On Viol and Flute By Edmund W. Gosse |
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THE RENAISSANCE. |
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 | On Viol and Flute |  |
97
THE RENAISSANCE.
“O Venus, quene of lovës cure,
Thou life, thou lust, thou mannës hele,
Beholde my cause and my quarele,
And yef me some part of thy grace!”
Gower.
Thou life, thou lust, thou mannës hele,
Beholde my cause and my quarele,
And yef me some part of thy grace!”
Gower.
Between the gray land and the purple sea,
Mother of flowers, my heart takes hold on thee,
Rise up, O mother, like some sea-green blossom,
Or like a daffodil appear to me!
Mother of flowers, my heart takes hold on thee,
Rise up, O mother, like some sea-green blossom,
Or like a daffodil appear to me!
Our sad life's apple has a sterile seed;
For thy old reign our weary spirits bleed;
Return, O queen, and clasp us to thy bosom,
There to find summer and warm flowers indeed.
For thy old reign our weary spirits bleed;
Return, O queen, and clasp us to thy bosom,
There to find summer and warm flowers indeed.
Men called thee Venus, rising from the sea,
And in the vales thou wert Persephone,
Everywhere Lady of the wealth of roses,
And fulness of the world's fertility.
And in the vales thou wert Persephone,
Everywhere Lady of the wealth of roses,
And fulness of the world's fertility.
98
A colder deity is now enshrined
Deep in our narrow garden-plots confined,
Virgin protectress of our sylvan closes,
With vervain round her broad white brows entwined.
Deep in our narrow garden-plots confined,
Virgin protectress of our sylvan closes,
With vervain round her broad white brows entwined.
And though we worship her till evensong,
Nor think the ritual wearisome or long,
When sunset in the western ether blazes,
To thee, O queen, our wayward hearts belong!
Nor think the ritual wearisome or long,
When sunset in the western ether blazes,
To thee, O queen, our wayward hearts belong!
But no man through the cities far and wide,
By reedy rill, or any dim lake's side,
To thee soft hymns, to thee an altar raises,—
By the dead only wert thou defied.
By reedy rill, or any dim lake's side,
To thee soft hymns, to thee an altar raises,—
By the dead only wert thou defied.
No mountains ring with tabrets or with lyres,
No Thyads dance about the sacred fires,
No snake-crowned girls, with lion-coloured tresses,
Heap cones and ivy-buds to feed the pyres.
No Thyads dance about the sacred fires,
No snake-crowned girls, with lion-coloured tresses,
Heap cones and ivy-buds to feed the pyres.
And now no more by ancient forest-bounds
The swain is roused at dead of night by sounds
Of thundering feet that range the wildernesses,
Bacchus, or Hecat with her shadowy hounds.
The swain is roused at dead of night by sounds
Of thundering feet that range the wildernesses,
Bacchus, or Hecat with her shadowy hounds.
99
We flutter through our little fleeting day,
Beneath a windy heaven coped with gray,
Just look around, and weep awhile, and shiver,
Then like the flower of grasses fade away.
Beneath a windy heaven coped with gray,
Just look around, and weep awhile, and shiver,
Then like the flower of grasses fade away.
What wonder, ah! if haply now and then
We cold and comfortless benighted men
Desire thy glory, Venus, to deliver
Our spirits into ruddy life again.
We cold and comfortless benighted men
Desire thy glory, Venus, to deliver
Our spirits into ruddy life again.
On summer-nights and when the yellow corn
Home to its quiet garner-grave is borne,
Then, and then only, when our hearts are bursting
To shed the consciousness of life forlorn,—
Home to its quiet garner-grave is borne,
Then, and then only, when our hearts are bursting
To shed the consciousness of life forlorn,—
Then, and only, do we yearn for thee,
Bright as the sun, unfettered as the sea,
Then our weak spirits are consumed by thirsting
For the wild recklessness that once might be.
Bright as the sun, unfettered as the sea,
Then our weak spirits are consumed by thirsting
For the wild recklessness that once might be.
Once, and no more; for thou art fallen, O queen!
The nations mock thee for a thing obscene!
One like the snow and purer than the lily
Regent and peerless on thy throne is seen!
The nations mock thee for a thing obscene!
One like the snow and purer than the lily
Regent and peerless on thy throne is seen!
100
The day of sins that wrought no aftertaste,
For all our wild endeavour, is gone past;
Thou art not fair, poor queen, thy breath is chilly!
Return to that dim shadow where thou wast
For all our wild endeavour, is gone past;
Thou art not fair, poor queen, thy breath is chilly!
Return to that dim shadow where thou wast
| On Viol and Flute | |