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123
OTHER POEMS.
125
IN MEMORIAM.
EDWARD WILLIAM GODWIN.
Obiit. Oct. 1886.
A man of men, born to be genial king,By frank election, of the artist kind,
Attempting all things, and on everything
Setting the signet of a master mind.
What others dreamed amiss, he did aright:
His dreams were visions of art's golden age:
Yet, self-betrayed, he fell in Fortune's spite,
His royal birthright sold for scanty wage.
The best of comrades, winning old and young
With keen audacious charm, dandling the fool
That pleased his humour, but with scathing tongue
For blatant pedants of the bungler school.
They tell me he had faults—I know of one:
Dying too soon, he left his best undone.
126
ON A PERFORMANCE OF
THE FAITHFULL SHEPHERDESSE
BY THE “PASTORAL PLAYERS” AT COOMBE HOUSE.
If, from the Elysian haunt of Poets dead,Honey-tongued Fletcher, ever thou dost look
On this world's change, sad for some wasted nook
Or sylvan glade familiar to thy tread;
Jovially now, bending thy laurelled head,
Smile: at thy song, great Pan, who in wrath forsook
Our woods, is come again; the pastoral crook
Leads in Arcadia, toil with beauty wed.
O shepherds blithe, fleet nymphs, whose linkèd glee
Sisters Victoria with Elizabeth,
Dance on immortal in our mortal sun:
The hymns ye move to have no note of death,
Ye shine, life's golden victories yet unwon—
The unfulfilled fair dreams of poesy!
127
SONG.
1
Lead forth into the morning, lead me forth,Child with a gleam of morning in thine eyes;
For the dawn kindles, and the hawthorn-buds
Breathe now their earliest orisons of joy.
2
Thou leadest me, like joy, with wingèd feet,Child with delight of sunshine in thine eyes,
Where wake the larks in meadows drenched with dawn,
To meet Love, led by Day, upon the hills.
128
BACCHIC DAY.
A day of many days, a day supreme,
When, in mid May, young Summer like a child,
Sits in the lap of Spring! A nightingale,
Preluding low in the dim, dripping woods,
Makes morn acquainted with the heart of Night,
Of sad voluptuous Night, who loves to keep
Her state within these thickets of the Spring.
When, in mid May, young Summer like a child,
Sits in the lap of Spring! A nightingale,
Preluding low in the dim, dripping woods,
Makes morn acquainted with the heart of Night,
Of sad voluptuous Night, who loves to keep
Her state within these thickets of the Spring.
But now Day triumphs, and in dewy paths
Where rhododendrons trim their orient lamps
Of pale exotic fire, to homage him,
Glows like the Indian Bacchus. Every brake,
Stirred by the fluttering of some weak-winged thrush
Yet young in the world, is all ablaze with him;
In odorous flame his golden presence walks,
Glad, through the bushes burning unconsumed,
And through the antlered bracken, that will soon
Shadow the withering bluebells—fainting now
At the first kiss of Summer.
Where rhododendrons trim their orient lamps
Of pale exotic fire, to homage him,
Glows like the Indian Bacchus. Every brake,
Stirred by the fluttering of some weak-winged thrush
Yet young in the world, is all ablaze with him;
In odorous flame his golden presence walks,
Glad, through the bushes burning unconsumed,
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Shadow the withering bluebells—fainting now
At the first kiss of Summer.
Day the god,
Come conquering from the east, invades my spirit,
Which dwelt abandoned, in a sullen gloom,
The mate of desolation, stretched vain arms
After a traitor hope; and now leaps up
To clasp a sudden and imperious joy.
Come conquering from the east, invades my spirit,
Which dwelt abandoned, in a sullen gloom,
The mate of desolation, stretched vain arms
After a traitor hope; and now leaps up
To clasp a sudden and imperious joy.
130
HAVELOCK THE GULL.
PART FIRST.
1
The brown spring tide came frothing up the strand,Under the scourge of a gale. I watched the fleet
Remorseless waves eat up the shrinking sand,
When something fluttered seaward from my feet.
2
Twas a young gull—a wild and startled thing;By some deep instinct of man's cruelty
Driven to seek, with rash half-plumèd wing,
Refuge and kinship in the unquiet sea.
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3
A valorous heart beat in that bosom white:Breaker on breaker cleaving, as he sought
The freedom of the deep, a gallant fight
That baby sea-bird with old Ocean fought.
4
In vain! His oary feet what boots him ply?Short voyage might he make for all his pain;
For when his hard-won victory seemed most nigh
The bursting surge would hurl him back again.
5
Poor heap of sand-smircht plumes, with dauntless eye,What wildness of the sea was in the shriek
With which it rose, for dearest liberty
To fight my capturing hand with wings and beak!
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6
I took my foundling home, beguiled each moodOf fierce defiant fear, or sullen gloom,
Till from our fingers he would snatch the food,
And flap his wings, and preen his draggled plume.
7
We called him Havelock, from the noble Dane,“Saved from the sea,” my wee girl said, “like him;”
For she had spelt the story out with pain
That very morn: “And, father, you're his Grim.”
8
Then rested, feasted, warmed, we bore him back,And left him there in ease with liberty,
Snug in the bents, above the shingle black,
To sleep, and dream of his beloved sea.
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PART SECOND.
1
Next morn we rose, the child to save our scrapsFor Havelock's breakfast, chattering: “He'll grow tame,
Because he'll see we love him; and perhaps
He'll soon come flying when we call his name.
2
“And then, when we are leaving in the train,Oh! wouldn't it be nice if he should fly
In from the sea, and peck the window-pane,
And scream? That's how a bird would say ‘Good-bye!’”
3
I went to seek him o'er the gusty beach,And marked the strow of upcast things the surge
Had marvellously sifted each from each,
Sand here, stones there, drift on the weedy verge.
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4
But when at length I came to Havelock's lairI found a fragment of his last night's meal,
And one poor feather; but no Havelock there;
Nor sight nor sign to hint his woe or weal;
5
Save a fresh tracklet in the drifted sandBelow the bents, lost in the gravel soon,
Which told how, boldly making for the strand,
He had slipt and fluttered down the tiny dune.
6
That morn the tide, roaring perpetually,Nigher and nigher, roused him from his bed:
The creature heard the calling of the sea,
And sought its ancient bosom without dread.
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7
Where was he now? I hoped him safely steeredThrough the wild surf, his feathery kin to seek;
And yet I feared the sea, and more I feared
The thousand foes that war against the weak.
8
And so I wandered on in dreamy mood,And picked up shells, and mused of other things,
Till, on a spit the churning surge bestrewed
With flickering foam,—was that the flap of wings?
9
Yes, it was he; the worrying waves awhileHad left him spent in the spent foam. Alack!
He had fought the breakers all a weary mile,
And there he lay, flung baffled on his back.
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10
Ah, my poor Havelock! stranded just alive,Too late I came, too late to succour thee!
How bravely the world's beaten things may strive!
What waifs abide the sifting of the sea!
11
I took him up—too weak, poor bird, to peckThe hands that held him; and with piteous stare
He seemed to gaze for light; with stiffening neck
Updrawn into his breast, to strain for air.
12
A few great gasps with his wide-gaping bill,And then he gasped no more; his gallant head
Drooped, and for aye his dauntless heart stood still,
The damp chill-feathered thing I bore was dead.
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13
We dug a grave next morning by the shore,With wooden spade we dug it mournfully,
And there we laid our Havelock, and once more
Left him to sleep by his beloved sea.
138
THREE WITCHES.
Methought I saw three sexless things of stormLike Macbèth's witches; creatures of the curse
That broods, the nightmare of the universe,
Over the womb and mortal birth of form;
And, cloudlike in their train, a vampyre swarm
Of hovering ills, each than the other worse,
Lecheries and hates that make the world a hearse
Wherein the infant Life is coffined warm.
Said the first Witch: “I am Lust, the worm that feeds
Upon the buds of love.” The second said:
“I am the tyrant's tyrant, cruel Fear.”
The third: “I am the blight of evil deeds,
The murrain of sick souls;” and in my ear
Whispered a name of paralysing dread.
139
TO SLEEP.
“SLEEP THAT KNITS UP THE RAVELLED SLEAVE
OF CARE.”
Come, gentle Sleep, who to the shores of life
Walk'st o'er the waters of death's pulseless deep,
Come, with thy poppies drowse my fluttering brain!
Give me to drink, enchantress, of thy cup:
Not absolute Lethe, but, mingled in love,
Dark dews, to allay the ambrosial quintessence
Of golden consolation and deep rest!
Walk'st o'er the waters of death's pulseless deep,
Come, with thy poppies drowse my fluttering brain!
Give me to drink, enchantress, of thy cup:
Not absolute Lethe, but, mingled in love,
Dark dews, to allay the ambrosial quintessence
Of golden consolation and deep rest!
Some say thou art Death's sister. Oh! be now
Mother of Life! Renew thy dewy spell,
To stay the onset of too fiery thoughts
Which vex the soul, and waste, but nought achieve.
Bring in thy train, not Death's blood-chilling brood,
But the deft-fingered daughters of brown health,
To knit the fibres of my ravelled brain.
Mother of Life! Renew thy dewy spell,
To stay the onset of too fiery thoughts
Which vex the soul, and waste, but nought achieve.
Bring in thy train, not Death's blood-chilling brood,
But the deft-fingered daughters of brown health,
To knit the fibres of my ravelled brain.
140
TO MELANCHOLY,
TO RENEW OLD FRIENDSHIP.
1
O Melancholy, thou and I were friends;But now Despair
Hath dulled thy glimmering hair,
And turned thy heart's rich gloom to his own ends,
Who wast so debonair!
2
Lo! eve's lone star wooes thee from thy ill trance:Bats with their wings,
All shy twy-natured things,
By owl-light work thy dun deliverance,
While the lulling nightjar sings.
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3
Then, Melancholy, be my friend again,Let not Despair
Lay waste thy shadowing hair,
And coldly kill thy heart's voluptuous pain,
Thy lover's love to share.
4
Wander once more upon thy mission holy,Sing with the sad,
Talk with the moodful mad,
And, in Despair's despite, sweet Melancholy,
Give me—what once I had!
142
AN AUTUMN DAY.
1.
Shrouded comes Autumn walkingThrough glimmering woodland and waste,
And with misty breath she quells
The leaves and dreams of Spring.
The robin warbles in dripping glades,
On grassy hillocks the swallows crowd,
Brooding their southward flight.
2.
For the migratory sunDeserts his northern nest,
In the creeping chill its dying brood
Pines for the warmth of his wing;
And, where harvesters reaped and sang,
The gaunt o'erteemèd Earth
Sees spectres walking amid the sheaves:
Season of visions, hail!
143
TO THE ROBIN.
1
Art thou there, thou dauntless singer,Robin, art thou there?
Though the Autumn with his wind-flaws
Makes the branches bare.
2
Dauntless there shall Winter find thee,Even as now thou art,
Pouring songs in such a rapture
From as great a heart!
144
TO HOPE.
1
O gentle Hope, whose shy sweet eyesAre dearer than the soft blue skies
Of Spring to the o'erwintered earth,
Or to the woods forlorn the first dim violet's birth!
Where shall I find thee?
Wilt thou for ever, in thy wistful flight
After to-morrow's light,
Leave me behind thee?
2
Turn, and from yon far dawnlit shoreCome pacing through the wild uproar
Of the stern sea of wildering waves,
Where trade our mortal barks o'er their unresting graves:
Walk thou, their terror!
The vexèd surge, within whose briny pits
The floating sea-fowl sits,
Shall smile, thy mirror.
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RAIN.
The kindled clouds loom bright as burning smokeO'er the vast conflagration of the sky,
Rain in their folds, and inland heavily
Roll o'er the sodden fallows, all a-soak
Under the glowing sunset. Since I woke,
Till now with skirts updrawn sullenly fly
The hosts of gloom, has rain, rain rushing by,
Battered the woodlands with his watery stroke.
In baffled rage, tempestuous melancholy,
Throbs my oppress'd heart, as of one afar
From some last field of death and victory;
Who waits to hear his comrades' onset-volley,
Swordless and sick. What means this ghostly war?
What cause, what cloudy banner summons me?
| The banshee and other poems | |