Florien A Tragedy in Five Acts, and Other Poems. By Herman Charles Merivale |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
A LOST MORNING. |
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158
A LOST MORNING.
Oh, foolish world! The writer's necromancy
At times is powerless on the restive pen;
And the blank page reflects the lagging fancy,
Which has no message then.
At times is powerless on the restive pen;
And the blank page reflects the lagging fancy,
Which has no message then.
The honest schoolboy, of his cricket dreaming,
Could trace no ruder figures o'er the slate
Than those which yield my brain, with Nothing teeming,
Outlet articulate.
Could trace no ruder figures o'er the slate
Than those which yield my brain, with Nothing teeming,
Outlet articulate.
My tale of work, in well-considered order,
Lies fair before me on the laden desk;
But nothing in me speaks, save dreams that border
The grave with the grotesque.
Lies fair before me on the laden desk;
But nothing in me speaks, save dreams that border
The grave with the grotesque.
Plans jotted down for many-sided labour,
Invite in turn from various pigeon-holes,
Where the next story has some play for neighbour,
Stocked with imagined souls.
Invite in turn from various pigeon-holes,
Where the next story has some play for neighbour,
Stocked with imagined souls.
Yet spite of Will (o'er which men make such pother),
I cannot call one spirit from the deep,
Where all the thoughts, which crowded each on other,
Like very Merlin sleep.
I cannot call one spirit from the deep,
Where all the thoughts, which crowded each on other,
Like very Merlin sleep.
159
Is it the sweet and heavy hum of Summer,
Full charged with the mesmeric scent of thyme,
That, through my window an unbidden comer,
Dissolves them into rhyme?
Full charged with the mesmeric scent of thyme,
That, through my window an unbidden comer,
Dissolves them into rhyme?
Is it the Sun, in his new kinghood sharing
The message of pure luxury with me,
Which to the footsteps of his throne is bearing
The murmur of the sea?—
The message of pure luxury with me,
Which to the footsteps of his throne is bearing
The murmur of the sea?—
And whispering, “Rest thee, over-anxious mortal,
Awhile oblivious of the world's commands,
Content to offer at my golden portal
A chaplet from thy hands.
Awhile oblivious of the world's commands,
Content to offer at my golden portal
A chaplet from thy hands.
“E'en weave it as thou wilt; thy garden musters
Mute hints of ditties to inspire the lute;
And to thy lips and sense stoop mingled clusters
Of glowing flower and fruit.
Mute hints of ditties to inspire the lute;
And to thy lips and sense stoop mingled clusters
Of glowing flower and fruit.
“Bring me no ode of an heroic measure;
Tell me no tale; seek no satiric theme;
But merely babble, out of very pleasure,
Thine unconnected dream.”
Tell me no tale; seek no satiric theme;
But merely babble, out of very pleasure,
Thine unconnected dream.”
What could I answer? All the heat was singing,
The insect chorus hummed in undertone;
Slow to my feet my mighty dog was bringing
A too-exacting bone.
The insect chorus hummed in undertone;
Slow to my feet my mighty dog was bringing
A too-exacting bone.
160
So happy in mere happiness of living,
I let the hours slip unimprovëd by,
And, past the hope of cultured man's forgiving,
Thus “diem perdidi”.
I let the hours slip unimprovëd by,
And, past the hope of cultured man's forgiving,
Thus “diem perdidi”.
So have I writ lines that begin and end not,
An idle morning's thriftless castaway;
For whence they came, and whither tend or tend not,
Critic! 'tis thine to say.
An idle morning's thriftless castaway;
For whence they came, and whither tend or tend not,
Critic! 'tis thine to say.
Eastbourne, 2nd July, 1884.
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