The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) Selected and revised by the author. Copyright edition. In two volumes |
 | I. |
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 | I. |
| II. | BOOK II.
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| III. |
| IV. |
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| II. |
 | The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) |  |
69
BOOK II.
ABSENCE.
“Vado ben spesso cangiando loco
Ma no so mai cangiar desio.”
Salvator Rosa.
Ma no so mai cangiar desio.”
Salvator Rosa.
71
THE MESSAGE.
Because she hath the sweetest eyes,
The bluest, truest,—and more wise
Than woodland violets wild in wood
To make wholesome the earth, and good;
Because she hath such glad gold hair
That nothing in the laughing air
Of the lusty May, at morn,
When all that's bright and glad is born,
Ever was so glad and bright;
And, therewith, a hand more white
And warm than is the warmèd coat
Of whiteness round a meek dove's throat,
Yet withal so calm, so pure,
No ill passion may endure
That serenest hand's chaste touch;
And because my love is such
That I do not dare to speak,
Of the changes on her cheek,
Which the sunrise and sunset
Of her luminous thoughts beget,
Nor of her rose-sweet mouth, that is
Too sweet to kiss, or not to kiss,
'Tis aye so sweet and savorous;
And because (to comfort us
For what throbbings of sweet pain
Come, and go, and come again,
Till the wishful sense be full,
Gazing on aught so beautiful)
Such innocent wise ways she knoweth,
And so good is all she doeth,—
All she is,—so simple, fair,
Joyous, just, and debonair,
That there is none so ignorant
Of worship, nor with soul so scant
Of visitations from above,
But, seeing her, he needs must love,
And purely love, her,—and for this,
Love better everything that is;—
The bluest, truest,—and more wise
Than woodland violets wild in wood
To make wholesome the earth, and good;
Because she hath such glad gold hair
That nothing in the laughing air
Of the lusty May, at morn,
When all that's bright and glad is born,
Ever was so glad and bright;
And, therewith, a hand more white
And warm than is the warmèd coat
Of whiteness round a meek dove's throat,
Yet withal so calm, so pure,
No ill passion may endure
That serenest hand's chaste touch;
And because my love is such
That I do not dare to speak,
Of the changes on her cheek,
Which the sunrise and sunset
Of her luminous thoughts beget,
Nor of her rose-sweet mouth, that is
Too sweet to kiss, or not to kiss,
72
And because (to comfort us
For what throbbings of sweet pain
Come, and go, and come again,
Till the wishful sense be full,
Gazing on aught so beautiful)
Such innocent wise ways she knoweth,
And so good is all she doeth,—
All she is,—so simple, fair,
Joyous, just, and debonair,
That there is none so ignorant
Of worship, nor with soul so scant
Of visitations from above,
But, seeing her, he needs must love,
And purely love, her,—and for this,
Love better everything that is;—
Therefore now, my Songs, will I
That ye into her presence hie,
Flying over land and sea,
Many an one, that sever me
From the sweet thing that hath the sleeping
Joy of my shut heart in keeping.
But, that when ye hence be gone
Into the bounteous region
Of that bright land over sea
Wherein so many sweet things be,
Where my Lady aye doth dwell,
Ye her dwelling dear may tell,
Nor its special sweetness miss
In midst of many sweetnesses;
Yet awhile, my Songs, delay
Till I have told ye, as I may,
All the fairness of the place
That is familiar with the grace
And glory of my Lady's face.
That ye into her presence hie,
Flying over land and sea,
Many an one, that sever me
From the sweet thing that hath the sleeping
Joy of my shut heart in keeping.
But, that when ye hence be gone
Into the bounteous region
Of that bright land over sea
Wherein so many sweet things be,
Where my Lady aye doth dwell,
Ye her dwelling dear may tell,
Nor its special sweetness miss
In midst of many sweetnesses;
Yet awhile, my Songs, delay
Till I have told ye, as I may,
73
That is familiar with the grace
And glory of my Lady's face.
And (so shall ye know that she
Dwelleth in loftier light than we,
As intimate with skyey things
As are creatures that have wings)
Being come to mountains seven,
Note that one that's nighest heaven:
Thereon lieth against the sun
A place of pleasaunce, all o'er-run
With whisperous shade, and blossoming
Of divers trees, wherein do sing
The little birds, and all together,
All day long in happy weather.
And well I ween that since the birth
Of Adam's firstborn, not on earth
Hath ever been such sweet singing
Of bird on bough, as here doth bring
Into a large and leafy ease
His sense that strayeth among the trees,
Where mingled is full many a note
Of golden-finch and speckle-throat.
Even the hoarse-chested starling
Here, where creepeth never a snarling
Gust to vex his heart, all day
Learneth a more melodious lay
Than that whereby this bird is known,
Which, otherwhere, with chiding tone,
What time the fretful Spring doth heave
The frozen North, to winds, that grieve
Round about the grave of March,
He chaunteth from the cloudy larch:
The linnet loud, and throstle eke,
And the blackbird of golden beak,
With perpetual madrigals
Do melodize the warm green walls
Of those blossom-crownèd groves,
In whose cool hearts the cooing doves
Make murmurings innumerable,
Of sound as sweet as when a well
With noise of bubbled water leapeth
At a green couch where Silence sleepeth:
Nor less, the long-voiced nightingale
Doth, deep down in bloomy vale
Delicious, pour at full noonlight
The song he hath rehearsed o'er-night;
And many other birds be there
Of most sweet voice, and plumage rare,
And names that I not know. Of trees
That spring therein such plenty is
That I to tell them over all
Encumber'd am. Both maple tall
There showeth his silver-mottled bark;
And beeches, colour'd like the dark
Red wine o' the South; and laurels green,
Sunny and smooth, that make rich screen
Round mossy places, where all day
Red squirrels and gray conies play,
Munching brown nuts and such wild fare
As tumbleth from the branches there.
And, for moisture of sweet showers,
All the grass is thick with flowers;
Primrose pure, that cometh alone;
Daisies quaint, with savour none,
But golden eyes of great delight,
That all men love, they be so bright;
And, cold in grassy cloister set,
Many a maiden violet;
The bramble flower, the scarlet hepe,
Hangeth above in sunny sleep;
And all around be knots and rows
Of tufted thyme, and lips of cows;
Whose sweet savour goeth about
The jocund bowers, in and out,
And dieth over all the place;
So that there is not any space
Of sun or shade, but haunted is
With ghosts of many sweetnesses.
There, dreading no intrusive stroke
Of lifted axe, the lusty oak
Broad his branches brown doth fling,
And reigneth, “every inch a king:”
Him also of that other kind
In great plenty shall ye find,
That while the great year goeth around
Sheddeth never his leaves to ground,
But in himself his summer hath,
And oweth not, nor borroweth,
As (though but rare) there be some wise
Good men, that to themselves suffice;
But in northern land we see
Full few, and they but stunted be,
Of this goodly kind of tree.
The ever-trembling birch, through all
Her hoary lights ethereal,
Doth twinkle there, twixt green and gray;
And of fruit-trees is great array:
The apple and the pear tree both,
Smother'd o'er in creamy froth
Of bubbled blossoms; the green sig,
With leathern leaves, and horny twig,
And gluey globes; the juniper,
That smelleth sweet in midsummer;
Nor peach-tree, there, nor apricot,
Needeth either nail or knot;
Nor there from churlish weathers wince
The orange, lemon, plum, and quince;
But under these, by grassy slopes,
Hangeth the vine her leafy ropes;
Wild Proteus she, o' the wanton wood,
That ever shifteth her merry mood,
And, aye in luxury of change,
Loveth to revel, and dance, and range,
In leaves, not hers, she sleeteth through,
Hiding her large grape-bunches blue;
And here, o'er haunts he maketh brown
With droppings from his scented crown,
Standeth the stately sycamore,
Lifting airy terrace o'er
Airy terrace;—such of yore
Dusky masons, deftly skill'd
Mighty stones to pile and build,
Up-hung in sumptuous Babylon,
For silken kings at set of sun
To dally with dark girls; but these
Are humm'd about by honey bees,
And cicale all day long
Creek the chamber'd shades among.
Far away, down hills that seem
Liquid (for the light doth stream
Through and through them) like that vail
Of lucid mist Morn spreadeth pale
O'er Summer's sallow forehead, found
Somewhere asleep on upland ground
Under the shade of heavy woods,
Imaginary multitudes
Of melancholy olives waste
Their wanness, smiling half effaced
In a smooth sea of slumbrous glory;
But high on inland promontory
Blandly the broad-headed pine,
Basking in the blue divine,
Drowseth, drench'd with sunny sky:
And, while the blue needle-fly
Nimbly pricketh in and out
The leaf-broider'd lawns about,
(As busy she as highborn dame
In shining silk, at tambour frame),
The pomegranate, flowering flame,
Burneth lone in cool retreats,
Hidden from those gorgeous heats
Where summer smouldereth into sweets.
Now, when ye have this goodly wood
All roamèd through, in gamesome mood,
At morning tide, and thereon spent
Large wealth of love and wonderment,
In honour due of such full cheer
And lustihood as laugheth here
The well-bower'd grass about,
That windeth in, and windeth out,
Under those bright ribandings
The red-budded bramble flings
From branch to branch, still straying on
Softly, ye shall be ware anon
Of a fair garden, glad and great,
Where my Lady, in high state
Of beauty, doth twixt eve and noon,
Under a spiritual moon,
Visit full oft her vassal flowers
In silent and sweet-scented hours,
When quiet vast is everywhere,
About the blue benignant air
And the cool grass, a deep immense
Gladness, an undisturbèd sense
Of goodness in the gather'd calm
Of old green woodlands bathed in balm,
And bounteous silence. . . . O my love,
How softly do the sweet hours move
About thy peaceful perfectness!
O hasten, little Songs! O press
To meet my Lady, ye that be
Her children, if she knew! . . . But she
Still lingereth, and the silver dawn
Is silent on the unfooted lawn.
Here all day doth couch and sport
Trim Flora, with her florid court:
Roses that be illuminèd
With royal colour rich and red;
Some, with bosoms open wide,
Where the brown bee, undenied,
Drinketh deep of honey drops;
Others, whose enamell'd knops
Prettily do peep between
Their half-bursten cradles green;
Lordly lilies, pale and proud;
And of all flowers a great crowd;
Whose rare-colour'd kirtles show
More hues than of the rainy bow.
In sweet warmth and lucid air
Nod they all and whisper, where
Lightly along each leafy lane
Zephyrus, with his tripping train,
Cometh at cool of even hour
To greet in all her pomp and power
Queen Flora, when in mansions damp
Of the dim moss his spousal lamp
Aloof the enamour'd glow-worm doth
Softly kindle; while the moth
Flitteth; and, at elfin rites,
Sprucely dance the little Sprites
Under the young moon all alone,
Round about King Oberon.
But ye this pleasaunce fair shall reach
Ere yet from off the slanted peach
The drops of silver dew be slipp'd,
Or night-born buds be open-lipp'd.
There shall ye find, in lustrous shade
Of laurels cool, an old well-head
That whelmeth up from under-ground,
And falleth with a tinkling sound
In a broad basin, builded there,
All rose-porphyry, smooth and fair.
The water is ever fresh and new,
As that Narcissus gazed into,
When, for love of his sweet self,
He fainted from the flowery shelf,
Leaving Echo all that pain;
So that now there doth remain
Of him that was so fair and sweet
Only in some green retreat
A purple flower seldom found,
And of her a hollow sound
In hollow places. There shall ye
Pause as ye pass, and sing . . “To thee,
Water, our Master bade us say
Glad be thy heart, and pure alway;
May thy full urn never fail;
Thee nor sun nor frost assail,
Nor wild winter's wind molest thee;
Never newt nor est infest thee;
Taint nor trouble touch thee never;
Heaven above thee smile for ever;
Earth around thee ever bear
Beauteous buds and blossoms rare;
Far from thee be all foul things,
Slaves to thee be all sweet springs,
Because thou, of thy kindness, hast
Shown, in blissful summers past,
To fondest eyes have ever been,
Sweetest face was ever seen:
Therefore be blest for evermore.”
But if, my Songs, ye would explore
This pleasaunce all, there be therein
Delights so many, day would win
His under-goal ere ye were forth
Of your much musing on the worth
That is therein, and wondrous grace:
Therefore, ere the sun down-pace,
Must ye onward, where is spread
A fair terrace; and overhead
Thick trellis of the trembling vine,
That with leaves doth loop and twine
Aëry casements, whence the glance
Of whoso there, as in a trance,
Walketh about the whisperous shade
Under that vaulted verdure laid,
Seëth far down, and far away,
Tower'd cities, throng'd and gay,
Blowing woodlands, bright blue streams
Sparkling outward, yellow gleams
Of wavèd corn, and sun-burnt swells
Of pasture, soothed with sounds of bells
Sprinkled in air, of various tone,
From little hill-side chapels lone,
And peaceful flocks that stray and pass
Down endless lengths of lowland grass.
And, certes, I will boldly say
Of this fair place, let mock who may,
That of joy the quintessence
Hath never slept about the sense
Of mortal man that is to die
With fullness sweet as that which I
Deep in my solaced heart have known,
Whilhom walking, not alone,
Here in summer morns and eves,
When shadowy showers of flittering leaves
Fell, shaken thick from many a rout
Of little birds that fast flew out
Above us; interruption sweet
To converse, felt the more complete
For the interposèd pauses
Born of all such innocent causes.
Dwelleth in loftier light than we,
As intimate with skyey things
As are creatures that have wings)
Being come to mountains seven,
Note that one that's nighest heaven:
Thereon lieth against the sun
A place of pleasaunce, all o'er-run
With whisperous shade, and blossoming
Of divers trees, wherein do sing
The little birds, and all together,
All day long in happy weather.
And well I ween that since the birth
Of Adam's firstborn, not on earth
Hath ever been such sweet singing
Of bird on bough, as here doth bring
Into a large and leafy ease
His sense that strayeth among the trees,
Where mingled is full many a note
Of golden-finch and speckle-throat.
Even the hoarse-chested starling
Here, where creepeth never a snarling
Gust to vex his heart, all day
Learneth a more melodious lay
Than that whereby this bird is known,
Which, otherwhere, with chiding tone,
What time the fretful Spring doth heave
The frozen North, to winds, that grieve
74
He chaunteth from the cloudy larch:
The linnet loud, and throstle eke,
And the blackbird of golden beak,
With perpetual madrigals
Do melodize the warm green walls
Of those blossom-crownèd groves,
In whose cool hearts the cooing doves
Make murmurings innumerable,
Of sound as sweet as when a well
With noise of bubbled water leapeth
At a green couch where Silence sleepeth:
Nor less, the long-voiced nightingale
Doth, deep down in bloomy vale
Delicious, pour at full noonlight
The song he hath rehearsed o'er-night;
And many other birds be there
Of most sweet voice, and plumage rare,
And names that I not know. Of trees
That spring therein such plenty is
That I to tell them over all
Encumber'd am. Both maple tall
There showeth his silver-mottled bark;
And beeches, colour'd like the dark
Red wine o' the South; and laurels green,
Sunny and smooth, that make rich screen
Round mossy places, where all day
Red squirrels and gray conies play,
Munching brown nuts and such wild fare
As tumbleth from the branches there.
And, for moisture of sweet showers,
All the grass is thick with flowers;
75
Daisies quaint, with savour none,
But golden eyes of great delight,
That all men love, they be so bright;
And, cold in grassy cloister set,
Many a maiden violet;
The bramble flower, the scarlet hepe,
Hangeth above in sunny sleep;
And all around be knots and rows
Of tufted thyme, and lips of cows;
Whose sweet savour goeth about
The jocund bowers, in and out,
And dieth over all the place;
So that there is not any space
Of sun or shade, but haunted is
With ghosts of many sweetnesses.
There, dreading no intrusive stroke
Of lifted axe, the lusty oak
Broad his branches brown doth fling,
And reigneth, “every inch a king:”
Him also of that other kind
In great plenty shall ye find,
That while the great year goeth around
Sheddeth never his leaves to ground,
But in himself his summer hath,
And oweth not, nor borroweth,
As (though but rare) there be some wise
Good men, that to themselves suffice;
But in northern land we see
Full few, and they but stunted be,
Of this goodly kind of tree.
The ever-trembling birch, through all
Her hoary lights ethereal,
76
And of fruit-trees is great array:
The apple and the pear tree both,
Smother'd o'er in creamy froth
Of bubbled blossoms; the green sig,
With leathern leaves, and horny twig,
And gluey globes; the juniper,
That smelleth sweet in midsummer;
Nor peach-tree, there, nor apricot,
Needeth either nail or knot;
Nor there from churlish weathers wince
The orange, lemon, plum, and quince;
But under these, by grassy slopes,
Hangeth the vine her leafy ropes;
Wild Proteus she, o' the wanton wood,
That ever shifteth her merry mood,
And, aye in luxury of change,
Loveth to revel, and dance, and range,
In leaves, not hers, she sleeteth through,
Hiding her large grape-bunches blue;
And here, o'er haunts he maketh brown
With droppings from his scented crown,
Standeth the stately sycamore,
Lifting airy terrace o'er
Airy terrace;—such of yore
Dusky masons, deftly skill'd
Mighty stones to pile and build,
Up-hung in sumptuous Babylon,
For silken kings at set of sun
To dally with dark girls; but these
Are humm'd about by honey bees,
And cicale all day long
Creek the chamber'd shades among.
77
Liquid (for the light doth stream
Through and through them) like that vail
Of lucid mist Morn spreadeth pale
O'er Summer's sallow forehead, found
Somewhere asleep on upland ground
Under the shade of heavy woods,
Imaginary multitudes
Of melancholy olives waste
Their wanness, smiling half effaced
In a smooth sea of slumbrous glory;
But high on inland promontory
Blandly the broad-headed pine,
Basking in the blue divine,
Drowseth, drench'd with sunny sky:
And, while the blue needle-fly
Nimbly pricketh in and out
The leaf-broider'd lawns about,
(As busy she as highborn dame
In shining silk, at tambour frame),
The pomegranate, flowering flame,
Burneth lone in cool retreats,
Hidden from those gorgeous heats
Where summer smouldereth into sweets.
Now, when ye have this goodly wood
All roamèd through, in gamesome mood,
At morning tide, and thereon spent
Large wealth of love and wonderment,
In honour due of such full cheer
And lustihood as laugheth here
The well-bower'd grass about,
That windeth in, and windeth out,
78
The red-budded bramble flings
From branch to branch, still straying on
Softly, ye shall be ware anon
Of a fair garden, glad and great,
Where my Lady, in high state
Of beauty, doth twixt eve and noon,
Under a spiritual moon,
Visit full oft her vassal flowers
In silent and sweet-scented hours,
When quiet vast is everywhere,
About the blue benignant air
And the cool grass, a deep immense
Gladness, an undisturbèd sense
Of goodness in the gather'd calm
Of old green woodlands bathed in balm,
And bounteous silence. . . . O my love,
How softly do the sweet hours move
About thy peaceful perfectness!
O hasten, little Songs! O press
To meet my Lady, ye that be
Her children, if she knew! . . . But she
Still lingereth, and the silver dawn
Is silent on the unfooted lawn.
Here all day doth couch and sport
Trim Flora, with her florid court:
Roses that be illuminèd
With royal colour rich and red;
Some, with bosoms open wide,
Where the brown bee, undenied,
Drinketh deep of honey drops;
Others, whose enamell'd knops
79
Their half-bursten cradles green;
Lordly lilies, pale and proud;
And of all flowers a great crowd;
Whose rare-colour'd kirtles show
More hues than of the rainy bow.
In sweet warmth and lucid air
Nod they all and whisper, where
Lightly along each leafy lane
Zephyrus, with his tripping train,
Cometh at cool of even hour
To greet in all her pomp and power
Queen Flora, when in mansions damp
Of the dim moss his spousal lamp
Aloof the enamour'd glow-worm doth
Softly kindle; while the moth
Flitteth; and, at elfin rites,
Sprucely dance the little Sprites
Under the young moon all alone,
Round about King Oberon.
But ye this pleasaunce fair shall reach
Ere yet from off the slanted peach
The drops of silver dew be slipp'd,
Or night-born buds be open-lipp'd.
There shall ye find, in lustrous shade
Of laurels cool, an old well-head
That whelmeth up from under-ground,
And falleth with a tinkling sound
In a broad basin, builded there,
All rose-porphyry, smooth and fair.
The water is ever fresh and new,
As that Narcissus gazed into,
80
He fainted from the flowery shelf,
Leaving Echo all that pain;
So that now there doth remain
Of him that was so fair and sweet
Only in some green retreat
A purple flower seldom found,
And of her a hollow sound
In hollow places. There shall ye
Pause as ye pass, and sing . . “To thee,
Water, our Master bade us say
Glad be thy heart, and pure alway;
May thy full urn never fail;
Thee nor sun nor frost assail,
Nor wild winter's wind molest thee;
Never newt nor est infest thee;
Taint nor trouble touch thee never;
Heaven above thee smile for ever;
Earth around thee ever bear
Beauteous buds and blossoms rare;
Far from thee be all foul things,
Slaves to thee be all sweet springs,
Because thou, of thy kindness, hast
Shown, in blissful summers past,
To fondest eyes have ever been,
Sweetest face was ever seen:
Therefore be blest for evermore.”
But if, my Songs, ye would explore
This pleasaunce all, there be therein
Delights so many, day would win
His under-goal ere ye were forth
Of your much musing on the worth
81
Therefore, ere the sun down-pace,
Must ye onward, where is spread
A fair terrace; and overhead
Thick trellis of the trembling vine,
That with leaves doth loop and twine
Aëry casements, whence the glance
Of whoso there, as in a trance,
Walketh about the whisperous shade
Under that vaulted verdure laid,
Seëth far down, and far away,
Tower'd cities, throng'd and gay,
Blowing woodlands, bright blue streams
Sparkling outward, yellow gleams
Of wavèd corn, and sun-burnt swells
Of pasture, soothed with sounds of bells
Sprinkled in air, of various tone,
From little hill-side chapels lone,
And peaceful flocks that stray and pass
Down endless lengths of lowland grass.
And, certes, I will boldly say
Of this fair place, let mock who may,
That of joy the quintessence
Hath never slept about the sense
Of mortal man that is to die
With fullness sweet as that which I
Deep in my solaced heart have known,
Whilhom walking, not alone,
Here in summer morns and eves,
When shadowy showers of flittering leaves
Fell, shaken thick from many a rout
Of little birds that fast flew out
82
To converse, felt the more complete
For the interposèd pauses
Born of all such innocent causes.
High on the happy lawn above
Standeth the dwelling of my love.
Fair white all the mansion seemeth,
Save where in green shadow dreameth
The broad blossom-buttress'd roof,
Or where the many-colour'd woof
Of honeysuckle and creeping flowers,
Visibly from vernal showers
Winning length, hath broider'd all
With braided buds the southern wall.
Therein many windows be;
And every window fair to see,
O'er-canopied with hangings bright,
For shelter fresh from summer light.
And underneath, in urns and pots,
Sweet-smelling basil, and red knots
Of roses ripe; for every casement
Is balconied about at basement,
A space where three or four may sit
At interchange of song or wit,
In the low amber evening hours,
Overlooking lawns and flowers.
Standeth the dwelling of my love.
Fair white all the mansion seemeth,
Save where in green shadow dreameth
The broad blossom-buttress'd roof,
Or where the many-colour'd woof
Of honeysuckle and creeping flowers,
Visibly from vernal showers
Winning length, hath broider'd all
With braided buds the southern wall.
Therein many windows be;
And every window fair to see,
O'er-canopied with hangings bright,
For shelter fresh from summer light.
And underneath, in urns and pots,
Sweet-smelling basil, and red knots
Of roses ripe; for every casement
Is balconied about at basement,
A space where three or four may sit
At interchange of song or wit,
In the low amber evening hours,
Overlooking lawns and flowers.
In the hall, which is beneath,
A fountain springeth and echoeth,
Blown by a sad-looking Nymph,
Ravisht from her native lymph
And mossy grot, in days of old;
And in marble mute and cold
Here for ever must she dwell
Uncompanion'd, by the spell
Of a stern old sculptor caught;
For, aye since then, the hand that wrought
This stony charm her limbs upon
May not undo it. Years are gone,
And still about her doth she stare,
Amazed however she came there.
A fountain springeth and echoeth,
Blown by a sad-looking Nymph,
Ravisht from her native lymph
83
And in marble mute and cold
Here for ever must she dwell
Uncompanion'd, by the spell
Of a stern old sculptor caught;
For, aye since then, the hand that wrought
This stony charm her limbs upon
May not undo it. Years are gone,
And still about her doth she stare,
Amazed however she came there.
But ye, since ye be free to rove
This mansion through, to floors above
Up the majestic marble stair
Pass with still steps, unseen, to where
Soon shall ye find, in sequel long,
Twelve great chambers: some be hung
With arras quaint, that doth portray
Hounds that hold the hart at bay
In good green wood, and hunters bold,
And dames aclad in green and gold;
And evermore their horns be wound,
And evermore there cometh no sound:
Others in glowing fresco tell
Great Cæsar's tale, and how he fell
Pierced through and through; with many a story
Of ancient kings that be in glory,
And high-renownèd heroes old;
Sir Tristram, with his harp of gold,
That rashly drain'd the philtre brew'd
By the witch Queen for fair Isoud;
Roland in Roncevallès slain;
And bold Sir Ogier the Dane;
Huon of Bordeaux, love's true star;
Saladin with his scimitar;
The Red-beard Kaiser, sleeping still
Hid in the heart of Salzburg Hill;
David that danceth round the ark;
And Charlemagne; ye there may mark.
This mansion through, to floors above
Up the majestic marble stair
Pass with still steps, unseen, to where
Soon shall ye find, in sequel long,
Twelve great chambers: some be hung
With arras quaint, that doth portray
Hounds that hold the hart at bay
In good green wood, and hunters bold,
And dames aclad in green and gold;
And evermore their horns be wound,
And evermore there cometh no sound:
Others in glowing fresco tell
Great Cæsar's tale, and how he fell
Pierced through and through; with many a story
Of ancient kings that be in glory,
And high-renownèd heroes old;
Sir Tristram, with his harp of gold,
That rashly drain'd the philtre brew'd
By the witch Queen for fair Isoud;
Roland in Roncevallès slain;
And bold Sir Ogier the Dane;
84
Saladin with his scimitar;
The Red-beard Kaiser, sleeping still
Hid in the heart of Salzburg Hill;
David that danceth round the ark;
And Charlemagne; ye there may mark.
But, O my Songs, more softly now,
More softly move! Breathe low, breathe low!
For, by my heart's most tender fear,
I know that ye must now be near
The place where, nesting meek and warm,
Rosy cheek on snowy arm,
With loos'd hair and lidded eye
Dreaming doth my Lady lie:
And all around the restful air
Is silent, sweet, and pure, as where
Fond hands some holy taper trim,
Peaceful in sacred precincts dim.
Now, that my spirit, though far away
From her loved beauty, night and day
Ever in unreleasèd pine
Seeking, on many a musèd line,
To flow toward her, purely may
Her pureness praise,—humbly I pray
Of all good things that wait upon
The mind that maketh devotion
To what is fair (since such do lean
O'er mortal spirits oft unseen
Out of the deep and starry night,
Or steal on beams of morning light,
Or breath of buds, or sound of song
Remember'd, to keep safe from wrong,
And wretchedness, and self-mistrust,
Whatever warreth in this dust
Against oblivion), that their grace
May from my spirit purge and chase
All that is in it not sweet and pure;
So may I look with insight sure
Into myself, and favour find
To make a mirror within my mind,
Whereon, unsoil'd of any taint
Of sinful thought, my most sweet saint
Her fairness may from far let fall
In a deep peace perpetual.
More softly move! Breathe low, breathe low!
For, by my heart's most tender fear,
I know that ye must now be near
The place where, nesting meek and warm,
Rosy cheek on snowy arm,
With loos'd hair and lidded eye
Dreaming doth my Lady lie:
And all around the restful air
Is silent, sweet, and pure, as where
Fond hands some holy taper trim,
Peaceful in sacred precincts dim.
Now, that my spirit, though far away
From her loved beauty, night and day
Ever in unreleasèd pine
Seeking, on many a musèd line,
To flow toward her, purely may
Her pureness praise,—humbly I pray
Of all good things that wait upon
The mind that maketh devotion
To what is fair (since such do lean
O'er mortal spirits oft unseen
Out of the deep and starry night,
Or steal on beams of morning light,
Or breath of buds, or sound of song
Remember'd, to keep safe from wrong,
85
Whatever warreth in this dust
Against oblivion), that their grace
May from my spirit purge and chase
All that is in it not sweet and pure;
So may I look with insight sure
Into myself, and favour find
To make a mirror within my mind,
Whereon, unsoil'd of any taint
Of sinful thought, my most sweet saint
Her fairness may from far let fall
In a deep peace perpetual.
The memory of her is mellow light
In darkness, mingling something bright
With all things; like a summer night.
In darkness, mingling something bright
With all things; like a summer night.
The presence of her is young sunrise,
That gladdeneth, and, in wondrous wise,
Glorifieth, the earth and skies:
That gladdeneth, and, in wondrous wise,
Glorifieth, the earth and skies:
Her spirit is tender and bright as dew
Of May-morn fresh, when stars be few:
Her heart is harmless, simple, and true,
Of May-morn fresh, when stars be few:
Her heart is harmless, simple, and true,
And blithe, and sweet, as bird in bower,
That singeth alone from hour to hour:
Her face is fair as April flower:
That singeth alone from hour to hour:
Her face is fair as April flower:
Her voice is fresh as bubbling bound
Of silver stream, in land new found,
That maketh ever a pleasant sound
Of silver stream, in land new found,
That maketh ever a pleasant sound
86
To the soul of a thirsty traveller:
Her laugh is light as grasshopper:
Her breath is sweet as midsummer:
Her laugh is light as grasshopper:
Her breath is sweet as midsummer:
Her hair is a marvellous living thing
With a will of its own: the little locks fling
Showers of brown gold, gambolling
With a will of its own: the little locks fling
Showers of brown gold, gambolling
Over the ever-fleeting shade
About her shoulder and sweet throat stray'd,
With delicate odours underlaid:
About her shoulder and sweet throat stray'd,
With delicate odours underlaid:
Like calm midsummer cloud, nor less
Clothed with sweet light and silentness,
She in her gracious movement is:
Clothed with sweet light and silentness,
She in her gracious movement is:
Noble withal, and free from fear
As heart of eagle, and high, and near
To heaven in all her ways: of cheer
As heart of eagle, and high, and near
To heaven in all her ways: of cheer
Gentle, and meek, from harshness free
As heart of dove: nor chideth she
Things ill, but knoweth not that they be:
As heart of dove: nor chideth she
Things ill, but knoweth not that they be:
All clear as waters clean that run
Through shadow sweet, and through sweet sun,
Her pure thoughts are: scorn hath she none:
Through shadow sweet, and through sweet sun,
Her pure thoughts are: scorn hath she none:
But in my Lady's perfect nature
All is sincere, and of sweet feature.
This earth hath none such other creature.
All is sincere, and of sweet feature.
This earth hath none such other creature.
87
Rise, little Songs, on nimble wing!
Arise! arise! as larks do sing
Lost in that heaven of light they love,
So rise, so lose yourselves above
My darkness, in the perfect light
Of her that is so pure and bright!
Rise, little Songs! with lusty cheer
Rise up to greet my Lady dear.
Be bold, and say to her with pride,—
“We are the souls of loves that died;
Whose sweetness is hope sorrow-fed,
Whose tendernesses tears unshed;
And we are essences that rise
From passions burn'd in sacrifice;
The youngest and bright-eyèd heirs
Of blind unbeautiful despairs;
Voiced resignations, once dumb wrongs.”
Then, if she smile on you, my Songs,
Say, as I bid you, word for word,
“Lady of him that is our lord,
We from his heart, where we were born,
Shelter'd, and shut from shame and scorn,
Now at his bidding (well-a-day
For him, and us!) being fled away,
Never again may there abide,
Never return, and, undenied,
Creep in, and fold our wings, and rest
At peace in our abandon'd nest.
Wherefore, dear mistress, prithee take
(By true love sent, for true love's sake)
To thy sweet heart, and spirit pure,
Us, that must else but ill endure
The scorns of time, and haply fare
Homeless as birds in winter are.”
Arise! arise! as larks do sing
Lost in that heaven of light they love,
So rise, so lose yourselves above
My darkness, in the perfect light
Of her that is so pure and bright!
Rise, little Songs! with lusty cheer
Rise up to greet my Lady dear.
Be bold, and say to her with pride,—
“We are the souls of loves that died;
Whose sweetness is hope sorrow-fed,
Whose tendernesses tears unshed;
And we are essences that rise
From passions burn'd in sacrifice;
The youngest and bright-eyèd heirs
Of blind unbeautiful despairs;
Voiced resignations, once dumb wrongs.”
Then, if she smile on you, my Songs,
Say, as I bid you, word for word,
“Lady of him that is our lord,
We from his heart, where we were born,
Shelter'd, and shut from shame and scorn,
Now at his bidding (well-a-day
For him, and us!) being fled away,
Never again may there abide,
Never return, and, undenied,
Creep in, and fold our wings, and rest
At peace in our abandon'd nest.
Wherefore, dear mistress, prithee take
(By true love sent, for true love's sake)
To thy sweet heart, and spirit pure,
Us, that must else but ill endure
88
Homeless as birds in winter are.”
But if that, on your way to greet
My gracious Lady, ye should meet
Haply elsewhere with other folk
Who may ask ye in scorn or joke,—
“Pray you now, little Songs, declare
Who is that lady so sweet and fair,
Whereof this singer that sent you sings,
As certainly sweeter than all sweet things?”
See that ye answer not, Songs, but deep
In your secretest hearts my secret keep;
Lest the world, that loveth me not, should tell
The name of the Lady I love so well.
My gracious Lady, ye should meet
Haply elsewhere with other folk
Who may ask ye in scorn or joke,—
“Pray you now, little Songs, declare
Who is that lady so sweet and fair,
Whereof this singer that sent you sings,
As certainly sweeter than all sweet things?”
See that ye answer not, Songs, but deep
In your secretest hearts my secret keep;
Lest the world, that loveth me not, should tell
The name of the Lady I love so well.
89
A FOOTSTEP.
Within my mind there is a garden: partSprung from the greenest stray-aways of Spring
In a dewy time: part by long labouring
Of toilful Love, and many a culturing art
Learn'd of skill'd Grief in patientness of heart,
Nor without weariness, wrought. Deep-blossoming
Growths of long-planted pain cold shadow fling,
Sun-proof to every casual golden dart,
Over one aspect of this haunt. Elsewhere
Full sunlight sleeps for ever. Many a day
I lose myself about this quiet place,
Following one footstep ever the same way.
Dear, 'tis thy ghostly footstep that I trace,
But thee thyself I find not here nor there.
90
DIVIDED LIVES.
O lives beloved, wherein mine once did live,Thinking your thoughts, and walking in your ways,
On your dear presence pasturing all my days,
In pleasantness, and peace; whose moods did give
The measure to mine own! how vainly strive
Poor Fancy's fingers, numb'd by time, to raise
This vail of woven years, that from my gaze
To hide what now you are doth still contrive!
Dear lives, I marvel if to you yet clings
Of mine some colour; and my heart then feels
Much like the ghost of one who died too young
To be remember'd well, that sometimes steals
A family of unsad friends among
Sighing, and hears them talk of other things.
91
SEA-SIDE ELEGIACS.
Ever my heart beateth high and the blood in me danceth delighted,When, in the wind on the wharf, keen from the edge of the land,
Watching the white-wingèd black-bodied ships, as they rise uninvited
Over the violet-dark wall o' the waters, I stand.
Wondrous with life that is in them, aware of the waters and weathers,
They to the populous port pass with a will of their own.
Merrily singeth the mariner there, as the cable he tethers
Tight to the huge iron ring, hung in the green glewy stone.
Swept with the spray is the pavement above; and the sea-wind is salt there.
Down on the causeys all day, humming, the merchants unlade
Marvellous merchandise, while the sea-engines of burthen, at halt there,
Shoulder each other, and loll, lazy in shine or in shade.
O for the wing o' the grey sea-eagle, that far away inland
Croucheth in cave or in creek, waiting the wind on the height!
When night cometh, the great north-wind, blowing bleak over Finland,
Leapeth, and, lifting aloft, beareth him into the night.
O for the wing o' the bird! and O for the wind o' the ocean!
O for the far-away lands! O for the faces unfound!
Would I were hence! for my spirit is fill'd with a mighty emotion.
Why must the spirit, though wing'd, thus to the body be bound?
92
When, at the mid o' the night, high on the shadowy land,
Mournfully watching the ghost-white waves, livid-lipp'd, hollow-breasted,
Sob over shingle and shell, here with my sorrow I stand.
Weary of woe that is in them, fatigued by the violent weathers,
Feebly they tumble and toss, sadly they murmur and moan,
Coldly the moon looketh down through the wan-rolling vapour she gathers
Silently, cloud after cloud, round her companionless throne.
Dark up above is the wharf; and the harbour. The night-wind alone there
Goeth about in the night, humming a horrible song.
Black misshapen bulks, coil'd cumbrous things, overthrown there,
Seem as, in sullen dismay, silently suffering wrong.
O for the wing o' the grey sea-eagle, roamer of heaven!
Him doth the wind o' the night bear through the night on its breast,
Over the howling ocean, and unto his ancient haven,
Far in the land that he loves finding the realms of his rest.
O for the wing o' the bird! and O for the wind o' the ocean!
O for the lands that are left! O for the faces of eld!
Would I were hence! for my spirit is fill'd with a mournful emotion.
Why must the spirit, though wing'd, still by the body be held?
93
THE SHORE.
Can it be women that walk in the sea-mist, under the cliffs thereWhich the unsatisfied surge sucks with importunate lip?
There, where out from the sand-chok'd anchors, on to the skiffs there,
Twinkle the slippery ropes, swinging adip and adrip?
All the place in a lurid, glimmering, emerald glory,
Glares like a Titan world come back under heaven again:
Yonder, aloof are the steeps of the sea-kings, famous in story;
But who are they on the beach? they are neither women nor men.
Who knows, are they the land's, or the water's, living creatures?
Born of the boiling sea? nurst in the seething storms?
With their woman's hair dishevell'd over their stern male features,
Striding, bare to the knee; magnified maritime forms!
They may be the mothers and wives, they may be the sisters and daughters
Of men on the dark mid-seas, alone in those black coil'd hulls,
That toil 'neath yon white cloud, whence the moon will rise o'er the waters
To-night, with her face on fire, if the wind in the evening lulls.
But they may be merely visions, such as only sick men witness,
(Sitting as I sit here, fill'd with a wild regret,)
Framed from the sea's misshapen spume with a horrible fitness
To the winds in which they walk, and the surges by which they are wet:—
94
Which the dying seaman beholds, when the rats are swimming away,
And an Indian wind 'gins hiss from an unknown isle, and alone stirs
The broken cloud which burns on the verge of the dead, red day.
I know not. All in my mind is confused; nor can I dissever
The mould of the visible world from the shape of my thoughts in me.
The Inward and Outward are fused: and, through them, murmur for ever
The sorrow whose sound is the wind, and the roar of the limitless sea.
96
THE PEDLAR.
I
There was a man, whom you might seeAt nightfall, with a pedlar's pack,
Or was it an iron chest, that he
Had bound upon his back?
II
He pass'd the tinkling camels, pass'dThe wayside wells, the glimmering grates
Of garden walls, the palm-trees mass'd
Round Bagdadt's murmurous gates.
III
The merchants from Bassora staredAnd of his wares would question him,
But, without answer, on he fared
Into the evening dim.
IV
His cheek was worn, his back bent doubleBeneath the iron chest it bore,
And in his walk there was the trouble
Of one whose feet are sore.
V
You wonder'd if he ever hadA settled home, a wife, a child.
You marvell'd if a face so sad
At any time had smiled.
97
VI
To him the pitying housewife oftFlung alms, but he limp'd heedless by;
The children pelted him and scoff'd,
Yet fear'd,—they knew not why.
VII
Thro' the dark doorway of the maidLoose from her lingering lover ran,
And, with a frighten'd whisper, said
‘There walks the haunted man!’
VIII
The traveller hail'd him oft ‘Goodnight!The town is far, the road is lone.
God speed!’ Already out of sight
The wayfarer was gone.
IX
But when the night was late and still,And only thro' the darkness crept
The hungry wild beast from the hill,
He laid him down, and slept.
X
His head on that strong box he laid;And there, beneath the star-clear skies,
Or in the jungle's giant shade,
There rose before his eyes.
XI
A lovely dream, a vision fair,Of some far off forgotten land,
And a white girl with golden hair
And wild flowers in her hand.
98
XII
He sprang to clasp her. ‘Ah, once more‘Return, beloved, and bring with thee
The glory and the grace of yore,
And all that was to be!’
XIII
Ere she could answer, o'er his backThere fell a sharp and sudden stroke,
And, smarting sore, the wretch, alack,
Most wretchedly awoke.
XIV
There comes from out that iron chestA hideous hag, a hateful crone.
With lifted crutch, and scurvey jest,
She beats him to the bone.
XV
‘Thou lazy scatterling! come, budge,And carry me again!’ she says.
‘Not half the journey's over. Trudge!’
He groans, but he obeys.
XVI
Oft in the sea he sought to flingThat iron chest. But witches swim;
And wave and wind were sure to bring
The old hag back to him,
XVII
Who all the more. . . . . But, O my love,Thou know'st the rest! Thou know'st it all.
Return! return! where e'er I rove,
And whatsoe'er befall,
99
XVIII
I heed not, if thou still. . . . Behold,With surly crutch uplifted high
The angry hag begins to scold!
Ah, yet we might. . . . . Good-bye!
100
THE VAMPIRE.
I.
I found a corpse, with glittering hair,Of a woman whose face, tho' dead,
The white death in it had left still fair,
Too fair for an earthy bed!
So I loosen'd each fold of her bright curls, roll'd
From forehead to foot in a gush of red gold,
And kiss'd her lips till her lips were red,
And warm and light on her eyelids white
I breath'd, and press'd unto mine her breast,
Till the blue eyes oped, and the breast grew warm.
And this woman, behold! arose up bold,
And, lifelike lifting a wilful arm,
With steady feet from the winding sheet
Stepp'd forth to a mutter'd charm.
II.
And now beside me, whatever betide me,This woman is, night and day.
For she cleaves to me so, that, wherever I go
She is with me the whole of the way.
And her eyes are so bright in the dead of the night.
That they keep me awake with dread;
While my lifeblood pales in my veins, and fails,
Because her red lips are so red
101
And it makes my whole flesh creep
To think she is drinking and draining my blood,
Unawares, if I chance to sleep.
III.
It were better for me, ere I came nigh her,—This corpse,—ere I look'd upon her,—
Had they burn'd my body in penal fire
With a sorcerer's dishonour.
For, when the Devil hath made his lair
In the living eyes of a dear dead woman,
(To bind a man's strength by her golden hair,
And break his heart, if his heart be human)
Is there any penance, or any prayer,
That may save the sinner whose soul he tries
To catch in the curse of the constant stare
Of those heartbreaking bewildering eyes,—
Comfortless, cavernous glowworms that glare
From the gaping grave where a dead hope lies?
It is more than the soul of a man may bear.
For the misery worst of all miseries
Is Desire eternally feeding Despair
On the flesh, or the blood, that forever supplies
Life more than enough to keep fresh in repair
The death ever dying, which yet never dies.
102
A REPROACH.
I.
Fierce the sea is, and fickle if fair.So they say of it. So let it be!
But did ever the landsman's languor check
The seaman's pride in his dancing deck?
Or did ever the helmsman, whose home is there,
In place of his own true hand and eye
Trust the ploughman's skill, when the sea ran high,
And submit to a landsman's usurpature?
No! for the seaman loveth the sea,
And knoweth its nature.
II.
Peril there is on the mountain peak,When headlong tumble the turbulent rills.
But did ever the lowland shepherd's fear
Daunt the heart of the mountaineer?
Or did ever the hillborn hunter seek,
When the snowdrift, sweeping the mountain side,
Flew fast and fierce, for a lowland guide
To track the path of a mountain creature?
No! for the huntsman loveth the hills,
And knoweth their nature.
103
III.
Then to whom shall the sailor for counsel go,Thro' the violent waters his bark to steer?
Or what thro' the ice and the falling snow
May guide the foot of the mountaineer?
Hath the huntsman heed of the pastoral quills
Which the shepherd pipes to his flocks on the lea?
Or the seaman faith in the fear that fills
The babbling landsman's prate? Not he!
For the heighths and the depths have their ways and wills,
Which they must learn who their lords would be.
And the highlander studies and trusts the hills,
As the mariner studies and trusts the sea.
IV.
But, O my love, I am thine in vain,If thou trustest me not! and oh why hast thou ta'en
Counsel, not of my nature nor thine,
How a woman should deal with this heart of mine?
The seaman the sea doth trust,
And the huntsman the hills. But thou,
Thou, that hast known me, do'st
Trust those that I scorn to know
For the knowledge of me;
Who have been thine own
In vain, if by thee
I be still unknown.
104
A REMONSTRANCE.
I
Deem, if thou wilt, that I am all, and worseThan all, they bid thee deem that I must be.
But, ah! wilt thou desert love's universe,
Deserting me?
II
Not for my sake, be mine unworth forgiven,But for thine own. Since I, despite my dearth
Of all that made thee, what thou art, my Heaven,
Am still thine Earth;
III
Still thy love's only habitable star;Whose element engender'd, and embosoms
All thoughts, all feelings, all desires, which are
Love's roots and blossoms.
IV
Who will hold dear the ashes of the daysBurn'd out on altars deem'd no more divine?
Rests there of thy soul's wealth enough to raise
A new god's shrine?
V
Who will forgive thy cheek its faded bloom,Save he whose kisses that blanch'd rose hath fed?
Thine eyes, the stain of tears—save he for whom
Those tears were shed?
105
VI
Despite the blemisht beauty of thy brow,Thou would'st be lovely couldst thou love again;
For love renews the beautiful. But thou
Hast only pain.
VII
How wilt thou bear from pity to imploreWhat once thy power from rapture could command?
How wilt thou stretch—who wast a Queen of yore—
A suppliant's hand?—
VIII
Even of thy pride be poor enough to askLove's purchased shelter, charitably chill,
Yet hast thou strength to recommence the task
Of pardoning still?
IX
For who will prize in thee love's loss of allLove hath to give save pardon for love wrong'd,
Unless that pardon be, whate'er befall
Love's pride, prolong'd?
X
And thou—to whom demanding all that ICan claim no more, wilt thou henceforth extend
Forgiveness on forgiveness, with that sigh
Which shuns the end?
XI
Where wilt thou find the unworthier lips than mine,To plead for pardon with a prayer more lowly?
To whom else, pardoning much, become divine
By pardoning wholly?—
106
XII
Ah, if thy heart can pardon yet, why yetShould not its latest pardon be for me?
And, if thou wilt not pardon, canst thou set
The future free
XIII
From the unpardon'd past, and so forget me?If not,—forgive me for thine own sad sake;
Else, having left me, thou would'st still regret me,
And still would'st take
XIV
Revenge for that regret on thine own bosom,Revenge on others for the failure, found
In them, to rear transplanted love to blossom
On blighted ground.
XV
As lion, tho' by lion wounded, stillDoth miss the boisterous pastime of his kind,
Or wild sea-eagle, tho' with broken quill,
Clipt, and confined,
XVI
And fed on dainty fare among the doves,Doth miss the stormy sea-wind and the brine,
So would'st thou miss, amid all worthier loves,
The unworth of mine.
XVII
Then, if the flush of love's first faith be wan,And thou wilt love again, again love me,
For what I am—no Saint, but still a man
That worships thee.—
107
ONE MORNING.
I
“ Swear twice, and thrice, no future hourShall ever blight what this hath blest!
Nay, I possess thee by the power
Whereby I am, myself, possest!”
II
Words like to those were said (—or dream'd?—)How long since! on a night divine,
By lips from which such rapture stream'd,
I cannot think those lips were mine.
III
The dawn creeps, dripping, up the roofs,All sallow from a night of rain.
The sound of feet, and wheels, and hoofs
In the choked street begins again.
IV
The same dull toil—no end, no aim!The same vile babble in mine ears:
The same unmeaning smiles: the same
Most miserable dearth of tears:
V
The same sick gaze on the same lackOf lustre in the level grey:
It seems like yesterday come back
With nothing new, and not today.
108
VI
But, now and then, her name will fallFrom careless lips, with little praise,
On life's parcht surface, shattering all
The dry indifference of my days.
VII
The chatterers chatter here and there:They chatter of they know not what:
They lie, and leer, and sneer, and stare,
Inquire of this, and hint of that.
VIII
On her fair fame, and mine, the spiteOf fools is fed. They know not, they,
(No more than insects when they bite)
The nature of their noble prey.
IX
This curse ensues, when life from lifeHath been disjoin'd,—that things which breed
And buzz in broken rifts their rise
And reeking eggs, 'twixt dust and weed,
X
Hatch in the hollow fractures fast;And so defile their delicate
Fine fibrous joints that these at last
Can fit and fix no more.
Such fate
XI
Is ours, unless thou sweep from thine,As I from my life hourly sweep,
The sickening swarm and strangling twine
Of weeds that cling and worms that creep,
109
XII
O thou, so distant and so dearHalf of us One!
But, ah! the worst
Is that I know she cannot hear.
This warning cry. And lips that thirst
XIII
Drink aught that's pour'd: and souls o'erstrungAre credulous of cause for pain:
And she is left alone among
My slanderers: and a Lie will gain
XIV
The goal, altho' from land to land,To get there, round the world it run,
White Truth, half-waked, with drowsy hand
Her travelling trim is buckling on.
XV
I know how tender friends of oursHave sown, 'twixt crafty gape and glance,
The seeds of scandal's choicest flowers,
That seem, like weeds, to spring from chance.
XVI
That small, small, imperceptibleSmall talk! that cuts like powder'd glass
Ground in Tophana,—who can tell
Where lurks the power the poison has?
XVII
All treachery could devise hath wroughtAgainst us—letters robb'd and read,
Snares hid in smiles, betrayal bought,
And lies imputed to the dead.
110
XVIII
And here, where Slander's spawn is spilt,And gabbling Gossip clucks above
Her fetid eggs, it feels like guilt,
To know that, far away, my love
XIX
Her heart on every heartless hourIs haply bruising for my sake,
While numb, and dumb, and void of power,
My life sleeps, like a winter snake.
XX
I will arise, and go to her,And save her, in her own despite.
For in my breast begins to stir
A pulse of its old power and might.
XXI
I may be worse than friends would prove.Who knows the worst of any man?
But, whatsoe'er it be, my love
Is not what they conceive, or can.
XXII
Nor can they so have slander'd meBut what, I think, if I should call,
And stretch my arms to her, that she
Would rush to meet me, 'spite of all.
111
SORCERY.
I.
You're a Princess of the water:I'm a Genius of the air.
We have both been metamorphosed,
But our spirits still are fair.
For a deed, untold, unwritten,
That was done an age ago,
I have lost my wings, and wander
In the wilderness below.
For a wizard's wicked pleasure,
In a palace by the sea,
You were changed to a white panther,
Till the time for meeting me.
No white lamb are you, my panther,
And no shepherd swain am I!
Did you hear the wild horn blowing,
When I heard the wild beast cry?
You have lain, with lynx and lion,
In the jungle and the fen.
I have roam'd the wild with robbers,
Pariahs, outlaws, ruin'd men.
The black elephants of Delhi
Are the wisest of their kind,
And the libbards of Sumatra
Have a hundred eyes behind:
112
They believed me of the earth,
When I moved among them, mourning
For the region of my birth,
Till I found you in the moonlight.
Then, at once, I knew it all!
You were coil'd in sullen slumber,
But you started at my call.
To my lips your name came leaping
When you open'd your wild eyes.
At my feet you fawn'd, you knew me
In despite of all disguise.
Sure I am why in your slumber
You were moaning! 'Twas for me,
And a dream of harpers harping
From a palace by the sea.
Thro' the wilderness together
We must wander everywhere,
Till we find the magic berry
That shall make us what we were.
Then your crown shall you recover,
And my wings shall I regain,
And we two shall then reenter
Our inherited domain.
'Tis a fruit of bitter savour,
By few pilgrims sought or found:
And the palm whence we must pluck it
Grows on far enchanted ground.
Bitter is it, yet benignant,
Since of power to cleanse and cure;
Like the godhood of the Ganges
Purifying things impure.
113
Shall our forms again be fair:
Yours, with beauty of the water,
Mine, with beauty of the air.
All the ways are wild before us,
And the night is in the skies,
And the dæmons of the desert
Are against us. Yet arise!
END OF BOOK II.
| The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) | |