 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
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GREEK IDYLS.
1.—GLAUCÈ.
I love you, pretty maid, for you are young:
I love you, pretty maid, for you are fair:
I love you, pretty maid, for you love me.
I love you, pretty maid, for you are fair:
I love you, pretty maid, for you love me.
They tell me that, a babe, smiling you gazed
Upon the stars, with open, asking eyes,
And tremulous lips apart. Erelong, self-taught,
You found for every star and every flower
Legends and names and fables sweet and new.
Upon the stars, with open, asking eyes,
And tremulous lips apart. Erelong, self-taught,
You found for every star and every flower
Legends and names and fables sweet and new.
Oh that when far away I still might see thee!
How oft, when wearied with the din of life
On thee mine eyes would rest, thy Grecian heavens
Brightening that orbèd brow!—
Hesper should shine upon thee, lamp of Love,
Beneath whose radiance thou wert born. O Hesper!
Thee will I love and reverence evermore!
How oft, when wearied with the din of life
On thee mine eyes would rest, thy Grecian heavens
Brightening that orbèd brow!—
Hesper should shine upon thee, lamp of Love,
Beneath whose radiance thou wert born. O Hesper!
Thee will I love and reverence evermore!
Bind up that shining hair into a knot
And let me see that polished neck of thine
Uprising from the bed snow-soft, snow-white
In which it rests so gracefully! What God
Hath drawn upon thy forehead's ivory plane
Those two clear streaks of sweet and glistening black
Lifted in earnest mirth or lovely awe?
Open those Pleiad eyes, liquid and tender,
And let me lose myself among their depths!
Caress me with thine infant hands, and tell me
Old tales divine that love makes ever new
Of Gods and men entoiled in flowery nets,
Of heroes sighing all their youth away,
And Troy, death-sentenced by those Argive eyes.
And let me see that polished neck of thine
Uprising from the bed snow-soft, snow-white
In which it rests so gracefully! What God
Hath drawn upon thy forehead's ivory plane
Those two clear streaks of sweet and glistening black
Lifted in earnest mirth or lovely awe?
Open those Pleiad eyes, liquid and tender,
And let me lose myself among their depths!
Caress me with thine infant hands, and tell me
Old tales divine that love makes ever new
Of Gods and men entoiled in flowery nets,
Of heroes sighing all their youth away,
And Troy, death-sentenced by those Argive eyes.
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Come forth, dear maid, the day is calm and cool,
And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf,
The tall Pines crowning yon grey promontory
In distant ether hang, and cut the sea.
But lovers better love the dell, for there
Each is the other's world. How indolently
The tops of those pale poplars bend and sway
Over the violet-braided river-brim!
Whence comes their motion, for no wind is heard,
And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds?
Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lying
Like locks, along the leaden-coloured stream
Far off—and thou, O child, shalt talk to me
Of Naiads and their loves. A blissful life
They lead who live beneath the flowing waters:
They cherish calm, and think the sea-weeds fair:
They love each other's beauty; love to stand
Among the lilies, holding back their tresses
And listening, with their gentle cheek reclined
Upon the flood, to some far melody
Of Pan or shepherd piping in lone woods
Until the unconscious tears run down their face.
Mild are their loves, nor burdensome their thoughts—
And would that such a life were mine and thine!
And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf,
The tall Pines crowning yon grey promontory
In distant ether hang, and cut the sea.
But lovers better love the dell, for there
Each is the other's world. How indolently
The tops of those pale poplars bend and sway
Over the violet-braided river-brim!
Whence comes their motion, for no wind is heard,
And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds?
Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lying
Like locks, along the leaden-coloured stream
Far off—and thou, O child, shalt talk to me
Of Naiads and their loves. A blissful life
They lead who live beneath the flowing waters:
They cherish calm, and think the sea-weeds fair:
They love each other's beauty; love to stand
Among the lilies, holding back their tresses
And listening, with their gentle cheek reclined
Upon the flood, to some far melody
Of Pan or shepherd piping in lone woods
Until the unconscious tears run down their face.
Mild are their loves, nor burdensome their thoughts—
And would that such a life were mine and thine!
2.—IONÈ.
Ionè, fifteen years have o'er you passed,
And, taking nothing from you in their flight,
Have given you much. You look like one for whom
The day has morning only, time but Spring.
Your eyes are large and calm, your lips serene,
As if no Winter with your dreams commingled,
You that dream always, or that never dream!
And, taking nothing from you in their flight,
Have given you much. You look like one for whom
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Your eyes are large and calm, your lips serene,
As if no Winter with your dreams commingled,
You that dream always, or that never dream!
Dear maid, you should have been a shepherdess—
But no: ill-tended then your flocks had strayed!
Young fawns you should have led; such fawns as once
The quivered Queen had spared to startle! Then
Within your hand a willow wand, your brow
Wreathed with red roses dabbled in warm rains,
How sweetly, with half-serious countenance,
Through the green alleys had you ta'en your way!
And they, your spotted train, how happily
Would they have gambolled by you—happiest she
The milk-white creature in the silver chain!
But no: ill-tended then your flocks had strayed!
Young fawns you should have led; such fawns as once
The quivered Queen had spared to startle! Then
Within your hand a willow wand, your brow
Wreathed with red roses dabbled in warm rains,
How sweetly, with half-serious countenance,
Through the green alleys had you ta'en your way!
And they, your spotted train, how happily
Would they have gambolled by you—happiest she
The milk-white creature in the silver chain!
Ionè, lay the tapestry down: come forth:
No golden ringlet shall you add this morn
To bright Apollo: and poor Daphne there!
Without her verdant branches she must rest
Another day—a cruel tale, sweet girl!
No golden ringlet shall you add this morn
To bright Apollo: and poor Daphne there!
Without her verdant branches she must rest
Another day—a cruel tale, sweet girl!
You will not! Then farewell our loves for ever!
We are too far unlike; not Cyclops more
Unlike that Galatea whom he wooed.
I love the loud-resounding sea divine;
I love the wintry sunset, and the stress
Inexorable of wide-wasting storms;
I love the waste of foam-washed promontories;
The singing of the topmost mountain pines
In safety heard far down; the ringing sleet,
Thunder, and all portentous change that makes
The mind of mortals like to suns eclipsed
Waning in icy terrors. These to you
Are nothing. On the ivied banks you lie
In deep green valleys grey with noontide dew;
There bathe your feet in bubbling springs, your hands
Playing with the moist pansies near your face.
We are too far unlike; not Cyclops more
Unlike that Galatea whom he wooed.
I love the loud-resounding sea divine;
I love the wintry sunset, and the stress
Inexorable of wide-wasting storms;
I love the waste of foam-washed promontories;
The singing of the topmost mountain pines
In safety heard far down; the ringing sleet,
Thunder, and all portentous change that makes
The mind of mortals like to suns eclipsed
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Are nothing. On the ivied banks you lie
In deep green valleys grey with noontide dew;
There bathe your feet in bubbling springs, your hands
Playing with the moist pansies near your face.
These bowers are musical with nightingales
Morning and noon and night. Among these rocks
A lovely life is that you lead; but I
Will make it lovelier with some pretty gift
If you are constant to me! Constant never
Was Nymphor Nereid:—like the waves they change—
O Nymph, so change not thou! A boat I'll make
Scooped from a pine: yourself shall learn to row it;
Swifter than winds or sounds can fleet; or else
Your scarf shall be the sail, and you shall glide,
While the stars drop their light upon the bay,
On like a bird between the double heaven!
Are these but trivial joys? Ah me! fresh leaves
Gladden the forests; but no second life
Invests our branches—feathers new make bright
The birds; but when our affluent locks desert us,
No Spring restores them. Dried-up streams once more
The laughing Nymphs replenish; but man's life,
By fate drawn down and smothered in the sands,
Never looks up. Alas! my sweet Ionè,
Alcæus also loved; but in his arms
Finds rest no more the song-full Lesbian maid,
Her breast all shaken by the storm of song,
Or thrills of song unborn!
The indignant hand attesting Gods and men
Achilles lifts no more: to dust is turned
His harp that glittered through the wild sea spray,
Though the black wave falls yet on Ilion's shore.
All things must die—the Songs themselves, except
The devout hymn of grateful love; or hers,
The wild swan's, chaunting her death melody.
Morning and noon and night. Among these rocks
A lovely life is that you lead; but I
Will make it lovelier with some pretty gift
If you are constant to me! Constant never
Was Nymphor Nereid:—like the waves they change—
O Nymph, so change not thou! A boat I'll make
Scooped from a pine: yourself shall learn to row it;
Swifter than winds or sounds can fleet; or else
Your scarf shall be the sail, and you shall glide,
While the stars drop their light upon the bay,
On like a bird between the double heaven!
Are these but trivial joys? Ah me! fresh leaves
Gladden the forests; but no second life
Invests our branches—feathers new make bright
The birds; but when our affluent locks desert us,
No Spring restores them. Dried-up streams once more
The laughing Nymphs replenish; but man's life,
By fate drawn down and smothered in the sands,
Never looks up. Alas! my sweet Ionè,
Alcæus also loved; but in his arms
Finds rest no more the song-full Lesbian maid,
Her breast all shaken by the storm of song,
Or thrills of song unborn!
The indignant hand attesting Gods and men
Achilles lifts no more: to dust is turned
His harp that glittered through the wild sea spray,
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All things must die—the Songs themselves, except
The devout hymn of grateful love; or hers,
The wild swan's, chaunting her death melody.
3.—LYCIUS.
Lycius! the female race is all the same!
All variable, as the Poets tell us;
Mad though caprice—half way 'twixt men and children!
All variable, as the Poets tell us;
Mad though caprice—half way 'twixt men and children!
Acasta, mildest late of all our maids,
Colder and calmer than a sacred well,
Is now more changed than Spring has changed these woods;
Hers is the fault, not mine. Yourself shall judge.
Colder and calmer than a sacred well,
Is now more changed than Spring has changed these woods;
Hers is the fault, not mine. Yourself shall judge.
From Epidaurus, where for three long days
With Nicias I had stayed, honouring the God,
If strength might thus mine aged Sire renerve,
Last evening we returned. The way was dull
And vexed with mountains: tired ere long was I
From warding off the oleander boughs
Which, as my comrade o'er the stream's dry bed
Pushed on, closed backward on my mule and me.
The flies maintained a melody unblest;
While Nicias, of his wreath Nemean proud,
Sang of the Satyrs and the Nymphs all day
Like one by Esculapius fever-smitten.
Arrived at eve, we bathed; and drank, and ate
Of figs and olives till our souls exulted:
Lastly we slept like Gods. While morning shone,
So filled was I with weariness and sleep
That as a log till noon I lay, then rose,
And in the bath-room sat. While there I languished
Reading that old, divine and holy tale
Of sad Ismenè and Antigonè,
Two warm soft hands around me sudden flung
Closed both my eyes; and a clear, shrill, sweet laughter
Told me that she it was, Acasta's self,
That brake upon my dreams. ‘What would you, child?’
‘Child, child!’ Acasta cried, ‘I am no child—
You do me wrong in calling me a child!
Come with me to the willowy river's brim:
There read, if you must read.’
With Nicias I had stayed, honouring the God,
If strength might thus mine aged Sire renerve,
Last evening we returned. The way was dull
And vexed with mountains: tired ere long was I
From warding off the oleander boughs
Which, as my comrade o'er the stream's dry bed
Pushed on, closed backward on my mule and me.
The flies maintained a melody unblest;
While Nicias, of his wreath Nemean proud,
Sang of the Satyrs and the Nymphs all day
Like one by Esculapius fever-smitten.
Arrived at eve, we bathed; and drank, and ate
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Lastly we slept like Gods. While morning shone,
So filled was I with weariness and sleep
That as a log till noon I lay, then rose,
And in the bath-room sat. While there I languished
Reading that old, divine and holy tale
Of sad Ismenè and Antigonè,
Two warm soft hands around me sudden flung
Closed both my eyes; and a clear, shrill, sweet laughter
Told me that she it was, Acasta's self,
That brake upon my dreams. ‘What would you, child?’
‘Child, child!’ Acasta cried, ‘I am no child—
You do me wrong in calling me a child!
Come with me to the willowy river's brim:
There read, if you must read.’
Her eyes not less
Than hands uplifted me, and forth we strayed.
O'er all the Argolic plain Apollo's shafts
So fiercely fell, methought the least had slain
A second Python. From that theatre
Hewn in the rock the Argive tumult rolled:
Before the fane of Juno seven vast oxen
Lowed loud, denouncing Heaven ere yet they fell:
While from the hill-girt meadows rose a scent
So rich, the salt sea odours vainly strove
To pierce those fumes it curled about my brain,
And sting the nimbler spirits. Nodding I watched
The pale herbs from the parched bank that trailed
Bathing delighted in voluptuous cold,
And scarcely swayed by that slow winding stream:
I heard a sigh—I asked not whence it came.
At last a breeze went by, to glossy waves
Rippling the steely flood: I noted then
The reflex of the poplar stem thereon
Curled into spiral wreaths, and toward me darting
Like a long, shining water-snake: I laughed
To see its restlessness. Acasta cried,
‘Read—if you will not speak—or look at me!’
Unconsciously I glanced upon the page,
Bent o'er it, and began to chaunt that song,
‘Favoured by Love are they that love not deeply,’
When, leaping from my side, she snatched the book,
Into the river dashed it, bounded by,
And, no word spoken, left me there alone.
Than hands uplifted me, and forth we strayed.
O'er all the Argolic plain Apollo's shafts
So fiercely fell, methought the least had slain
A second Python. From that theatre
Hewn in the rock the Argive tumult rolled:
Before the fane of Juno seven vast oxen
Lowed loud, denouncing Heaven ere yet they fell:
While from the hill-girt meadows rose a scent
So rich, the salt sea odours vainly strove
To pierce those fumes it curled about my brain,
And sting the nimbler spirits. Nodding I watched
The pale herbs from the parched bank that trailed
Bathing delighted in voluptuous cold,
And scarcely swayed by that slow winding stream:
I heard a sigh—I asked not whence it came.
At last a breeze went by, to glossy waves
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The reflex of the poplar stem thereon
Curled into spiral wreaths, and toward me darting
Like a long, shining water-snake: I laughed
To see its restlessness. Acasta cried,
‘Read—if you will not speak—or look at me!’
Unconsciously I glanced upon the page,
Bent o'er it, and began to chaunt that song,
‘Favoured by Love are they that love not deeply,’
When, leaping from my side, she snatched the book,
Into the river dashed it, bounded by,
And, no word spoken, left me there alone.
Lycius! I see you smile; but know you not
Nothing is trifling which the Muse records,
And lovers love to muse on? Let the Gods
Act as to them seems fitting. Hermes loved—
Phœbus loved also—but the hearts of Gods
Are everlasting like the suns and stars,
Their loves as transient as the clouds. For me
A peaceful life is all I seek, and far
Removed from cares and all the female kind!
Nothing is trifling which the Muse records,
And lovers love to muse on? Let the Gods
Act as to them seems fitting. Hermes loved—
Phœbus loved also—but the hearts of Gods
Are everlasting like the suns and stars,
Their loves as transient as the clouds. For me
A peaceful life is all I seek, and far
Removed from cares and all the female kind!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |