 | Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems |  |
188
ANATHOTH.
I praise the all-watchful sovereignty of Love,
That his imperial melodies have made
My soul a haunt of echoes, Anathoth.
That his imperial melodies have made
My soul a haunt of echoes, Anathoth.
For through the morning, when the briony-stars
From their green lush entanglement were roused,
Like homeward wishes in a wanderer's heart,
While the late blossom from the blushing crab
Fell, in a rosy storm, down the deep lane,
Fretting the truank kine, when every hedge
Was full of snow-white flowers, campion, wild pink,
Starwort, and dittany, and that fair herb,
Cumfrey, that dotes upon the sylvan Thames,
I walked alone, but with a beating heart
As one late touched by the dear hand he loves,
And still right warm with that companionship,
May walk and dream his sweetheart moves beside.
Yet while the assiduous hedges shut me in,
Like too-persistent guests, and while the turf
Was sparkling with those tender blooms of spring,
I had no heart for service; but when soon
All sank and faded to the open moors,
And the garrulous cuckoo with his wearisome voice
Vexed me no more, then the large silence brought
Back the rich echo of the name I love.
And when, amid the stunted furze, I caught
Glimpse of those mountain wings, embossed with red,
The shy bright silent bird we watched so long,
My heart breathed full of ecstasy and peace,
And I could worship; there the rigid lines
Of moorland stretched, harmonious; there the stream
Sprang, the Scamander of a soul besieged,
By Argive witcheries down to bondage drawn.
I trod the battle-field of my desire,
And here she smiled, I said, and here she sat,
And listened to the brooklet more than me,
And here the grasshopper with strident wings
From their green lush entanglement were roused,
Like homeward wishes in a wanderer's heart,
While the late blossom from the blushing crab
Fell, in a rosy storm, down the deep lane,
Fretting the truank kine, when every hedge
Was full of snow-white flowers, campion, wild pink,
Starwort, and dittany, and that fair herb,
Cumfrey, that dotes upon the sylvan Thames,
I walked alone, but with a beating heart
As one late touched by the dear hand he loves,
And still right warm with that companionship,
May walk and dream his sweetheart moves beside.
189
Like too-persistent guests, and while the turf
Was sparkling with those tender blooms of spring,
I had no heart for service; but when soon
All sank and faded to the open moors,
And the garrulous cuckoo with his wearisome voice
Vexed me no more, then the large silence brought
Back the rich echo of the name I love.
And when, amid the stunted furze, I caught
Glimpse of those mountain wings, embossed with red,
The shy bright silent bird we watched so long,
My heart breathed full of ecstasy and peace,
And I could worship; there the rigid lines
Of moorland stretched, harmonious; there the stream
Sprang, the Scamander of a soul besieged,
By Argive witcheries down to bondage drawn.
I trod the battle-field of my desire,
And here she smiled, I said, and here she sat,
And listened to the brooklet more than me,
And here the grasshopper with strident wings
190
Leaped at her, and her laughter-echoing shriek
Rang down the fluted valleys one by one;
And here, beneath this little birchen clump,
A silver shadow on the enormous moor,
I kissed her rounded throat without reproach;
And here upon the topmost table-land,
Between two dips in the bare crown, we sat,
With wreathèd arms and rosy cheek to cheek,
And scanned the landscape by the unfolded chart,—
I, furtive, mapping rather with fond eyes,
The warm carnations of that delicate neck
Where the curled gold creeps lowest.
Rang down the fluted valleys one by one;
And here, beneath this little birchen clump,
A silver shadow on the enormous moor,
I kissed her rounded throat without reproach;
And here upon the topmost table-land,
Between two dips in the bare crown, we sat,
With wreathèd arms and rosy cheek to cheek,
And scanned the landscape by the unfolded chart,—
I, furtive, mapping rather with fond eyes,
The warm carnations of that delicate neck
Where the curled gold creeps lowest.
And, for these
Pure memories of the perfect heart's desire,
I praise and thank the sovereignty of Love,
Since in a tender heart, native to bliss,
These vague reminders of sweet time gone by,—
Thrills of the pulse, reanimated flush
From the light exquisite touch of a loved hand,
The shadow of the dream of such delight
As springs when eye meets eye in sudden flame,—
The memory of a momentary sense
That this sad chasm of isolation, set
Between all souls for ever, has been bridged,
Once, by the unselfish courage of desire,—
Are more than all the creeds and all the schools
By vague and visionary longing led
Have dared to dream or preach to us of heaven.
Pure memories of the perfect heart's desire,
I praise and thank the sovereignty of Love,
Since in a tender heart, native to bliss,
These vague reminders of sweet time gone by,—
Thrills of the pulse, reanimated flush
From the light exquisite touch of a loved hand,
191
As springs when eye meets eye in sudden flame,—
The memory of a momentary sense
That this sad chasm of isolation, set
Between all souls for ever, has been bridged,
Once, by the unselfish courage of desire,—
Are more than all the creeds and all the schools
By vague and visionary longing led
Have dared to dream or preach to us of heaven.
Ay! more than Heaven indeed; and what of Earth—
Earth which is cold to Love, and blind to Heaven?
This,—that such memories are the mountain-airs
Which stir earth's acrid vapours, that their dream
Brings light at sunrise and at sunset peace,
That time without them would be mad and void,
And ache itself away, and, last of all,
That he who bears no echoes in his soul
From such melodious solitudes as these,
Dying, dies ghastlier than the dog he fed.
Earth which is cold to Love, and blind to Heaven?
This,—that such memories are the mountain-airs
Which stir earth's acrid vapours, that their dream
Brings light at sunrise and at sunset peace,
That time without them would be mad and void,
And ache itself away, and, last of all,
That he who bears no echoes in his soul
From such melodious solitudes as these,
Dying, dies ghastlier than the dog he fed.
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