelled; from bough and spray
The dead leaves dropped and the birds away
Fled back oversea. He breathed on it thrice
And over the meadows the mists stooped low,
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Lay silent on every hand;
The frost-chains fettered the waters' flow;
And whereas mine eyes turned to and fro,
They saw but, for Summer bland,
A winter land.
My life died down with the dying light;
No tears were left in mine eyes to weep;
My thought was drowned in that frozen deep,
My spirit sunken in seas of sleep.
The sun from the moon and the day from the night
I knew not nor toad from bird.
I rose not, when morning broke, nor stirred,
When the voice of the rain in mine ears I heard:
My sense was darkened and dimmed my sight.
Of nothing I thought and nothing deemed
When the thunder roared and the lightning gleamed
And the wind fared to and fro.
For countless centuries, so it seemed,
In the numbing ice-sleep I lay and dreamed,
Under the shroud of the snow,
A dream of woe.
No tears were left in mine eyes to weep;
My thought was drowned in that frozen deep,
My spirit sunken in seas of sleep.
The sun from the moon and the day from the night
I knew not nor toad from bird.
I rose not, when morning broke, nor stirred,
When the voice of the rain in mine ears I heard:
My sense was darkened and dimmed my sight.
Of nothing I thought and nothing deemed
When the thunder roared and the lightning gleamed
And the wind fared to and fro.
For countless centuries, so it seemed,
In the numbing ice-sleep I lay and dreamed,
Under the shroud of the snow,
A dream of woe.
But Death and Winter themselves must list
To Nature's fiat that all must die,
To live again, as the years go by:
And so, one morning, unknowing why,
I woke and found that the dank frost-mist
Had vanished from vale and lea;
The fields from the pall of the snow were free;
The rills unhindered ran to the sea;
And as 'twere a webwork of amethyst,
A soft haze hovered o'er wood and wold.
The air was clear of the cruel cold;
A breeze blew out of the West,
With warmth from a sun of paly gold,
That drowsed in the heavens, dim and old,
As one that hath found, in Life's quest,
A port of rest.
To Nature's fiat that all must die,
To live again, as the years go by:
And so, one morning, unknowing why,
I woke and found that the dank frost-mist
Had vanished from vale and lea;
The fields from the pall of the snow were free;
The rills unhindered ran to the sea;
And as 'twere a webwork of amethyst,
A soft haze hovered o'er wood and wold.
The air was clear of the cruel cold;
A breeze blew out of the West,
With warmth from a sun of paly gold,
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As one that hath found, in Life's quest,
A port of rest.
The robin fluted upon the bough:
The leaves, but yesterday sere and shed,
Now dappled the brake with gold and red.
The world had arisen again from the dead:
It was as if Spring on the old year's brow
Had set once more its sign,
Its token of freedom from winter-pine,
That makes the world-all arise and shine
And the field-furrows germ beneath the plough.
But it was not the season of bird and flower:
'Twas Autumn's Springtide, the quiet hour,
October's placid cease
From strife and passion, ere Life must cower
Once more, like a slave, to Winter's power;
Nor Summer nor Spring's increase,
But Autumn-peace.
The leaves, but yesterday sere and shed,
Now dappled the brake with gold and red.
The world had arisen again from the dead:
It was as if Spring on the old year's brow
Had set once more its sign,
Its token of freedom from winter-pine,
That makes the world-all arise and shine
And the field-furrows germ beneath the plough.
But it was not the season of bird and flower:
'Twas Autumn's Springtide, the quiet hour,
October's placid cease
From strife and passion, ere Life must cower
Once more, like a slave, to Winter's power;
Nor Summer nor Spring's increase,
But Autumn-peace.
| Carol and Cadence | |