The Poetical Works of Wilfrid Scawen Blunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ghost of the beautiful past, of the days long gone, of a queen, of a fair sweet woman.
Ghost with the passionate eyes, how proud, yet not too proud to have wept, to have loved, since to love is human.

Angel in fair white garments, with skirts of lawn, by the autumn wind on the pathway fluttered,
Always close by the castle wall and about to speak. But the whisper dies on her lips unuttered.

Yellow leaves deep strewn on the sward, dead leaves of a far-off glorious summer.
Yea, the leaves of the roses she plucked, petal by petal, with beating heart, for him the delayed loved comer.

Why doth she weep thus year on year? He hath tarried long, ah me, a thousand desolate years.
Why doth she weep? She hath wept enough. For see, dark down in the gardens dim, a lake. It is filled with her tears.

If I should ask her name, her title with men? But I need not ask it. I know it, alas, of old, though of old unspoken.
Is there another name but one for that face divine, for those sad sweet lips, like a bow unbent, like a bent bow broken?

368

No, it is none but her's, the Queen, the beloved of all, the beloved of one, when the Table Round was set in thy mead, Carleon.
None but hers, who was Guenevere, when the trumpets blew and the knights full clad rode down to joust at noon, with their clamorous shout, “The Queen!”

Doth she remember all, or is all forgotten, pennon proud and lance in rest, the thunder of hoofs and the light swift tread of the foremost runner?
Dareth she raise her eyes, those passionate eyes, at the crowd that gazed? None of them all might meet her look, save he, her one true passionate knight, who adoring won her.

Surely, surely, she seeth; she knoweth all; she is no lost vision of death.
She hath still a smile deep hidden. She hath a name on her lips. She shall sigh, she shall speak, she shall move, when the light winds breathe from the Western Seas with the Spring that quickeneth.

Oh, she shall laugh and sing, though the shadow of Death be a cloud behind her!
Oh, she shall love! Though the dragon of grief keep watch, he shall sleep when the trees in the mead grow green, and awaking he shall not find her.

Read me a sweeter meaning, O Lady, O thou whom I serve, of this pictured story.
Read. Nay the tale is told. To it's truth I swear, by my sword, by my knightly faith, by the fame of the King and the Table Round, and the souls of the Saints in glory!

369

LOVE IS MASTER STILL

Since that it may not be,
The thing my soul desires,
And that Love's tenderer fires
Are doomed to loss and Time's sterility,
Ours be it this one day
Flowers at Love's feet to lay,
For Love is master still, or be we bond or free.

We may not quite be blest.
Time's treasure is too great,
And ours too weak a fate,
And Joy burns low, a sun-flame in the West.
Night comes, the while we stand
Forlornly hand in hand,
And then the tears begin, the dreams that have no rest.

Yet, since it may not be,
And Love can not be wise,
And in each other's eyes
We still must seek Time's lost felicity,
Ours be it this last day
Flowers on Love's grave to lay,
For Love is master still, or be we bond or free.

A CHAUNT IN PRAISE

How many hymns have I chaunted, Lady, in laud of thee,
Each with a sigh for its burthen, tear for its antiphon?
Love-songs are sweet in the morning. All things in praise of thee
Evening and morning rejoice, intoning in unison.

370

Noontide and night have I heard them, birds in the bulrushes,
Ewes with their lambs in the pastures, winds in the wilderness,
Doves as they light in the palm-tops, moans of the waterwheel,
Eagles and ravens exulting, all speak the name of thee.

Fair is thy face, as the first star seen in the western sky
Robed in the rose of the sunset, pure in its loneliness.
Angels look down from its windows, smile on the world of men,
Near yet afar from their grieving. Thou too hast smiled on me.

Crown me with bays, nay, with roses. What should I do with bays,
Emblems of earthly ambition, I who but live for love?
Earn me reward of the red rose, thine and love's laureate,
Thus with the flower of thy kindness crowning my constancy.

Deign to accept an allegiance due to thy royalty.
Empires are thine. Be my kingdom here at thy kness to kneel.
Not till thou speak will I raise me, turn to life's emptiness,
Ashes and dust for my portion, O thou most pitiful!

Verily grief is love's sister. Therefore I weave for thee
Anthems of grief and of true love born of thy loveliness.
Read and forget, and to-morrow, lo, where my path hath been,
Eagles and ravens exulting scream from the wilderness.

371

COUPLETS IN PRAISE

Poet of love, I sing here my whole soul to you.
Ah, might I all deeds dare, love would I prove to you.

Make I at least your praise, chaplet of sunny verse,
Each dear delight of your told to the universe.

Let me your sweetnesses, O child, enumerate.
All the proud wealth of you Love shall remunerate.

“Glory to God,” I sigh each time I gaze at you.
Eyes that have wept all night thrill in amaze at you.

Night in your dark hair sleeps, caught in the net of it,
Emblem how dear of dreams pure as the jet of it.

Valiant joy crowns your brow, stainless its ivory.
Incense your sweet lips breathe, rose-red their livery.

Earth has no part in you. Yet do your eyes to-night
Vanquish all Earth for me, wise in their wise delight.

Evening and morning still watch your feet shod with dew,
Answering praise and prayer, fearless, your God with you.

Dare to delight our souls steeped in love's tenderness.
Earn us a wage of joy saved from the wilderness.

Lo, how my heart leaps up new life inheriting.
Armed for the fight am I, all your praise meriting.

Idly if I have lived, now am I glorious,
Daring all deeds for you, yours and victorious.

372

Empires shall bend and break; kingdoms shall crumble down.
Wise men shall bow the knee; wise ones look humble down.

You are the cause of it. Only your name it is
Nerves me to fight the fight stern with life's vanities.

Die! Ay, to die for you, foremost in rivalry,
Heroes to dig my grave: that were true chivalry.

All lovers there should sing, all who had wit any,
Mourn me and weep with you. Here ends my litany.

SONG: LOVE IN THE SUMMER HILLS

1

Love in the summer hills,
With youth to mock at ills,
And kisses sweet to cheat
Our idle tears away.
What else has Time in store,
Till Life shall close the door?
Still let me sing love's lore,
Come sorrow when it may.

2

Rain on the weeping hills,
With Death to end our ills,
And only thought unsought
To point our joys' decay.
Oh Life is wounded sore
And Grief's mad waters roar.
Yet will I love once more
To-day as yesterday.

373

WHOM THE GODS LOVE

Whom the gods love die young. Ah, do not doubt of it.
Laura did well to die. Our loss was a gain for her,
Ours who so loved her laughter, ours who at thought of it
Shrink from a wound yet tender, wailing in vain for her.

Full was her life, a well-spring, brimmed to the brink of it,
Giving of its abundance alms to humanity.
We, with our life's cup empty, paused there to drink of it,
Rose with our souls ennobled, purged of their vanity.

Which of us all but loved her, knelt to her, prayed to her?
She was our queen, our Soul-saint, first in our Calendar.
“Laura,” our lips breathed, “Laura,” vowing our aid to her,
Each as her fame's proclaimer, champion and challenger.

Which but might deem she loved him? Which, when she smiled on him,
Nursed not for his consoling dreams of felicity?
Which, in her eyes, read no hope, when like a child on him
Turned she those orbs appealing masked in simplicity?

Nay, there was none went wounded, even when “No” to him
Came as the last sad answer ending his argument.
“No?” 'Twas hope's affirmation, boding no woe to him,
Rather a sweet postponing framed for encouragement.

Why should he weep? He wept not. Dear was her way with him.
Had she not given of all things more than he gave to her?

374

Had not her lips poured plenty, wise words and gay with him?
Why should his farewell falter, fool hands not wave to her?

I too with these essayed love. I too my joy with her
Sought in her wild girl's garden, idly, a censurer,
Learned what the rest had learned there, deemed like a boy with her
I too, that Laura loved me, kneeled my heart's venturer,

Wooed her and went forth weeping, yet with her name for me
Stored as a sweet remembrance deep in the heart of me,
Grieving my day departed; still as high fame for me
Chaunting it, each sad evening, proud as a part of me.

Whom the gods love! Ay truly. Why should we mourn for her
Dowered with all youth for portion, spared our infirmity?
Nay, 'twere for her to pity us, the forlorn for her,
Laughing her gay girl's laughter, glad through Eternity.

WITH ETERNITY STANDING BY

How shall I bid you good-bye,
Dear, without tears?
Only once in the years,
The idle vanishing years,
We met, with Eternity standing by,
And loved, a little forgotten space,
I for the sake of your beautiful face,
You I hardly know how or why,
Or whether you loved me indeed, alas,
With Eternity standing by.

375

We played our comedy parts,
Scene after scene.
You were to be my queen,
My dear sweet comedy queen,
I your lover and knave of hearts
Who kissed your hand in the make-believe
And looked for the bee in your royal sleeve,
And stopped, because of the pain that smarts,
The pangs that soften, the sighs that grieve,
And the rest of the tragic parts.

We did not know that we loved,
Not at the first of it.
That, ah that was the worst of it,
The aching sorrowful worst of it,
Not till I saw that your soul was moved
At the sound of my voice, as in tears I read
Of Guinevere and the days long dead,
And the knights and ladies who lived and loved
And went to their graves and were harvested.
Then, ah then, it was proved.

So I dare not bid you good-bye,
Dear, without tears.
Things there are in the years,
The coming ominous years,
All too sad for us not to cry.
Other joys shall forgotten be,
But not the pilgrimage made with me,
The Severn's flood and the angry sky,
And the love we talked of, which could not be
With Eternity standing by.

376

MY ONLY TITLE

My only title to her grace
Is her sad, too silent face;
All my right to call her mine
The twin tears that on it shine,
Tears that tell of griefs long hid
In the shadows of each lid,
And of doubts that wound her sore
Our twin lives shall meet no more.
Nay, my right and title this,
That she gave me one shy kiss
'Twixt the dawning and the day,
Benediction on my way,
When the vain world was asleep
And no ear to hear us weep,
And that once my fingers pressed
The warm treasures of her breast,
Just a moment, and the truth
Learned of her close-hidden youth
With its joys and sweetnesses
Deep beyond all wit to guess,
All but mine, and what might be
Were she wholly joined with me.

Such my title is and treasure,
Such my glory beyond measure,
Such my thought for the new years,
Burdened with what doubts and fears,
Yet one day to claim her mine.
Here, beyond this shadowy Rhine,
Far from her and journeying still,
Feel I her young pulses thrill,

377

Her warm body nestled close
To my own with all its woes.
And I know that some far hour
I shall call to her with power,
When the sun is fast in prison
And the midnight stars have risen
Clear and kind in a warm sky,
And the shepherd's hour is nigh,
In a language she shall heed,
“Life is fleeting, love hath need.
Time it is tears should not be.
Come, my love, and dwell with me.”
And I know that without stay,
'Twixt the dawning and the day,
When the vain world is asleep
And no ear to hear her weep,
She shall dry her tears and come;
And we too through Christendom
And beyond this shadowy Rhine,
With its fields of corn and wine,
And the snow-clad Alps and Rome,
And the blue sea capped with foam,
And far-famed Constantinople
With its domes of pearl and opal,
And the sea of Marmora,
Where the dolphins sport and play,
And the utmost isles of Greece
Guarding still their golden fleece,
As when Paris to them came
With his Helen all aflame
On their glorious honeymoon;
And so on from noon to noon
Journeying still and still beyond,
Fond as they and yet more fond,
To the ancient tearless East

378

Shall be borne as to a feast,
And sit down there our lives long,
With Love's silence for our song
And Love's guile for our disguise,
While I teach her to be wise.
And my title to her grace
Shall the smiles be on her face,
Her blue eyes, where no tears be,
Being wholly joined with me.

SEA LAVENDER

Lavender, sea lavender!
Pale sweet flower how full of her!
Flower discreet, with your priest's eyes
Trained in all time's mysteries,
Yet how chastely calmly sealed!
Flower of passions unrevealed,
Stainless eyes, but none the less
Wise in life's most nakedness,
With its inward hours of sin,
Known to thee, and all therein;
And how soul with soul found might,
In the watches of the night,
Cherishing an unseen joy,
Man with woman, girl with boy,
Under the sky's multitude,
Till the pulsings of their blood
Led them into ways unknown,
Flesh of flesh and bone of bone
Clasped in one, till doubt was over,
And they went forth loved and lover
Bride and groom to their new home.

379

See, to-day to you I come,
Flower of wisdom who know all,
To your mute confessional,
Wanting love and wanting her,
(Lavender, sea lavender!)
In a world where she is not,
Mined with plot and counterplot
Built against our happiness.
You, who know her most, can guess
What her thought is far from me,
What soft wind of memory
Fans her with a scent of pleasure,
What sweet song in what sweet measure
Trilled by birds when day was breaking
And each tremulous throat awaking
Strained to make its passion heard
Louder there than other bird,
While we listened, we too, straining
Heart to heart, and watched the waning
Moon fade slowly like a feather
In the red East, close together,
Near, how near, who now are far.
Tell me what her fancies are.
Does she love still? Does she cherish,
In the waste of days that perish
That one dawn, which cannot die?
Nay, I know it, nor will I
Doubt of love or doubt of her,
(Lavender, sea lavender!)
Since she knows and understands
That my hands still hold her hands.

380

DON JUAN'S GOOD-NIGHT

(From the French)

Teach me, gentle Leporello,
Since you are so wise a fellow,
How your master I may win.
Leporello answers gaily
Slip into his bed and way lay
Him; anon he shall come in.

Soon as he shall find you laid there
Fresh and young, so sweet a maid there,
He shall smile, and joyfully
“I am hungry, Leporello,
Bring us wine, good wine and mellow,
Here is one would sup with me.”

Wine then will I bring (not water),
A feast fit for a king's daughter,
Lay it out in the alcove,
While my Lord with pleasant fancies
Makes his court to you, romances
Of your beauty and his love.

Passion soon shall rise full blossom;
He shall weep upon your bosom,
Make you all his soul's display.
He, in honour as a true man,
Shall declare you the sole woman
He has loved until to-day.

381

At the last he shall possess you,
And all night. Then with “God bless you”
Turn to sleep, nor shall you know,
Curtained in your silks and satins,
How at dawn he was off “to matins.”
His politeness called it so.

But remember, from next morning
You must quite forget the adorning
Of to-night, or earn his curse.
Gold is yours if you but ask it,
Spain and Flanders in a basket.
I am keeper of his purse.

To console you be a forture
Will not grudge. But to importune
His more tenderness? Nay, Nay.
A return to even your beauty
Were too costly a Duke's duty,
One his whole wealth could not pay.

A STORM IN SUMMER

Nature that day a woman was in weakness,
A woman in her impotent high wrath.
At the dawn we watched it, a low cloud half seen
Under the sun; an innocent child's face
It seemed to us rose-red and fringed with light
Boding no hurt, a pure translucent cloud,
Deep in the East where the Sun's disk began.
We did not guess what strengths in it were pent,
What terrors of rebellion. An hour more,
And it had gathered volume and the form
Of a dark mask, the she-wolf's of old Rome,

382

The ears, the brow, the cold unpitying eyes,
Through which gleams flashed. And, as we watched, the roll
Of thunder from a red throat muttering
Gave menace of the wild beast close at hand.
Anon a wall of darkness in the South
Black to the Zenith, and a far-off wail,
The wind among the trees.—And then, behold,
Flying before it a mad clamorous rout
Of peewits, starlings, hawks, crows, dishwashers,
Blackbirds and jays, by hundreds, scattering,
While the Earth trembled holding as it were its breath;
Till suddenly an answer from the ground,
And the fields shook and a new mighty roar
Crashed through the oaks, and in a pent-up flow
The storm's rage broke in thunder overhead,
And all the anger of the passionate heaven
Burst into tears.

JEWELLED OFFERING

Jewelled offering bring I none,
Jade or pearl or precious stone,
Urn of crystal, bale of spice,
Unguent culled in Paradise,
Dye how deep of rainbow hue,
Dust of gold from Cambalu,
Ivory throne with sandal-wood
Inlaid all and scented ood,
Tent of silk whose tapestries
Tell of tears in ladies' eyes,
Heavenly tears, 'neath moon and star,
Hopes that were and joys that are,
Ambient ever in love's soul
Armed with might and near the goal.

383

Nought, alas, of these I bring.
Necklace, chain, nor nuptial ring.
No bold bridegroom I, to be
Nerved to dreams of chivalry,
Expedited at your word
Earth's whole realm to win by sword,
Daring all things, briar and brake,
Dole and Death for your dear sake,
Onward, upward, heavenward borne,
(O thou rose without a thorn!)
Rivalry in deeds to show,
Rodomont or Romeo.

Out, alas! Such love for us
Outlawed is and vanitous.
Time can touch it not nor cure.
'Tis an ill we must endure,
Howsoever long our days,
Howsoever rich in praise.
Even in Heaven we may not win
Ear for this too sweet a sin,
And no angel voice shall say,
“Ask it, souls, and have your way.”
Be consoled then if I make
But this rhyme for birthday's sake,
Leaving love gifts all aside
Light to him shall call you bride,
Unacknowledged and untold,
Useless as Utopian gold.
Nonsense rhymes! Ah me, such sense
Nesting bird to nestling lends,
Trills of pale parental hue
Tragic only because true.

384

A WEDDING MARCH

Clash your cymbals, maids, to-day.
Chaunt the praise of Cynthia.
You, her virgins, yokeless, free,
Young Time's choice, his brides-to-be.
Nymphs in white, who hand in hand
Next to her high altar stand,
Take your timbrels, strike your strings;
Tune them to Love's clamourings.
Heralds be of her your fairest,
Her of rarities the rarest.
Instant all her laud rehearse,
Idol of your universe;
And thus armed stand forth and say,
“All is nought but Cynthia.”

Clash your cymbals. Beat your drums.
Cynthia in her glory comes,
High with him whose duty is
Her to lead to a new bliss.
Ah, what fortune his to be
Angel of her ecstasy!
Red with roses Love's path lies,
Rich in rainbows of surprise.
They that tread it wiser are
Than the wise kings with their star,
Eve and morn who went pursuing
Eve's old hopes to Time's undoing,
Robbing Time of his vain wrath.
Run to Love; take all he hath,
Idle maids! Nay, shout and sing,
In Love's praise new chorusing,
Stintless this thrice happy day.
Shout aloud for Cynthia!

385

A CUCKOO SONG

Crowns are for kings to wear, sad crowns of gold
Over tired heads that ache, world-cares untold.
Not on thy happy brows, sweet bird of summer,
Set we such crowns to-day, thou Spring's new-comer.
Take from us, rather, thou these our wild posies.
April's and May's we bring, June's with its roses.
Nay and love's Cuckoo flowers, O child of glory!
Cuckoos thine own birds are; these be thy dowry.
Eve of our heart's shut field, need is we grieve thee,
Gone to a world more sweet where we must leave thee.
Russet-clad nightingales, tired of our chaunting,
Out in the dark we weep, our Queen-bird wanting.
Such is the fate of birds. Soon as the Spring comes
Vagrant they flit and fly. Lo! 'tis their King comes.
Endeth our night plaint only when, through the wild wood,
New born the day trips in, laughs as a child would.
O, then we too will laugh, join in the gay chime,
Run to thy marriage bells, birds of the day-time.

MANY ARE CALLED

Many are called, dear heart, to happiness,
But few are chosen, even for a wild short year.
Love calls us from our sleep, and we make stress
To rise and greet him in a world austere
With a sweet dawn, while blithe as chanticleer
He carols his brave message, and we loosen
The shutters of our grief to find him near.
Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

386

Love's voice is truth. He speaks his messages
In tones we dare not doubt, and we give ear
As to a prophet of our wilderness,
The glorious lord of a new hemisphere.
And we run, we too, glorious, without fear,
Like children on bright ice too thinly frozen,
Gay to our doom. Ah me! The plunge was sheer.
Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

Love chooses whom he will to ban or bless.
My fate was a wild shepherd's on the drear
Plains of wan hope, whose one-time shepherdess
Was lost even in the winning, and whose cheer
Has since been of the yellow leaf and sere,
(Scorned is the rose-tree Time finds no last rose on)
And silence claims him and the end is near.
Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

Queen of my life! I do not love you less
Because you choose not me to cast your woes on.
It is enough for me you once said “Yes.”
Many are called by Love, but few are chosen.

JACINTHS AND JESSAMINES

Jacinths and jessamines and jonquils sweet,
All odorous pale flowers from Orient lands,
No vain red roses strew I at thy feet,
Emblems of grief and thee, with reverent hands.
Mine is no madrigal of passionate joy,
Or orison of aught less chaste than tears.
Ruth on thy brow sits fairest. Its annoy
Rends not thy beauty's raiment, nor the years.
In thy shut lips what secrets! Who am I
Should seek a sign at that dread sanctuary?

387

AN INSCRIPTION

At this fair oak table sat
Whilom he our Laureate,
Poet, handicraftsman, sage,
Light of our Victorian age,
William Morris, whose art's plan
Laid its lines in ample span,
Wrought it, trestle board and rib,
With good help of Philip Webb,
For an altar of carouse
In his own home, the Red House.
Thirty years and five here he
Made good cheer and company,
Feasting all with more than bread.
Had men stored the things he said,
Jests profound and foolings wise,
Truths unliveried of lies,
Basenesses chastised and set
Like hounds slain beneath his feet,
Knowledge prodigally poured,
His best wine, at this free board;
Nay, if but the crumbs he shed
Nightly round of heart and head
Gleaned had we, not this good hall
Half the wonders might install,
Wit's wealth lost, which now must sleep
Dumb when we have ceased to weep.

ASSASSINS

Assassins find accomplices. Man's merit
Has found him three, the hawk, the hound, the ferret.

388

SONG: IF I FORGET THEE

If I forget thee! How shall I forget thee?
Sword of the mighty! Prince and Lord of War!
Captive I bind me
To the spears that blind me,
Rage in my heart and love for evermore.

If I forget thee! How shall I forget thee?
Man the destroyer! Life that made mine move!
They that come after
Let them earn my laughter,
Ay, but my anger, never, nor my love.

If I forget thee! How should I forget thee?
One man there is no woman dares despise.
Hate him it may be,
Wound him if the way be,
Nay, but forget him? Not before she dies!

TO NIMUE

I had clean forgotten all, her face who had caused my trouble.
Gone was she as a cloud, as a bird which passed in the wind, as a glittering stream-borne bubble,
As a shadow set by a ship on the sea, where the sail looks down on its double.

389

I had laid her face to the wall, on the shelf where my fancies sleep.
I had laid my pain in its grave, in its rose-leaf passionless grave, with the things I had dared not keep.
I had left it there. I had dried my tears. I had said, “Ah, why should I weep?”

I will not be fooled by her, by the spell of her fair child's face.
What is its meaning to me, who have seen, who have known, who have loved what miracle forms of grace?
What are its innocent wiles, its smiles, its idle sweet girlishness?

I will not love without love. I despise the ways of a fool.
Let me prevail as of old, as lover, as lord, as king, or have done with Love's tyrant rule.
I was born to command, not serve, not obey. No boy am I in Love's school.

I have fled to the fields, the plains, the desert places of rest,
To the forest's infinite smile, where the cushat calls from the trees and the yaffle has lined her nest,
To the purple hills with the spray of the sea, when the wind blows loud from the west.

I have done with her love and her, the wine-draughts of human pleasure.
The voice of nature is best, the cradle song of the trees which is hymned to Time's stateliest measure,
As once a boy in the woods I heard it and held it an exquisite treasure.

390

I had clean forgotten all. I had sung to the indolent hills
Songs of joy without grief, since grief is of human things the shadow of human ills.
I sang aloud in my pride of song to the chime of the answering rills.

And, behold, the whole world heard, the dull mad manridden Earth.
And they cried, “A prophet hath risen, a sage with the heart of a child, a bard of no human birth,
A soul that hath known nor pain, nor sin, a singer of infinite mirth.”

And she too heard it and came. And she knew it was I grown wise.
And she stood from the rest apart, and I watched her with pitying scorn, and then with a sad surprise,
And last with a new sweet passionate joy, for I saw there were tears in her eyes.

And she came and sat at my feet, as in days ere our grief began.
And I saw her a woman grown. And I was a prophet no more, but a desolate voiceless man.
And I clasped her fast in my arms in joy and kissed her tears as they ran.

And I shall not be fooled by her, though her face is fair as a rose.
And I shall not live without love, though the world should forget my songs and I should forget its woes,
And the purple hills should forget the sea and the spray when the west wind blows.