Poems By William Bell Scott |
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| POEMS
OCCASIONALLY ADDRESSED TO “MIGNON.” |
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137
POEMS OCCASIONALLY ADDRESSED TO “MIGNON.”
I.A DREAM OF LOVE.
I had a dream more pleasant than the truth,
And pliant as 'twas pleasant,—must it be
Only a dream? A fancy that hath wreathed
A sunproof arbour round the sweltering brow—
Causing joy-flowers to bloom, and corbie care
To spread her wings; up-clambering round the heart
As a child rosy-faced with ignorant wiles,
Climbing a grey-beard's knees, doth make him laugh
With its innocuous mirth, although enforced
By plucking his frosted hairs:—can it be nought
But fancy?
And pliant as 'twas pleasant,—must it be
Only a dream? A fancy that hath wreathed
A sunproof arbour round the sweltering brow—
Causing joy-flowers to bloom, and corbie care
To spread her wings; up-clambering round the heart
As a child rosy-faced with ignorant wiles,
Climbing a grey-beard's knees, doth make him laugh
With its innocuous mirth, although enforced
By plucking his frosted hairs:—can it be nought
But fancy?
138
This it was. As through the street,
Where drays were jostling and the coachman's lash
Rang o'er the necks of his thin-haunched beasts,
I had on errand of importunate haste
Passed, till in weariness I slackened pace,
To mitigate the unseemly dusty heat,
By lingering within shadow a short while.
People in long tides passed me, and some looked
An instant vacantly, still hastening on,
Hurrying somewhere with a tedious thrift;
Unto the mart or workshop, desk or ship,
The church, the tavern, or the mall.
There was obstruction in their eyes, not death,
But an obstruction of the inmost soul:
They lived, yet lived not. Had I spoke to them
What then I felt, they would have thought me mad,
And each in his own sanity rejoiced!
Where drays were jostling and the coachman's lash
Rang o'er the necks of his thin-haunched beasts,
I had on errand of importunate haste
Passed, till in weariness I slackened pace,
To mitigate the unseemly dusty heat,
By lingering within shadow a short while.
People in long tides passed me, and some looked
An instant vacantly, still hastening on,
Hurrying somewhere with a tedious thrift;
Unto the mart or workshop, desk or ship,
The church, the tavern, or the mall.
There was obstruction in their eyes, not death,
But an obstruction of the inmost soul:
They lived, yet lived not. Had I spoke to them
What then I felt, they would have thought me mad,
And each in his own sanity rejoiced!
Anon a little boy came sauntering by,
Whistling a merry air, that, arrow-like,
Went through my memory, and a fair Dear one
Drew me with gentle hand into the haze
Of dream. A strange transition, yet not strange,
If all the links that brought her image near
Were marked; nor strange, since memories are involved
Together by the laws of harmonies.
Whistling a merry air, that, arrow-like,
Went through my memory, and a fair Dear one
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Of dream. A strange transition, yet not strange,
If all the links that brought her image near
Were marked; nor strange, since memories are involved
Together by the laws of harmonies.
I left the obdurate noise. Through paths of sward,
Where never cloud of dust had fallen, I reached
An opening in a wall of sapling boughs,
I entered, and within more still and cool
It was, and freshness through the air exhaled
From the green ground. Half dusk it was, for round
And round the branches wove a screen from heaven
Of darkest green and varied leaf, 'neath which
Flies thickly humming danced. Sometimes a bird
Flew quickly through, and as its wing might brush
The leaves about your head, it seemed to fear
That it had missed its way. Flowers too were there,
Sprinkled about amidst the grass which grows
Hair-like and thin beneath the shade; bluebells
Tinkling to the small breeze a bee might cause
And violets, and poppies red and rough
In stem. I passed still deeper through the wood
By this cool path: a wood more kindly cool,
Or harmless of dank poisons or vile beasts
That creep there cannot be, and yet so wild
And uncouth. Bushes of dusk fruit beside
The pathway from the ground piled up two walls
Of leaves and berries, from which flocked the birds
As I passed on, or lingered with dyed hands
Plucking them listless, and with profuse waste
Pressing their juice out. Other trees were there
Blossoming for a later month. And now,
As if from the champaign land afar, came sounds
Of hearty laughter, mellowed by the air,
Until it scarce was audible; and song,
Like a reaper's song, a very pleasant sound,
Betokening a clear breast, and heard beneath
A clear sky chequered by thick boughs, a sound
Right happy. So I also sang. The sun
Now found an opening through the stems, to fall
Upon my path; and as I walked, across
The flowers upon my right my shadow passed.
A butterfly with purple-velvet wings,
Invested with two lines of dusky gold
And spotted with red spots, upon these flowers
Was feeding, and anon as my shadow fell
Upon it, it flew up and went before,
Lighting again until I passed: and so
Continued it. The space more closed and closed
Became, and all between the trees were warped
Vine-twigs, and plants more fair than vines. Beneath
A slow stream likewise glent, and secretly
Fed spreading water-lilies, and long reeds
Heavy with seed, which might have made fair pipes,
Cut nicely by the joints, from whence a leaf
Depended. But I thought not of the task,
Watching my guide's dark wings, until the path
Seemed stayed by dense convolvolus and thorns
(Largely o'ergrown without the pruner's hands)
Of the red-hearted rose. But the dark fly lowered
Its flight till nigh the ground, and passed into
The mass of greenery by an interspace
Which I had seen not: with my hands I raised,
And parted with my head, full lazily,
The luscious screen at this same interspace.
Behold! beneath a peristyle I stand
Of short columnar palms, before me steps
Of thickest grass descend unto a space
Smooth tapestried, with living garlands bound,
And set about with moss-cushioned seats of wood
Cut roughly from the forest, over which
Uptangling richly to the highest trees,
And waving even then into the air,
Flowers rare and unknown, and around a fount
(Of which a marble girl, with green feet through
The water and white head, seemed Nymph) bright heaps
Of lily blooms were strewn. But all these sweets
Were nothing to the influence which came o'er
My being from some unseen power, whose grace
The whole seemed imitative of, whose smile
The light seemed intimating to the flowers,
Whose goodness all around seemed fashioned by.
Half slumbering as I stretched upon the sward,
Mazed by this unknown beauty, and the swarms
Of flies like that which here had guided me
All round, the influence became more dear,
More fixed, and I beheld a Lady. Round
Her hand, which held some sweet, the insects thronged,
And lighted on her hair. I did not start
With rapture nor surprise, nor did I deem
Myself unworthy of this gardened love,
This goddess-girl, nor said she aught to me,
But by her eyes, which never looked on me,
I said she was the spirit of my life,
And tho' I had not seen her until now
I still had known her.
Where never cloud of dust had fallen, I reached
An opening in a wall of sapling boughs,
I entered, and within more still and cool
It was, and freshness through the air exhaled
From the green ground. Half dusk it was, for round
And round the branches wove a screen from heaven
Of darkest green and varied leaf, 'neath which
Flies thickly humming danced. Sometimes a bird
Flew quickly through, and as its wing might brush
The leaves about your head, it seemed to fear
That it had missed its way. Flowers too were there,
Sprinkled about amidst the grass which grows
Hair-like and thin beneath the shade; bluebells
Tinkling to the small breeze a bee might cause
140
In stem. I passed still deeper through the wood
By this cool path: a wood more kindly cool,
Or harmless of dank poisons or vile beasts
That creep there cannot be, and yet so wild
And uncouth. Bushes of dusk fruit beside
The pathway from the ground piled up two walls
Of leaves and berries, from which flocked the birds
As I passed on, or lingered with dyed hands
Plucking them listless, and with profuse waste
Pressing their juice out. Other trees were there
Blossoming for a later month. And now,
As if from the champaign land afar, came sounds
Of hearty laughter, mellowed by the air,
Until it scarce was audible; and song,
Like a reaper's song, a very pleasant sound,
Betokening a clear breast, and heard beneath
A clear sky chequered by thick boughs, a sound
Right happy. So I also sang. The sun
Now found an opening through the stems, to fall
Upon my path; and as I walked, across
The flowers upon my right my shadow passed.
141
Invested with two lines of dusky gold
And spotted with red spots, upon these flowers
Was feeding, and anon as my shadow fell
Upon it, it flew up and went before,
Lighting again until I passed: and so
Continued it. The space more closed and closed
Became, and all between the trees were warped
Vine-twigs, and plants more fair than vines. Beneath
A slow stream likewise glent, and secretly
Fed spreading water-lilies, and long reeds
Heavy with seed, which might have made fair pipes,
Cut nicely by the joints, from whence a leaf
Depended. But I thought not of the task,
Watching my guide's dark wings, until the path
Seemed stayed by dense convolvolus and thorns
(Largely o'ergrown without the pruner's hands)
Of the red-hearted rose. But the dark fly lowered
Its flight till nigh the ground, and passed into
The mass of greenery by an interspace
Which I had seen not: with my hands I raised,
142
The luscious screen at this same interspace.
Behold! beneath a peristyle I stand
Of short columnar palms, before me steps
Of thickest grass descend unto a space
Smooth tapestried, with living garlands bound,
And set about with moss-cushioned seats of wood
Cut roughly from the forest, over which
Uptangling richly to the highest trees,
And waving even then into the air,
Flowers rare and unknown, and around a fount
(Of which a marble girl, with green feet through
The water and white head, seemed Nymph) bright heaps
Of lily blooms were strewn. But all these sweets
Were nothing to the influence which came o'er
My being from some unseen power, whose grace
The whole seemed imitative of, whose smile
The light seemed intimating to the flowers,
Whose goodness all around seemed fashioned by.
Half slumbering as I stretched upon the sward,
143
Of flies like that which here had guided me
All round, the influence became more dear,
More fixed, and I beheld a Lady. Round
Her hand, which held some sweet, the insects thronged,
And lighted on her hair. I did not start
With rapture nor surprise, nor did I deem
Myself unworthy of this gardened love,
This goddess-girl, nor said she aught to me,
But by her eyes, which never looked on me,
I said she was the spirit of my life,
And tho' I had not seen her until now
I still had known her.
She bent down beside
The sward I pressed; she leant on the rude seat
Over me, but I knew not from that hour,
Whether it was myself I gazed upon;
Or whether I beheld with intense love
And sympathy some higher beings, both
Worthy of each. And she began to sing;
A language which was song was hers,—she sang;
A fragile lute upon her knees she placed,
And balanced from her neck by a silken cord,
Her fingers gave it speech, yet touched it not,
But her hands hovered o'er it like two birds
With wings still fluttering to descend,—she played.
Soft as the fine tints of a rainbow bound
About an evening shower, her music first
Came on my sense scarce audible, like rain;
Then, waxing louder, it ascended heaven
With all its colours brightening. My heart
It stilled to sleep, as a sister stills a child
That murmurs not, but smiling upwards on
The watching eye, to rest unconsciously
Sinks pleased. But changing suddenly, the notes
Began to whirl together as a flight
Of swallows, and then louder still became
Happy beyond all words, fair spirits seemed
Clamorous and clapping of their hands for joy!
Too happy beyond words, I would have wept
Had I been in the actual world, where tears
Are bred by intense sympathy, but here,
Where sympathy was life, I did not weep.
—Oh Lady, thou art beautiful: and now
The dark hair of thy song doth shade its eyes,
The eye-lid of thy music droops: it plains
Slowly and saturated with sweet pain,
Carries my soul into a sphered realm
Of everlasting melancholy. Maid!
Who mournest for thy lover, hear the lay
And be not comforted, but mourn no more
As you have mourned. Youth! whose thirsting love
Has conjured an ideal from the land
Of Vision, listen with a joyous hope
And mourn not with the bitterness that thou
Hast mourned.
A louder chord is struck! let grief at once
Be wept out like a thunder-rain, and pride
Go up triumphant with a purple flush
And warn of trump—the golden crown doth press
The spirit's forehead who hath conquered all!—
—Oh Lady, thou art wondrous fair and good!
The earth is filled, oh! filled with gracious things!
Slowly again to life descends thy strain,
An odour as of rose-leaves seems to fall
Upon me, and a pearly light: again
It scales the are of higher heaven, alas!
Art thou not over me as is a God,
Oh Lady, with thy lute? and I will faint
Utterly into death: oh intermit
The binding of thy linked power, oh cease,
And let me drink a silence short and deep,
Then die into the Life that thou dost live.
The sward I pressed; she leant on the rude seat
Over me, but I knew not from that hour,
Whether it was myself I gazed upon;
Or whether I beheld with intense love
And sympathy some higher beings, both
Worthy of each. And she began to sing;
144
A fragile lute upon her knees she placed,
And balanced from her neck by a silken cord,
Her fingers gave it speech, yet touched it not,
But her hands hovered o'er it like two birds
With wings still fluttering to descend,—she played.
Soft as the fine tints of a rainbow bound
About an evening shower, her music first
Came on my sense scarce audible, like rain;
Then, waxing louder, it ascended heaven
With all its colours brightening. My heart
It stilled to sleep, as a sister stills a child
That murmurs not, but smiling upwards on
The watching eye, to rest unconsciously
Sinks pleased. But changing suddenly, the notes
Began to whirl together as a flight
Of swallows, and then louder still became
Happy beyond all words, fair spirits seemed
Clamorous and clapping of their hands for joy!
Too happy beyond words, I would have wept
Had I been in the actual world, where tears
145
Where sympathy was life, I did not weep.
—Oh Lady, thou art beautiful: and now
The dark hair of thy song doth shade its eyes,
The eye-lid of thy music droops: it plains
Slowly and saturated with sweet pain,
Carries my soul into a sphered realm
Of everlasting melancholy. Maid!
Who mournest for thy lover, hear the lay
And be not comforted, but mourn no more
As you have mourned. Youth! whose thirsting love
Has conjured an ideal from the land
Of Vision, listen with a joyous hope
And mourn not with the bitterness that thou
Hast mourned.
A louder chord is struck! let grief at once
Be wept out like a thunder-rain, and pride
Go up triumphant with a purple flush
And warn of trump—the golden crown doth press
The spirit's forehead who hath conquered all!—
—Oh Lady, thou art wondrous fair and good!
146
Slowly again to life descends thy strain,
An odour as of rose-leaves seems to fall
Upon me, and a pearly light: again
It scales the are of higher heaven, alas!
Art thou not over me as is a God,
Oh Lady, with thy lute? and I will faint
Utterly into death: oh intermit
The binding of thy linked power, oh cease,
And let me drink a silence short and deep,
Then die into the Life that thou dost live.
II.A WATCHMAN-SONG.
1.
WATCHMAN.The night is dark, the wall is black,
And the fosse beneath likewise;
Johannes on the high tower sleeps,
His hound beside him lies.
147
Fair lady, scarce now one short hour
Is wanting ere the morn,
And yet I have not dared to say
What this heart long hath borne
Still waiting and waiting for this sweet time,
This rare brief happiness,
To see thee o'er me, to hear thee speak,
Thy hand at least to kiss.
LADY.
I know what thou wouldst say, fair sir,
I know what thou wouldst hear,
Though better that it be not said,—
A dream, a trance, a tear.
Oft have I sat lone days and nights
And trembled at the past,
And sure, fair sir, 'twere better far
This tryste should be our last.
148
2
WATCHMAN.The breeze awakens and the clouds
Scatter dimly overhead,
Trees, and streams and paths appear;
Thy spell, sir knight is sped.
KNIGHT.
Watchman I would tarry until
The kindly brightening east
Shows me once more the face that lights
The shrine whereof I'm priest.
Lady, it may be Lent again
Or ever our voices meet,
Ere I may hold thy hand as now
Through thy little bower window, sweet!
LADY.
Good sir, the daily even-song
Shall bear me back to thee,
While each adventuring helm shall seem
To speak brave thoughts to me.
149
A silent summer's day;
The sun goeth slowly over heaven,
But endeth cheerfully.
3
WATCHMAN.The leaves about the rook's nest stir,
The mist stirs on the fen
Sir Knight, leap down, if thou would'st pass
Unhunted through the glen.
KNIGHT.
Fair lady, leave me not so soon,
And warder, why that fear,
Lady, beyond the seas and hills
My home hath little cheer,
It waits with chapel and tower and hall
Vacant from year to year.
150
Farewell, farewell! if it could be—
Alas! what would I say—
To-morrow at night return again—
Now haste thee, oh haste thee away.
KNIGHT.
Let me yet listen, she is gone,
Then cold blank wall, farewell!
At midnight again—! but oh, blessed wall,
Thou'lt never a secret tell?
WATCHMAN.
Johannes wakes, I hear his hound
Shaking his collar. So!
Step warily, hold fast my hand,
Thank god he is safe below!
And hark, the sun-rise bugle-horn,
Ya tee-ra-lee, ya ho!
151
III.LINES SENT WITH SPENCER'S “FAERY QUEEN.”
Lady loved! I bring to theeAladdin's cave in poesy:
I bring to thee a wilderness
Where swiftest faun-feet might confess
That they had lost the path. In sooth
It is as if we had lain down
Tired with too much happiness;
And underneath an old tree's frown,
A druid of Pendragon's youth,
Where sunshine could but dimly peer
In the leafy quarter of the year,
While heats and odours, songs and hum
Of bees, the sense had overcome,
And an enchanted sleep had borne
Us far within the gates of morn,
Where strangely-shapen mists and clouds
Array themselves in motley crowds,
152
Hurry up into the skies
So fast, so changeable, so high,
Now a bannerol'd young chivalry,
Or a dainty sheaf, so mild and meek,
Of maidens ‘girt in guiltless gowns,’
Dragons dire, decievers sleek,
Mighty walls round baseless towns,
White christian myths, and satyrs red,
Each leaping o'er the others head!
The Faery Queen! ah, well-a-day,
Fancy's self is but a fay,
And great round men with pockets stored,
Laugh at all that she can say:
But she also hath her hoard,
Wine of life, and stone of power,
Bath of beauty, deathless flower,
Cap invisible and purse
Exhaustless, salve for the ancient curse.
These are of the wonderous things
Guarded by her servant-kings,
153
'Tis she anoints the lover's eye,
She from the fine lip makes reply,
And round even me
When I think of thee,
Lady loved, a starry woof
She throws of texture sorrow-proof.
Yet again, ah well-a-day!
Fancy's but a tricksome fay,
Her wing so swift to come, also
Is certainly as swift to go!
Nay, ah nay,
Quoth little Love, with his great blue eye
Archly smiling, surely nay!
It is not so,
For I can tie
Her right wing, she no more shall fly!
Lady-girl, Mignon, May!
Another name,—Titania,
Henceforth take, while I, thy knight,
Offer upon bended knee
154
In rare blackletters all bedight,
Captured on an old book-stall
Guarded by a monster small,
In a far place where you bend
Towards the well at the world's end!
A treasure-trove
Worthy better poet's love!
IV.RHYME TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.
The air is populous with snow,
Falling and flying, above and below:
This waste of households is fast asleep,
Nor any the old year's death-watch keep,
As elsewhere I've seen when every man
Saluted this hour with his bousing-can.
Falling and flying, above and below:
This waste of households is fast asleep,
Nor any the old year's death-watch keep,
As elsewhere I've seen when every man
Saluted this hour with his bousing-can.
The snow, how it flies! but it may not be
I coldly part, old year, from thee,
Without a short kind benedicite!
It may not be that thou who art
So different from thy ancestry,
Shalt have no requiem ere we part.
Perhaps when some slow coming year
Now in the future, hath drawn near,
I may rehearse these lines while she—
You know whom now I mean—she may
Sit by me hand in hand, and they
Shall carry us back through smiles and tears,
Till all this present reappears,
The fireside game, the endless talk;
The high hope scorning storms and fears,
Upbraiding time; this white muffled walk
Again I'll tread, and see here and there
Those lighted windows' christmas-glare,
That unredeemed cad by the wet coach-stand,
And the lamps obscure up the dreamy Strand!
155
Without a short kind benedicite!
It may not be that thou who art
So different from thy ancestry,
Shalt have no requiem ere we part.
Perhaps when some slow coming year
Now in the future, hath drawn near,
I may rehearse these lines while she—
You know whom now I mean—she may
Sit by me hand in hand, and they
Shall carry us back through smiles and tears,
Till all this present reappears,
The fireside game, the endless talk;
The high hope scorning storms and fears,
Upbraiding time; this white muffled walk
Again I'll tread, and see here and there
Those lighted windows' christmas-glare,
That unredeemed cad by the wet coach-stand,
And the lamps obscure up the dreamy Strand!
Glorious night! to be sure the sky
Is falling, the winds chill,—what care I,
With love for a cloak against destiny.
Good passing year! you have not raised
My stature, nor brought aught about
For which I might be praised,
Yet good old year, when I walk out
I feel as if I was not quite
The same as on last new-year's night.
Not that I hold my head more high
Or dare laugh at Fortune, certainly!
Not that her buffets hit less fair,
But wounds heal again, and I take no care;
And surely her smiles now are far more bright,
And sunshine of heart with its melody
Floats before the murkiest sky.
The stars too, when night slumber brings,
If indeed these ten months past
Sleep hath ever o'er me cast
Her sceptre,—whisper wondrous things.
Yes! like a glorious long summer even,
A deep, rich, wide, and sensuous heaven,
Thou'st been. Thou shadow of a shade
In the garments of our souls arrayed,
We are thy slaves, the slaves of time,
Runners by time's chariot dust
With moan and prayer, or song and rhyme;
Still thinking thus and thus we must
Attain and triumph, but the lance
Slips through our hands when we would strike,
And something else, oh, all unlike
Our hope is what we have attained,
Given by the passing god, not gained
By us. Then thanks for the crown, say I,
The crown thou hast placed on my Psyche's head,
Thanks for thy gifts, good destiny,
Heart-gifts that in their first bold bloom
Perennial, evermore shall shed
Light and medicinal perfume.
156
With love for a cloak against destiny.
Good passing year! you have not raised
My stature, nor brought aught about
For which I might be praised,
Yet good old year, when I walk out
I feel as if I was not quite
The same as on last new-year's night.
Not that I hold my head more high
Or dare laugh at Fortune, certainly!
Not that her buffets hit less fair,
But wounds heal again, and I take no care;
And surely her smiles now are far more bright,
And sunshine of heart with its melody
Floats before the murkiest sky.
The stars too, when night slumber brings,
If indeed these ten months past
Sleep hath ever o'er me cast
Her sceptre,—whisper wondrous things.
Yes! like a glorious long summer even,
A deep, rich, wide, and sensuous heaven,
157
In the garments of our souls arrayed,
We are thy slaves, the slaves of time,
Runners by time's chariot dust
With moan and prayer, or song and rhyme;
Still thinking thus and thus we must
Attain and triumph, but the lance
Slips through our hands when we would strike,
And something else, oh, all unlike
Our hope is what we have attained,
Given by the passing god, not gained
By us. Then thanks for the crown, say I,
The crown thou hast placed on my Psyche's head,
Thanks for thy gifts, good destiny,
Heart-gifts that in their first bold bloom
Perennial, evermore shall shed
Light and medicinal perfume.
Then stoop to thy melodious bier,
All folded white in the snow, old year!
Hark, at once from left and right
The steeple tongues salute the night,
Cloudy voices east and west
Pass wandering, each a funeral guest,
Ah, now St. Paul's great angel flies,
And like the shepherd of the skies,
Drives them before him, he the last
Falls over the horizon of the past:
So is the old year knelled and blessed.
All folded white in the snow, old year!
Hark, at once from left and right
158
Cloudy voices east and west
Pass wandering, each a funeral guest,
Ah, now St. Paul's great angel flies,
And like the shepherd of the skies,
Drives them before him, he the last
Falls over the horizon of the past:
So is the old year knelled and blessed.
161
VI.A COMPLIMENT TO MIGNON SINGING.
“And must I leave thee, Paradise?”Eve with retreating footstep cries.
While the armed Michael following,
Hides it with his burning wing.
Pretty enough, a pathetic air too,
At least in its author's dainty view.
“And must I leave thee Paradise?”
You must indeed, the sword replies!
But why my laughter-loving friend,
Dost thou repeat her tortured lay,
Not even an angel can descend
To tear thee from thyself away!
The sky above our heads can ne'er
Of its sun-glories be bereft,
And nevertheless an atmosphere
For storms and thunder still be left.
Heaven may lie beyond the skies,
But where thou art is Paradise.
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| Poems | |