 | Odes (1894) |  |
ODES
3
TO H. D. TRAILL
Traill, at whose board 'tis good to sit,
And take no thought of hours that flit
Fledged with the tongues of bard and wit—
(Though none, or few,
The latter title may befit
So well as you)—
And take no thought of hours that flit
Fledged with the tongues of bard and wit—
(Though none, or few,
The latter title may befit
So well as you)—
'Tis now a twelve-month's space and more
Since feet of mine have sought your door,
There where one fancies London's roar
Long leagues away,
And Thames an old-time-haunted shore
Keeps to this day.
Since feet of mine have sought your door,
There where one fancies London's roar
Long leagues away,
4
Keeps to this day.
For I, with course 'twere hard to trace,
Have southward, northward, set my face,
Coy to the vast and vague embrace
Of London's arms,
The siren's all-too liberal grace
And venal charms.
Have southward, northward, set my face,
Coy to the vast and vague embrace
Of London's arms,
The siren's all-too liberal grace
And venal charms.
Daily on matron, man, and maid,
The dome of Wren hath cast its shade,
But I beyond its beck have strayed
By land and sea;
And you a hundred mots have made
Unheard by me!
The dome of Wren hath cast its shade,
But I beyond its beck have strayed
By land and sea;
And you a hundred mots have made
Unheard by me!
5
The loser I. Yet mine some gain
From vagrant hours of sun and rain
And steps that still by mount or plain
Carried a mind
To one thing constant, as the vane
Is to the wind—
From vagrant hours of sun and rain
And steps that still by mount or plain
Carried a mind
To one thing constant, as the vane
Is to the wind—
The service of that mistress hard
To whom a fixed and sole regard
Your vowed and dedicated bard
Dares not refuse,
Would he at last the least reward
Win from his Muse.
To whom a fixed and sole regard
Your vowed and dedicated bard
Dares not refuse,
Would he at last the least reward
Win from his Muse.
For still we rhymers, great or small,
Must gather, would we live at all,
Such casual manna as may fall,
A niggard meed,
On mortals whom the immortals call
But seldom feed.
Must gather, would we live at all,
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A niggard meed,
On mortals whom the immortals call
But seldom feed.
And so, perhaps with fond pretence
That to the force of sheer, immense,
Importunate lyric opulence
Our lays are due,
We publish all our soul for pence—
Ay me, how few!
That to the force of sheer, immense,
Importunate lyric opulence
Our lays are due,
We publish all our soul for pence—
Ay me, how few!
Happiest and best of singers he,
Who, in Art's bondage greatly free,
Can harvest, from all things that be,
Grist for the mill
Whose wheel a copious Castaly
Turns at his will.
Who, in Art's bondage greatly free,
Can harvest, from all things that be,
Grist for the mill
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Turns at his will.
Whate'er we know, whate'er we dream,
All things that are, all things that seem,
All that in Nature's Academe
Her graduates learn,
Was Bacon's province, Shakespeare's theme,
Goethe's concern.
All things that are, all things that seem,
All that in Nature's Academe
Her graduates learn,
Was Bacon's province, Shakespeare's theme,
Goethe's concern.
The poem, well the poet knows,
In ambush lurks where'er he goes,—
Lisps hidden in each wind that blows,
Laughs in each wave,
Sighs from the bosom of the rose,
Wails from the grave.
In ambush lurks where'er he goes,—
Lisps hidden in each wind that blows,
Laughs in each wave,
Sighs from the bosom of the rose,
Wails from the grave.
8
And Orphic laws of lute and verse
All the symphonious worlds coerce,
That hour by hour their parts rehearse,
Winds, strings, and reeds,
In this orchestral universe
The Maestro leads.
All the symphonious worlds coerce,
That hour by hour their parts rehearse,
Winds, strings, and reeds,
In this orchestral universe
The Maestro leads.
But though all life and death and birth,
And all the heaven's enzoning girth,
Earth, and the waters 'neath the earth,
Are Song's domain,
Nor aught so lowly but is worth
The loftiest strain,—
And all the heaven's enzoning girth,
Earth, and the waters 'neath the earth,
Are Song's domain,
Nor aught so lowly but is worth
The loftiest strain,—
'Tis from those moods in which Life stands
With feet earth-planted, yet with hands
Stretched toward visionary lands,
Where vapours lift
A moment, and aërial strands
Gleam through the rift,
With feet earth-planted, yet with hands
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Where vapours lift
A moment, and aërial strands
Gleam through the rift,
The poet wins, in hours benign,
At older than the Delphic shrine,
Those intimations faint and fine,
To which belongs
Whatever character divine
Invest his songs.
At older than the Delphic shrine,
Those intimations faint and fine,
To which belongs
Whatever character divine
Invest his songs.
And could we live more near allied
To cloud and mountain, wind and tide,
Cast this unmeaning coil aside,
And go forth free,
The World our goal, Desire our guide,—
We then might see
To cloud and mountain, wind and tide,
Cast this unmeaning coil aside,
And go forth free,
10
We then might see
Those master moments grow less rare,
And oftener feel that nameless air
Come rumouring from we know not where;
And touch at whiles
Fantastic shores, the fringes fair
Of fairy isles,
And oftener feel that nameless air
Come rumouring from we know not where;
And touch at whiles
Fantastic shores, the fringes fair
Of fairy isles,
And hail the mystic bird that brings
News from the inner courts of things,
The eternal courier-dove whose wings
Are never furled;
And hear the bubbling of the springs
That feed the world.
News from the inner courts of things,
The eternal courier-dove whose wings
Are never furled;
And hear the bubbling of the springs
That feed the world.
11
You smile at this too soaring strain?
Well, in the smile is no disdain;
And if a more terrestrial vein
Befit my rhyme—
I promise not to soar again,
At least, this time.
Well, in the smile is no disdain;
And if a more terrestrial vein
Befit my rhyme—
I promise not to soar again,
At least, this time.
And sooth to say, a humbler end
This verse was meant to serve, O friend:
For since to you I may not wend
(Such leagues deter
The else not laggard feet), I send
This messenger;
This verse was meant to serve, O friend:
For since to you I may not wend
(Such leagues deter
The else not laggard feet), I send
This messenger;
And bid him tarry not, but flee,
And greet you well where'er you be;
And pray he may not piteously
Faint by the road—
Of good regards for thine and thee
So large his load.
And greet you well where'er you be;
12
Faint by the road—
Of good regards for thine and thee
So large his load.
13
TO ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
In that grave shade august
That round your Eton clings,
To you the centuries must
Be visible corporate things,
And the high Past appear
Affably real and near,
For all its grandiose airs, caught from the mien of Kings.
That round your Eton clings,
To you the centuries must
Be visible corporate things,
And the high Past appear
Affably real and near,
For all its grandiose airs, caught from the mien of Kings.
The new age stands as yet
Half built against the sky,
Open to every threat
Of storms that clamour by:
Scaffolding veils the walls,
And dim dust floats and falls,
As, moving to and fro, their tasks the masons ply.
Half built against the sky,
Open to every threat
Of storms that clamour by:
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And dim dust floats and falls,
As, moving to and fro, their tasks the masons ply.
But changeless and complete,
Rise unperturbed and vast,
Above our din and heat,
The turrets of the Past,
Mute as that city asleep,
Lulled with enchantments deep,
Far in Arabian dreamland built where all things last.
Rise unperturbed and vast,
Above our din and heat,
The turrets of the Past,
Mute as that city asleep,
Lulled with enchantments deep,
Far in Arabian dreamland built where all things last.
Who loves not to explore
That palace of Old Time,
Awed by the spires that soar
In ghostly dusk sublime,
And gorgeous-windowed halls,
And leagues of pictured walls,
And dungeons that remember many a crimson crime?
That palace of Old Time,
Awed by the spires that soar
In ghostly dusk sublime,
15
And leagues of pictured walls,
And dungeons that remember many a crimson crime?
Yet, in those phantom towers
Not thine, not mine, to dwell,
Rapt from the living hours
By some rich lotus-spell;
And if our lute obey
A mode of yesterday,
'Tis that we deem 'twill prove to-morrow's mode as well.
Not thine, not mine, to dwell,
Rapt from the living hours
By some rich lotus-spell;
And if our lute obey
A mode of yesterday,
'Tis that we deem 'twill prove to-morrow's mode as well.
This neighbouring joy and woe—
This present sky and sea—
These men and things we know,
Whose touch we would not flee—
To us, O friend, shall long
Yield aliment of song:
Life as I see it lived is great enough for me.
This present sky and sea—
These men and things we know,
Whose touch we would not flee—
16
Yield aliment of song:
Life as I see it lived is great enough for me.
In high relief against
That reverend silence set,
Wherein your days are fenced
From the world's peevish fret,
There breaks on old Earth's ears
The thunder of new years,
Rousing from ancient dreams the Muse's anchoret.
That reverend silence set,
Wherein your days are fenced
From the world's peevish fret,
There breaks on old Earth's ears
The thunder of new years,
Rousing from ancient dreams the Muse's anchoret.
Well if the coming time,
With loud and strident tongue,
Hush not the sound of rhyme,
Drown not the song half sung,
Ev'n as a dissonant age
Choked with polemic rage
The starriest voice that e'er on English ears hath rung,
With loud and strident tongue,
Hush not the sound of rhyme,
Drown not the song half sung,
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Choked with polemic rage
The starriest voice that e'er on English ears hath rung,
And bade her seer a while
Pause and put by the bard,
Till this tormented isle,
With feuds and factions jarred,
Some leisure might regain
To hear the long-pent strain
Re-risen from storm and fire, immortal and unmarred.
Pause and put by the bard,
Till this tormented isle,
With feuds and factions jarred,
Some leisure might regain
To hear the long-pent strain
Re-risen from storm and fire, immortal and unmarred.
26
LAKELAND ONCE MORE
Region separate, sacred, of mere, and of ghyll, and of mountain,Garrulous, petulant beck, sinister, laughterless tarn;
Haunt of the vagabond feet of my fancy for ever reverting,
Haunt and home of my heart, Cumbrian valleys and fells;
Yours of old was the beauty that rounded my hours with a nimbus,
Touched my youth with bloom, tender and magical light;
27
Ah, when Helvellyn is low! ah, when Winander is dry!
For had I not dwelt where Nature but prattled familiar language,
Trite the theme and the word, prose of the hedges and lanes?
Here she spake to my spirit in lofty and resonant numbers,
Rhythms of epical mood, silences great as her song.
Time hath scattered his gifts; and Death, he hath taken his tribute:
East and west have I fared, hitherward, thitherward blown;
28
Watched, from Como's wave, pinnacled summits on fire;
Heard the tempest beleaguer the bases of savage Tantallon;
Heard the thundering tide crash on Devonian shores:
And fair and stormy fortune my life's little pinnace hath weathered,
Shattering onsets of joy, shocks of calamity, borne;
Mine hath been good unstinted, nor niggard my portion of evil;
Friendships mine and hates, love and a whisper of fame:
29
Rustles my Past like leaves, memories brush me as wings,
Meets me my alien phantom, the self that is dead, that is vanished,
Echoes meet me and dreams, shadows that sigh and depart;
And ever, O meres and valleys, an aureole haunts you of roselight,
Glamour of luminous hours, wraith of my passion of old,
And the brows of eternal Helvellyn are flushed with a virginal rapture,
Lit with the glow of my youth, crimsoned with dawn of my day.
33
DOMINE, QUO VADIS?
A LEGEND OF THE EARLY CHURCH
Darkening the azure roof of Nero's world,
From smouldering Rome the smoke of ruin curled;
And the fierce populace went clamouring—
‘These Christian dogs, 'tis they have done this thing!’
So to the wild wolf Hate were sacrificed
The panting, huddled flock whose crime was Christ.
From smouldering Rome the smoke of ruin curled;
And the fierce populace went clamouring—
‘These Christian dogs, 'tis they have done this thing!’
So to the wild wolf Hate were sacrificed
The panting, huddled flock whose crime was Christ.
34
Now Peter lodged in Rome, and rose each morn
Looking to be ere night in sunder torn
By those blind hands that with inebriate zeal
Burned the strong Saints, or broke them on the wheel,
Or flung them to the lions to make mirth
For dames that ruled the lords that ruled the earth.
And unto him, their towering rocky hold,
Repaired those sheep of the Good Shepherd's fold
In whose white fleece as yet no blood or foam
Bare witness to the ravening fangs of Rome.
‘More light, more cheap,’ they cried, ‘we hold our lives
Than chaff the flail or dust the whirlwind drives:
As chaff they are winnowed and as dust are blown;
Nay, they are nought; but priceless is thine own.
Not in yon streaming shambles must thou die;
We counsel, we entreat, we charge thee, fly!’
And Peter answered: ‘Nay, my place is here;
Through the dread storm, this ship of Christ I steer.
Blind is the tempest, deaf the roaring tide,
And I, His pilot, at the helm abide.’
Looking to be ere night in sunder torn
By those blind hands that with inebriate zeal
Burned the strong Saints, or broke them on the wheel,
Or flung them to the lions to make mirth
For dames that ruled the lords that ruled the earth.
And unto him, their towering rocky hold,
Repaired those sheep of the Good Shepherd's fold
In whose white fleece as yet no blood or foam
Bare witness to the ravening fangs of Rome.
‘More light, more cheap,’ they cried, ‘we hold our lives
Than chaff the flail or dust the whirlwind drives:
35
Nay, they are nought; but priceless is thine own.
Not in yon streaming shambles must thou die;
We counsel, we entreat, we charge thee, fly!’
And Peter answered: ‘Nay, my place is here;
Through the dread storm, this ship of Christ I steer.
Blind is the tempest, deaf the roaring tide,
And I, His pilot, at the helm abide.’
Then one stood forth, the flashing of whose soul
Enrayed his presence like an aureole.
Eager he spake; his fellows, ere they heard,
Caught from his eyes the swift and leaping word.
‘Let us, His vines, be in the wine-press trod,
And poured a beverage for the lips of God;
Or, ground as wheat of His eternal field,
Bread for His table let our bodies yield.
Behold, the Church hath other use for thee;
Thy safety is her own, and thou must flee.
Ours be the glory at her call to die,
But quick and whole God needs His great ally.’
And Peter said: ‘Do lords of spear and shield
Thus leave their hosts uncaptained on the field,
And from some mount of prospect watch afar
The havoc of the hurricane of war?
Yet, if He wills it. . . . Nay, my task is plain,—
To serve, and to endure, and to remain.
But weak I stand, and I beseech you all
Urge me no more, lest at a touch I fall.’
Enrayed his presence like an aureole.
Eager he spake; his fellows, ere they heard,
Caught from his eyes the swift and leaping word.
36
And poured a beverage for the lips of God;
Or, ground as wheat of His eternal field,
Bread for His table let our bodies yield.
Behold, the Church hath other use for thee;
Thy safety is her own, and thou must flee.
Ours be the glory at her call to die,
But quick and whole God needs His great ally.’
And Peter said: ‘Do lords of spear and shield
Thus leave their hosts uncaptained on the field,
And from some mount of prospect watch afar
The havoc of the hurricane of war?
Yet, if He wills it. . . . Nay, my task is plain,—
To serve, and to endure, and to remain.
But weak I stand, and I beseech you all
Urge me no more, lest at a touch I fall.’
37
There knelt a noble youth at Peter's feet,
And like a viol's strings his voice was sweet.
A suppliant angel might have pleaded so,
Crowned with the splendour of some starry woe.
He said: ‘My sire and brethren yesterday
The heathen did with ghastly torments slay.
Pain, like a worm, beneath their feet they trod.
Their souls went up like incense unto God.
An offering richer yet, can Heaven require?
O live, and be my brethren and my sire.’
And Peter answered: ‘Son, there is small need
That thou exhort me to the easier deed.
Rather I would that thou and these had lent
Strength to uphold, not shatter, my intent.
Already my resolve is shaken sore.
I pray thee, if thou love me, say no more.’
And like a viol's strings his voice was sweet.
A suppliant angel might have pleaded so,
Crowned with the splendour of some starry woe.
He said: ‘My sire and brethren yesterday
The heathen did with ghastly torments slay.
Pain, like a worm, beneath their feet they trod.
Their souls went up like incense unto God.
An offering richer yet, can Heaven require?
O live, and be my brethren and my sire.’
And Peter answered: ‘Son, there is small need
That thou exhort me to the easier deed.
Rather I would that thou and these had lent
Strength to uphold, not shatter, my intent.
Already my resolve is shaken sore.
I pray thee, if thou love me, say no more.’
38
And even as he spake, he went apart,
Somewhat to hide the brimming of his heart,
Wherein a voice came flitting to and fro,
That now said ‘Tarry!’ and anon said ‘Go!’
And louder every moment, ‘Go!’ it cried,
And ‘Tarry!’ to a whisper sank, and died.
And as a leaf when summer is o'erpast
Hangs trembling ere it fall in some chance blast,
So hung his trembling purpose and fell dead;
And he arose, and hurried forth, and fled,
Darkness conniving, through the Capuan Gate,
From all that heaven of love, that hell of hate,
To the Campania glimmering wide and still,
And strove to think he did his Master's will.
Somewhat to hide the brimming of his heart,
Wherein a voice came flitting to and fro,
That now said ‘Tarry!’ and anon said ‘Go!’
And louder every moment, ‘Go!’ it cried,
And ‘Tarry!’ to a whisper sank, and died.
And as a leaf when summer is o'erpast
Hangs trembling ere it fall in some chance blast,
So hung his trembling purpose and fell dead;
And he arose, and hurried forth, and fled,
Darkness conniving, through the Capuan Gate,
From all that heaven of love, that hell of hate,
To the Campania glimmering wide and still,
And strove to think he did his Master's will.
39
But spectral eyes and mocking tongues pursued,
And with vague hands he fought a phantom brood.
Doubts, like a swarm of gnats, o'erhung his flight,
And ‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘have I not done aright?
Can I not, living, more avail for Thee
Than whelmed in yon red storm of agony?
The tempest, it shall pass, and I remain,
Not from its fiery sickle saved in vain.
Are there no seeds to sow, no desert lands
Waiting the tillage of these eager hands,
That I should beastlike 'neath the butcher fall,
More fruitlessly than oxen from the stall?
Is earth so easeful, is men's hate so sweet,
Are thorns so welcome unto sleepless feet,
Have death and heaven so feeble lures, that I,
Choosing to live, should win rebuke thereby?
Not mine the dread of pain, the lust of bliss!
Master who judgest, have I done amiss?’
And with vague hands he fought a phantom brood.
Doubts, like a swarm of gnats, o'erhung his flight,
And ‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘have I not done aright?
Can I not, living, more avail for Thee
Than whelmed in yon red storm of agony?
The tempest, it shall pass, and I remain,
Not from its fiery sickle saved in vain.
Are there no seeds to sow, no desert lands
Waiting the tillage of these eager hands,
That I should beastlike 'neath the butcher fall,
More fruitlessly than oxen from the stall?
40
Are thorns so welcome unto sleepless feet,
Have death and heaven so feeble lures, that I,
Choosing to live, should win rebuke thereby?
Not mine the dread of pain, the lust of bliss!
Master who judgest, have I done amiss?’
Lo, on the darkness brake a wandering ray:
A vision flashed along the Appian Way.
Divinely in the pagan night it shone—
A mournful Face—a Figure hurrying on—
Though haggard and dishevelled, frail and worn,
A King, of David's lineage, crowned with thorn.
‘Lord, whither farest?’ Peter, wondering, cried.
‘To Rome,’ said Christ, ‘to be re-crucified.’
A vision flashed along the Appian Way.
Divinely in the pagan night it shone—
A mournful Face—a Figure hurrying on—
Though haggard and dishevelled, frail and worn,
A King, of David's lineage, crowned with thorn.
41
‘To Rome,’ said Christ, ‘to be re-crucified.’
Into the night the vision ebbed like breath;
And Peter turned, and rushed on Rome and death.
And Peter turned, and rushed on Rome and death.
| Odes (1894) | |