An Actor's Reminiscences and Other Poems By George Barlow |
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| I. |
| SONNETS OF MANHOOD. |
| I. |
| V. |
| VII. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XXV. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXIX. |
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| IX. |
| XXX. |
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| II. |
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| VIII. |
| X. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| II. |
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| III. |
 | An Actor's Reminiscences and Other Poems |  |
77
SONNETS OF MANHOOD.
79
SONNET I. “NO LILY IS WHITER.”
No lily is whiter now for Christ or Keats.—
No blue-bell lifts within green woods a head
Tenderer, for æons of the heroic dead:—
Within the sea no pulse of Shelley beats.
Ten thousand years ago the rose was red;
To-day's rose merely the same tale repeats;
Where hearts have travailed and torn souls have bled,
The white wild pangless rose the June-morn greets!
No blue-bell lifts within green woods a head
Tenderer, for æons of the heroic dead:—
Within the sea no pulse of Shelley beats.
Ten thousand years ago the rose was red;
To-day's rose merely the same tale repeats;
Where hearts have travailed and torn souls have bled,
The white wild pangless rose the June-morn greets!
Not for one word that Christ or Milton spake
Is any blossom fairer. Their soft bloom
By ripples of the Galilean lake
Was nurtured, and they laughed round Milton's tomb;
But if no human voice earth's primal air
Had thrilled, no rosebud would have shone less fair.
Is any blossom fairer. Their soft bloom
By ripples of the Galilean lake
Was nurtured, and they laughed round Milton's tomb;
But if no human voice earth's primal air
Had thrilled, no rosebud would have shone less fair.
Nov. 2, 1881.
80
SONNET V. ETERNAL.
When over an hundred years have passed and fledShalt thou be living yet within my song,
And just as vivid thy soft brown-haired head
As ever, earth's fair queens of love among?
And shall I be remembered, sweetheart true,
Still most of all as poet-lover of thee,—
When other far-off skies than ours are blue,
And grey eyes,—not thine eyes,—watch new grey sea?
What is an hundred years?—But one brief day
To love that changes not, that ne'er can sleep:
Eternal as the sun's unending ray,
And as the unfathomable ocean deep,
And full of God's own strength that folds all things
In ceaseless mantle of almighty wings.
84
SONNET VII. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
Ah! Beauty, let me wake thee with a kiss!
What? thou art matronly and married long?
Then all the sweeter shall be passion's song
And soft romance's tender-bosomed bliss!
Thou art growing old, thou sayest? Nay, what of this!
Passion repressed for centuries waxes strong:—
Lo! rose-winged red-lipped love-thoughts round thee throng,
And August love is sweet as spring's, I wis?
What? thou art matronly and married long?
Then all the sweeter shall be passion's song
And soft romance's tender-bosomed bliss!
Thou art growing old, thou sayest? Nay, what of this!
Passion repressed for centuries waxes strong:—
Lo! rose-winged red-lipped love-thoughts round thee throng,
And August love is sweet as spring's, I wis?
Ah! Beauty, let me wake thee from thy sleep
And touch the lips and kiss the lashes deep—
(What matter if he hears us!—help is near.
See! underneath thy window on the lake
Night's silver ripples round a boat's prow shake:)
Lock thou thine hand in mine,—and have no fear!
And touch the lips and kiss the lashes deep—
(What matter if he hears us!—help is near.
See! underneath thy window on the lake
Night's silver ripples round a boat's prow shake:)
Lock thou thine hand in mine,—and have no fear!
86
SONNET X. LONELY.
Alone!—And yet the poet hath the sun,—
And for his lonely gaze the stars are fair,
And the sweet June-wind dallieth with his hair,
And strange wild sea-shores hath his footing won.
But ah! the sadness,—to be known of none
Save of the cold-lipped gruesome bride, Despair!
The weight of genius-thought alone to bear;
Alone,—alone; till life and death be done.
And for his lonely gaze the stars are fair,
And the sweet June-wind dallieth with his hair,
And strange wild sea-shores hath his footing won.
But ah! the sadness,—to be known of none
Save of the cold-lipped gruesome bride, Despair!
The weight of genius-thought alone to bear;
Alone,—alone; till life and death be done.
The poet hath the roses and the sky,
But not the sympathy his spirit seeks.
Is it a soul-delivering thing to lie
Amid sea-poppies by grey winding creeks
Or on the hills whereo'er the white mists fly,—
Waiting the gold-winged word no woman speaks?
But not the sympathy his spirit seeks.
Is it a soul-delivering thing to lie
Amid sea-poppies by grey winding creeks
Or on the hills whereo'er the white mists fly,—
Waiting the gold-winged word no woman speaks?
89
SONNET XII. VENUS.
But in warm arms as fragrant as of old
Venus received him,—and she lulled to sleep
The weary soul, and made soft darkness deep
Over and round him with her hair of gold.
She kissed the dead pale lips that, loud and bold,
Had sung of her where England's wild waves leap:—
The mouth that by green down and chalky steep,
Fatigueless ever, her renown had told.
Venus received him,—and she lulled to sleep
The weary soul, and made soft darkness deep
Over and round him with her hair of gold.
She kissed the dead pale lips that, loud and bold,
Had sung of her where England's wild waves leap:—
The mouth that by green down and chalky steep,
Fatigueless ever, her renown had told.
And this was his reward,—the eternal kiss
Of Venus, and her arms wherein to rest,
And the soft fragrance of her perfect breast.
This was his heaven of old-world endless bliss.
What did it matter if a world forsook,
When in white deathless clasp his soul she took!
Of Venus, and her arms wherein to rest,
And the soft fragrance of her perfect breast.
This was his heaven of old-world endless bliss.
What did it matter if a world forsook,
When in white deathless clasp his soul she took!
91
SONNET XIII. “THOU COULD'ST NOT WATCH WITH ME!”
Thou could'st not watch with me!—The flowers are thine
Soft in the valleys,—where the blue stream speeds
By banks of osier and the bending reeds,
And where the sunlit golden ripples shine.
The foaming white salt sea-waves' crested line,
And the blue-gentianed austere mountain-meads,
And snow-fields whence thy traitor foot recedes,
And the far dim laborious peaks,—are mine.
Soft in the valleys,—where the blue stream speeds
By banks of osier and the bending reeds,
And where the sunlit golden ripples shine.
The foaming white salt sea-waves' crested line,
And the blue-gentianed austere mountain-meads,
And snow-fields whence thy traitor foot recedes,
And the far dim laborious peaks,—are mine.
O thou whose hazel eyes so pure and deep
Should towards far splendid heights have led the way,
Hadst thou no holy watch with me to keep?
The dark is lessening, and the pale morn's grey
Glimmers. O girl-heart, art thou still asleep?
And girl-lips, have ye no sweet word to say?
Should towards far splendid heights have led the way,
Hadst thou no holy watch with me to keep?
The dark is lessening, and the pale morn's grey
Glimmers. O girl-heart, art thou still asleep?
And girl-lips, have ye no sweet word to say?
92
SONNET XVII. THE CHILD.
And now the child is gone.—Her simple woes
Will torture thine almighty brain no more.
Thou art free,—thou art free! Thy shackled life is o'er:
Her death wide open life's gold gateway throws.
Thou hast thy longed-for infinite repose!
Now thou mayest ponder on the lonely shore
Uninterrupted, and thy soul outpour:
No more the stream of questions by thee flows.
Will torture thine almighty brain no more.
Thou art free,—thou art free! Thy shackled life is o'er:
Her death wide open life's gold gateway throws.
Thou hast thy longed-for infinite repose!
Now thou mayest ponder on the lonely shore
Uninterrupted, and thy soul outpour:
No more the stream of questions by thee flows.
Silence is thine. And is the silence rest?—
I asked the question: and I was aware
Of a lone man who beat upon his breast,
And sighed, and groaned to the unanswering air,
“All fame and genius would I give to hold
Once more in mine the child's hand as of old!”
I asked the question: and I was aware
Of a lone man who beat upon his breast,
And sighed, and groaned to the unanswering air,
“All fame and genius would I give to hold
Once more in mine the child's hand as of old!”
96
SONNET XIX. THE SOUTHERN PASSION.
I held a woman fairer than the sun,
And marvelled as she kissed me. Was I set
Beside the seas the eyes of Shelley met?
Had I the Italian dark-haired rapture won?—
I seemed no longer where our dim streams run
And where the leaves with ceaseless storms are wet:—
The woman's long loose hair was black as jet;
Its scent stayed with me when the kiss was done.
And marvelled as she kissed me. Was I set
Beside the seas the eyes of Shelley met?
Had I the Italian dark-haired rapture won?—
I seemed no longer where our dim streams run
And where the leaves with ceaseless storms are wet:—
The woman's long loose hair was black as jet;
Its scent stayed with me when the kiss was done.
The glory of Southern passion filled my mind,
And pale seemed even Venus' locks of gold
And poor and worthless by those black locks twined
Over the brow some god had bent to mould:
And her warm starlike eyes seemed sweeter things
Than any colder gaze our Northland brings.
And pale seemed even Venus' locks of gold
And poor and worthless by those black locks twined
Over the brow some god had bent to mould:
And her warm starlike eyes seemed sweeter things
Than any colder gaze our Northland brings.
98
SONNET XXV. “SOMETHING WAS WANTING.”
Though the sun slept upon the yellow sand,
And though the ferns waved idly in the breeze,
And though the green resplendent sun-kissed trees
Lifted tall gracious heads on either hand,—
And though the purple heather filled the land,
And the pine-odour wafted o'er the leas
Seemed softer than the salt strong scent of seas,—
I felt a pain I could not understand.
And though the ferns waved idly in the breeze,
And though the green resplendent sun-kissed trees
Lifted tall gracious heads on either hand,—
And though the purple heather filled the land,
And the pine-odour wafted o'er the leas
Seemed softer than the salt strong scent of seas,—
I felt a pain I could not understand.
Something was wanting.—Then I climbed a hill
And the blue Brighton downs beneath their haze
Stretched far before me. With one wild soul-thrill
And one long eager tearful burning gaze
I yearned towards these, and felt my heart grow still:
Then turned again to the green woodland ways.
And the blue Brighton downs beneath their haze
Stretched far before me. With one wild soul-thrill
And one long eager tearful burning gaze
I yearned towards these, and felt my heart grow still:
Then turned again to the green woodland ways.
104
SONNET XXIX. CHRIST AND ENGLAND.
Nay! but our own dear land thou shalt not hold,
Lord Christ. Thou hast thy white-walled Eastern town,
And thine own endless worshipful renown,
And heaven's own sunlit heights, and towers of gold.—
Not thine the English wild furze-yellowed wold;
Not thine the breeze that sweeps green hill and down;
Not thine the roses that our gardens crown;
Not thine our sea-winds ululant and bold.
Lord Christ. Thou hast thy white-walled Eastern town,
And thine own endless worshipful renown,
And heaven's own sunlit heights, and towers of gold.—
Not thine the English wild furze-yellowed wold;
Not thine the breeze that sweeps green hill and down;
Not thine the roses that our gardens crown;
Not thine our sea-winds ululant and bold.
Rest where thou art, lest thou shouldst have a fall.—
The storm is in our spirits, and the sea;
The skies' grim armies hearken at our call,
And the grey mountain-vapours round us flee,
And murmurous ocean girds us like a wall.
We are content. We have no need of thee.
The storm is in our spirits, and the sea;
The skies' grim armies hearken at our call,
And the grey mountain-vapours round us flee,
And murmurous ocean girds us like a wall.
We are content. We have no need of thee.
108
SONNET XXX. CHRIST AND WOMAN.
Nor shalt thou hold our women. Their grey eyes,
Filled with the grey shine of the sea that stems
Our shore and all the golden sand-line hems,
Smile at thy visions of blue deathless skies.—
Rest thou content at home if thou be wise,
And bathe white feet in Jordan, not in Thames;
And seek the heavenly rubied diadems,
But not the crowns our womanhood supplies.
Filled with the grey shine of the sea that stems
Our shore and all the golden sand-line hems,
Smile at thy visions of blue deathless skies.—
Rest thou content at home if thou be wise,
And bathe white feet in Jordan, not in Thames;
And seek the heavenly rubied diadems,
But not the crowns our womanhood supplies.
No great pure English woman-heart is thine.—
Thou hast thy maidens,—and they are most fair,
With Eastern brown eyes and the Eastern hair,
Born in the sultry land of fig and vine:
Thou art the rightful lord and ruler there:
Thou rulest not the land of oak and pine.
Thou hast thy maidens,—and they are most fair,
With Eastern brown eyes and the Eastern hair,
Born in the sultry land of fig and vine:
Thou art the rightful lord and ruler there:
Thou rulest not the land of oak and pine.
109
SONNET XXXI. A QUESTION.
And can he spread wide songful burning wings
And through the heavenly void thy spirit bear?
And can he twine soft love-flowers in thine hair,
Fresh with the pearly dew each new morn brings?
Can he do any or all of these glad things?—
And art thou unto him surpassing fair,—
And is thy touch as sweet as summer air
Circling the patient head of him who sings?
And through the heavenly void thy spirit bear?
And can he twine soft love-flowers in thine hair,
Fresh with the pearly dew each new morn brings?
Can he do any or all of these glad things?—
And art thou unto him surpassing fair,—
And is thy touch as sweet as summer air
Circling the patient head of him who sings?
And can he bring thee in his arms the bliss
Of leaves and winds and seasons full of glee
And endless tender roses,—hath he this
Song-force of soul wherewith to encounter me?
And can he give thee through his lips the kiss
And living breath of all the inviolate sea?
Of leaves and winds and seasons full of glee
And endless tender roses,—hath he this
Song-force of soul wherewith to encounter me?
And can he give thee through his lips the kiss
And living breath of all the inviolate sea?
110
SONNET XXXII. “LO! ONE CALLS.”
Oh, though the wife be close by day, by night,
And though the husband gaze within her eyes,
And though his hand upon her bosom lies,
And though her body wonderful and white
Be spread before him for a common sight,
And though her passive lips towards his lips rise,—
Love round about the sleepers mocking flies
And flashes laughter from his glances bright!
And though the husband gaze within her eyes,
And though his hand upon her bosom lies,
And though her body wonderful and white
Be spread before him for a common sight,
And though her passive lips towards his lips rise,—
Love round about the sleepers mocking flies
And flashes laughter from his glances bright!
Not all these things shall hold her.—Lo! one calls,
And wrapped in silent cloak anigh the door
She stands,—and the soft moon-rays round her pour;
Now, close beside, her lover's footstep falls,
And towards the lakeside bower they wend their way:
“Passion's sweet God be with them both!” I say.
And wrapped in silent cloak anigh the door
She stands,—and the soft moon-rays round her pour;
Now, close beside, her lover's footstep falls,
And towards the lakeside bower they wend their way:
“Passion's sweet God be with them both!” I say.
111
SONNET XXXIII. RED DAWN.
“Hark! is he sleeping?—Let the soft lips meet.
Who knows? the bright June morning may flame red,
Yea scarlet round about this white dim bed
Where all seems now so moon-caressed and sweet.
Ah! sweetheart, how thy tender heart doth beat!
Let me kiss every trembling pulse instead,
And kiss thy limbs,—kiss upward to thine head;
Thrice-rapturous are the night hours,—yet how fleet!
Who knows? the bright June morning may flame red,
Yea scarlet round about this white dim bed
Where all seems now so moon-caressed and sweet.
Ah! sweetheart, how thy tender heart doth beat!
Let me kiss every trembling pulse instead,
And kiss thy limbs,—kiss upward to thine head;
Thrice-rapturous are the night hours,—yet how fleet!
“Is that the morning at the window-pane?
Let the wild burning red lips cling once more!
Ha! the swift sudden sword-flash at the door:
Kiss me; I wait; do thou the garden gain”—
She would not leave him. That dark evil stain
Is where their hearts' blood fountained on the floor.
Let the wild burning red lips cling once more!
Ha! the swift sudden sword-flash at the door:
Kiss me; I wait; do thou the garden gain”—
She would not leave him. That dark evil stain
Is where their hearts' blood fountained on the floor.
112
SONNET XXXIV. FAIRY LAND.
I fell asleep, and dreamed of Fairy Land.—
Of cruel monsters with red savage eyes,
And yellow snowdrops, and strange twilight skies:
A blue-haired fairy took me by the hand
And led me towards a Palace where a band
Of fays, with locks like the pink fronds that rise
Within the sea-waves, danced in gleesome wise:—
Then came the Fairy Queen with golden wand.
Of cruel monsters with red savage eyes,
And yellow snowdrops, and strange twilight skies:
A blue-haired fairy took me by the hand
And led me towards a Palace where a band
Of fays, with locks like the pink fronds that rise
Within the sea-waves, danced in gleesome wise:—
Then came the Fairy Queen with golden wand.
She moved to meet me. When my eyes met hers,
I felt along my veins a sudden thrill,
As when the passionate young blood leaps and stirs:—
I woke: I lay upon a low sand-hill
'Mid gold sea-poppies and the gaunt grey furze—
But that Queen's hazel glances haunt me still.
I felt along my veins a sudden thrill,
As when the passionate young blood leaps and stirs:—
I woke: I lay upon a low sand-hill
'Mid gold sea-poppies and the gaunt grey furze—
But that Queen's hazel glances haunt me still.
113
SONNET XXXV. BALACLAVA.
Along the valley the wild riders speed.—
This is the complement of Waterloo:
That showed what English infantry could do:
To-day the horsemen win fame's deathless meed.
Horsemen and infantry are one indeed;
The horsemen are the English fiery soul
Loosened at length from years of still control,—
The others are the calm that did precede.
This is the complement of Waterloo:
That showed what English infantry could do:
To-day the horsemen win fame's deathless meed.
Horsemen and infantry are one indeed;
The horsemen are the English fiery soul
Loosened at length from years of still control,—
The others are the calm that did precede.
When English horse and English foot combine,
Who shall withstand that red tremendous line
Holding both passions of the English race,—
The calm still passion of its pent-up strength,
And fury as of the Light Brigade at length
Free for that fiery blood-splashed charge and chase!
Who shall withstand that red tremendous line
Holding both passions of the English race,—
The calm still passion of its pent-up strength,
And fury as of the Light Brigade at length
Free for that fiery blood-splashed charge and chase!
114
SONNET XXXIX. NOT CHRIST, BUT CHRIST'S GOD.
Though Christ we need not, yet the God who shone
Upon the Jewish hero's soul we need.
Though we despise the grey-beard Church's creed,
Christ we despise not,—nor his image wan
Upon the canvas of vast centuries gone:
The tender heart that for the race did bleed
We reverence, and to its great thoughts give heed,—
Yet the huge surge of Progress thundereth on!
Upon the Jewish hero's soul we need.
Though we despise the grey-beard Church's creed,
Christ we despise not,—nor his image wan
Upon the canvas of vast centuries gone:
The tender heart that for the race did bleed
We reverence, and to its great thoughts give heed,—
Yet the huge surge of Progress thundereth on!
The God of Christ we yearn for more than we
Desire the Hebrew. 'Mid our lanes of rose,—
Where the soft clinging honeysuckle grows
And scents the shoreside,—by our own wild sea,—
We would with God the eternal Father be;—
Not in one heart alone God's Spirit glows.
Desire the Hebrew. 'Mid our lanes of rose,—
Where the soft clinging honeysuckle grows
And scents the shoreside,—by our own wild sea,—
We would with God the eternal Father be;—
Not in one heart alone God's Spirit glows.
| An Actor's Reminiscences and Other Poems | |