In a garden and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The breeze of Spring is not so blithe,
The sea-gull not so free,
No silver fish so light and lithe
To wind in the green sea.
Nor e'er did subtle alchemist
Compound such wondrous dyes
Of sapphire sky and emerald mist
As the hue of Barbara's eyes.

The wind goes wavering thro' the grass,
The sea-gull circles high,
The golden sunbeams in a mass
Break from a rift of sky.
But I may bind the wind as well,
Or scale the gull's high nest,
As ever hope the gold to tell
That flows round Barbara's breast.

ACCIDIA

There breathes a sense of Spring in the boon air:
The woods are amber, purple, misty red,
Primrose and violet rouse them from their bed,
Their skiey homes the patient rooks repair;
Everywhere hope is rife, joy everywhere;
But I thy heart lie yet unquickenèd,
And bleating lambs and larks that sing o'erhead
Charm not away my sluggish cold despair.

Peace, peace, fond heart; thy spring-tide is not this;
Thy sap of joy mounted, though flowers were sere,
That day, though leaves fell thick before the West.
Nor grudge nor envy thou a natural bliss.
Birds keep their season, thou through all the year
May'st sing thy song, soar skyward, make thy nest.

LOVE THE MASKER

(Anacreontic)

I.

On a summer day,
Under leaves for sky,
Stretched at ease we lay.

When the heat gan die,
When the light grew mild,
Came there wandering by,

O, a lovely child,
Fair as the Winged Boy,
Came and looked and smiled.

“Stay, here's many a toy,
Child, whoe'er you be.”
Said he, “I am Joy.”

So he stayed, and we
Crowned his hair with buds,
Bent and bowed the knee,

Brought him Summer's goods
Made him king for play
In the leafy woods.

“Now, child, home away,
We have kept you long.”
But the child would stay.

“Sing then one last song,
Sing and go,” we said,
“Night may do you wrong.”

Then we kissed the red
Darling lips, and he
Homeward wandered.

II.

On a winter's night
When the storm was o'er
And the snow lay white,

I unlatched the door,
Drawn to watch the moon
Shining keen and frore.

There upon the stone
Crouched a child, behold!
Sleeping or in swoon.

Ah, his face was cold,
Pinched and wan and thin
'Neath his hair of gold.

“Chafing heat may win;
Quick, or the child dies.”
So we chafed his skin;

Till with many sighs
Th' eyelids opened,
Then we saw his eyes.

“O, sweet Joy,” we said,
“O our summer king,
Thou wert all but dead.

Say what luckless thing
Drove thee thro' the snow,
Hither wandering?”

“Nay, my name is Woe,”
Said the child, “nor where
Am I, do I know,

Nor who pay me care:
But I must away,
On my journey fare.”

“Nay, our darling, nay,
Whatso thy name be,
Hither didst thou stray;

We have longed for thee,
We have found and saved;
Ours thou art, agree.”

But his gold locks waved
As he shook his head,
Laughed, and echoed “saved”!

Then his wings light-spread
Beat, and he was gone,
And we worshipped.

LOVE AND DUTY

O blue eyes, bright with sapphire blaze,
Dear mantling cheek, a ruby fire,
My eyes, 'tis, light the light I praise,
Your cheek on mine that flushes higher.

Ah, could these fires their force sustain,
Each draw from each and find no loss—
Nay, waxing as the pulses wane
Reforge the heart and purge its dross!

Think it not; all things slide away;
Nor can love's light and heat abide,
Tho' eyes on eyes be fixed alway,
And cheek be ever cheek beside.

Yet if that star, of many one,
Which blazes stedfast o'er our head,
Lead up our eyes, as each day's done,
And thro' our eyes its influence shed,

Till thro' our hearts there flows with peace
Of equal pulse the same desire,—
Then eyes and cheeks shall never cease
To glow and feed each other's fire.

LOCA SENTA SITU

The rushes stand where the rushes stood,
Stiff and tall, but the lake is dry;
They will stand so still in the lonely wood,
Till the world shall die.

No wind makes rustle the weary reeds;
The gentle gale and the rushing blast
As they follow where spring or the storm-king leads,
Pause aghast.

The red sun flames with a steady light,
No smallest cloud in the brazen skies;
The moon looks down with a pale affright
In her quiet eyes.

No song of bird can now come near,
No buzz of insect ever again,
No ripple of pleasant water, or tear
Of the dripping rain.

The reeds stand now where the reeds then stood,
Above them hangs the silent sky;
Around them shivers the lonely wood,
And the lake is dry.

SONG

[Is this the spring that wanders]

Is this the spring that wanders
With sad and wistful eyes,
And idly inly ponders
The grey and vacant skies?
Is this true spring or seeming
That sits with sunken head?
O yes, for she is dreaming
Of winter that is dead.

Is this the spring that quickens
The violets in the vale,
And all the woodland thickens
With primrose-blossoms pale?
Is this true spring or seeming
That smiles along the way?
O yes, for she is dreaming
Of laughter of the May.

WHISPERS AT COURT

October

I

Come away, away,
Summer at length is sped.
Was ever a King so gay?
And now he lieth dead.
Kiss we his brother's hand,
Who reigns in the Southern land.

II

Stay and see, and see;
Summer was glorious,
But gorgeous pageantry
Doth little profit us.
His Queen (if truth be told)
Will scatter abroad his gold.

November

I

Come now, O come,
Autumn her gold hath spent;
And through the palace doth roam
Moaning her discontent.
Her voice is shrill and drear,
A weariness to hear.

II

Stay yet, O stay,
Winter will reign to-night.
Did you not mark to-day
His bitter smile in her sight?
He hath a plot, I ween,
To carry captive the Queen.

AVE ATQUE VALE

The beech has fallen in the gale,
The gentle beech we loved so long.
Alas, could wintry winds avail
To work such envious wrong!

No more shall April make thee brave
With silken leaves, nor e'er again
Thy streaming tresses toss and wave
Flashing their gems of rain;

While haply sheltering boy or maid
Looks startled up, and deems he sees
The green, pale light thro' roofs of jade
In fairy palaces.

No more shall mavis to his mate
Warble, or gossip sparrows cheep
In thy loved bowers, or jackdaws prate
On caucus matters deep;

Or sweet May's bird his mystery ply
Cutting smooth jewels of ringing song,
To grace with trembling ecstasy
Night's ear, that waited long.

Who planted thee, I know; and praise
His ghost, and here within my hall
(That once was his,) have set his face,
For a memorial;—

A stately priest with powdered hair,
In cassock trim and decent bands;
My fancy sees him fix thee there
With tender, fostering hands.

Goodbye; low lying at my feet
I hail, I wail thee as my sire,
And with due rites and dirges meet
Will light thy funeral pyre.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE IN SEPTEMBER

(Villanelle)

Child of the muses and the moon,
O nightingale, return and sing,
Thy song is over all too soon.

Let not night's quire yield place to noon,
To this red breast thy tawny wing,
Child of the muses and the moon.

Sing us once more the old sad tune
Pandion heard when he was king,
Thy song is over all too soon.

Night after night thro' leafy June
The stars were hush'd and listening,
Child of the muses and the moon.

Now new moons grow to plenilune
And wane, but no new music bring,
Thy song is over all too soon.

Ah, thou art weary! well, sleep on,
Sleep till the sun brings back the Spring;
Thy song is over all too soon,
Child of the muses and the moon.

NIDDERDALE

Two things I love in this most lovely dale:
A stream of amber water, clear and chill,
O'er slope stones slipping, or at wayward will
Breaking smooth silence to a silver tale;
A fir-wood then, fanned by a gentle gale
To loose its scent; within the trunks are still,
And pillar a dark shrine for dreams to fill;
Between the stems the unsunned grass is pale.

Two things I loved; but thou, O lovelier
Than these, hast all that these were worth to me;
Thy clearer eyes know more of change and stir
Than all the brooks, thy tongue more melody;
And 'neath thy shadowy hair, thy serene face
Makes sanctuary in the holy place.

GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE

A Boy's Song

With lifted feet, hands still,
I am poised, and down the hill
Dart, with heedful mind;
The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,
Till the heart, with a mighty lift,
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—
“O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

Is this, is this your joy,
O bird, then I, though a boy,
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!”

Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss?
'Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;
Till when the wheels scarce crawl,
My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill
Must end in a vale; but still,
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,
Shall find wings waiting there.

NATURAL HERALDRY

The rain is over, that so long
Has chilled the tender-hearted May;
Chaffinch and thrush resume their song:
Come, children, come: come out to play;
Leave crests and shields, and con with me
A still more antique heraldry.

See, in a field of azure sky,
Whose tincture glows without a stain,
Mid argent clouds dispersedly
The sun in splendour shines again;
While of them both the fountains flow
In barry-wavy streams below.

Here on a mount are fir and beech,
And counterchanged by every breeze
Leaves of all foils; and flowers each
Proper, in chief the fleur-de-lis;
And look where barbed and seeded blows
Argent and gules the rival rose.

Two-headed eagles are not here,
Or crested peacocks in their pride,
But two-legged martlets build, and steer
With wings displayed their circles wide;
And emulate with grub and fly
Your pelican in her piety.

In this field vert, parted per pale,
No lion ramps or gryphon prances
But Dobbin whisks a coupèd tail,
And Meg as salient as a lance is;
And what supporter could surpass
Lucius, our sturdy golden ass?

i.e., of argent and azure.

SOME FLOWERS

Poets sing you fancies
About Love and Death,
Night and Day.
Do not give them pansies;
“That's for thoughts,” one saith:
Give them bay.

If the soldier's quarrel
Be for right, not might,
God and King,
Let them bind the laurel
Round his brows at night,
Glorying.

For the lover roses,
Roses for his love,
Till they die;
When the churchyard closes
O'er them, strew above
Rosemary.

For the parson rueful,
Herb of grace, not sense,
Here is rue;
Let the sleepy pewful,
With a difference,
Wear it too.

TRIOLET

Under the sun
There's nothing new;
Poem or pun,
Under the sun,
Said Solomon,
And he said true,
Under the sun
There's nothing new.