The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems By George Barlow |
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| THE RELIGION OF ART:
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
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 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
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THE RELIGION OF ART:
EIGHTEEN SONNETS.
I.—VENUS.
Back, back to Venus, perfect as a rose,
My soul went: worshipped in her inmost bower
The world's one comfort—yea, the world's one flower,
Whence ever love's ethereal perfume flows.
Ah! how the white breast, kissed and fondled, glows—
How deep delight fast waxes hour by hour—
How the soft outspread limbs of Venus shower
Rapture, and peace no saint of heaven knows.
My soul went: worshipped in her inmost bower
The world's one comfort—yea, the world's one flower,
Whence ever love's ethereal perfume flows.
Ah! how the white breast, kissed and fondled, glows—
How deep delight fast waxes hour by hour—
How the soft outspread limbs of Venus shower
Rapture, and peace no saint of heaven knows.
Here I abide; the scent is on my hands
And on my tongue, and all my soul partakes
The souls of blossoms plucked in strange dim lands—
Now over me some spell Queen Venus shakes,
And I am mute awaiting her commands,
Watching her eyes of laughter as she wakes.
And on my tongue, and all my soul partakes
The souls of blossoms plucked in strange dim lands—
Now over me some spell Queen Venus shakes,
And I am mute awaiting her commands,
Watching her eyes of laughter as she wakes.
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II.—THE IMMEASURABLE ROSE.
The hair of Venus woven with soft sprays
Allured me, wondering as it downward slid
Slowly and half her fragrant body hid,
So that the tender white shone through an haze.
Here was a red rose twined in subtle ways—
There a white rose of flesh that gleamed unbid—
No rose as those impassioned roses did,
Enamoured—fondly they besought the gaze.
Allured me, wondering as it downward slid
Slowly and half her fragrant body hid,
So that the tender white shone through an haze.
Here was a red rose twined in subtle ways—
There a white rose of flesh that gleamed unbid—
No rose as those impassioned roses did,
Enamoured—fondly they besought the gaze.
Ever before me shines this vision high:
The endless hope it leads to no man knows,
Its splendour has not perished, though I die—
Still in the deep heart of each poet glows
Venus—and still her tresses wander by,
Circled with the immeasurable rose.
The endless hope it leads to no man knows,
Its splendour has not perished, though I die—
Still in the deep heart of each poet glows
Venus—and still her tresses wander by,
Circled with the immeasurable rose.
III.—UPON THE BREEZES.
Upon the breezes tenderly displayed
The hair shines; in all blossoms I behold
The soft locks woven, threads of living gold—
Across the sunset floats a loosened braid.
Death fails now more to make the world afraid,
For the utter tale of love has now been told—
In passion and through passion we are bold,
Nor can a further word of hope be said.
The hair shines; in all blossoms I behold
The soft locks woven, threads of living gold—
Across the sunset floats a loosened braid.
Death fails now more to make the world afraid,
For the utter tale of love has now been told—
In passion and through passion we are bold,
Nor can a further word of hope be said.
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Because sweet Venus in the living air
Shines, and upon the gilded sunset seas,
Therefore the human life, love-crowned, is fair—
Impassioned thereby the warm noontide breeze,
And softened thereby all the calm we share
When silver lamps of night illume the leas.
Shines, and upon the gilded sunset seas,
Therefore the human life, love-crowned, is fair—
Impassioned thereby the warm noontide breeze,
And softened thereby all the calm we share
When silver lamps of night illume the leas.
IV.—CONTEMPLATION.
Calm contemplation is the end of Art—
Not to perturb her bosom at the sighs
Of each poor sufferer as the sufferer dies,
But to preserve a white unblemished heart.
The generations weary and depart,
But she, with equal and majestic eyes,
Her being to the omnipotent allies,
And wearieth not, as forth the young buds start.
Not to perturb her bosom at the sighs
Of each poor sufferer as the sufferer dies,
But to preserve a white unblemished heart.
The generations weary and depart,
But she, with equal and majestic eyes,
Her being to the omnipotent allies,
And wearieth not, as forth the young buds start.
At utter peace she sits; and all the years
Bring to her joys and sorrows for a crown—
Thorn-wreaths and roses, lilies and hot tears—
She marks them all; she watches with no frown,
Not smiling either, man's rage, woman's fears,
Blood, torture, terror, flames of many a town.
Bring to her joys and sorrows for a crown—
Thorn-wreaths and roses, lilies and hot tears—
She marks them all; she watches with no frown,
Not smiling either, man's rage, woman's fears,
Blood, torture, terror, flames of many a town.
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V.—THE ARTIST.
So Art sits—and the artist is at peace;
He hopes not, dreads not, toils not, nor despairs,
Healing for him upon the summer airs
And strength descend, as rose-crowned years increase.
Death is not terrible, but calm release—
Life is not over-glad: its gifts life bears
And then the grave, its final gift, prepares—
The hour when even rose-delight shall cease!
He hopes not, dreads not, toils not, nor despairs,
Healing for him upon the summer airs
And strength descend, as rose-crowned years increase.
Death is not terrible, but calm release—
Life is not over-glad: its gifts life bears
And then the grave, its final gift, prepares—
The hour when even rose-delight shall cease!
Gathering from Art her high triumphal calm,
The artist, each day's wreath within his hands,
Strengthened at morning, soothed by evening's balm,
Victor above the impulsive people stands:—
Not his the heavenly coronet nor palm,
But his earth's sunsets, his her seas and sands.
The artist, each day's wreath within his hands,
Strengthened at morning, soothed by evening's balm,
Victor above the impulsive people stands:—
Not his the heavenly coronet nor palm,
But his earth's sunsets, his her seas and sands.
VI.—LOVE.
And love because it looks not for too much
As heretofore, is sweeter than of old—
The poet, singing with his mouth of gold,
Shall not find love evade his golden touch.
The imperious red rose is most surely such,
Because it fades and withers when we hold
The stem, by strong desire made over-bold;
And so love hitherto escapes man's clutch.
As heretofore, is sweeter than of old—
The poet, singing with his mouth of gold,
Shall not find love evade his golden touch.
The imperious red rose is most surely such,
Because it fades and withers when we hold
The stem, by strong desire made over-bold;
And so love hitherto escapes man's clutch.
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But when we see that just because love fades
And withers, is sweet love to be desired,
Love no more vanishes—no more evades—
The red love-rose magnificently fired
With heaven's best tints, casts brilliance down the glades;
Death is the life towards which its bloom aspired.
And withers, is sweet love to be desired,
Love no more vanishes—no more evades—
The red love-rose magnificently fired
With heaven's best tints, casts brilliance down the glades;
Death is the life towards which its bloom aspired.
VII.—DEATH.
O death most wonderful, O death most good,
O death most holy—bringing rapt release,
Bringing the senses universal peace,
Placing us in a godlike solitude!
When once the lonely awestruck soul hath stood
Upon thy mountain-tops, what vast increase
Of passion shall enthral and thrill—nor cease
To work out raptures meet for every mood!
O death most holy—bringing rapt release,
Bringing the senses universal peace,
Placing us in a godlike solitude!
When once the lonely awestruck soul hath stood
Upon thy mountain-tops, what vast increase
Of passion shall enthral and thrill—nor cease
To work out raptures meet for every mood!
O perfect spirit of death stay not thy hand,
But make us one with all the women fair
Who flower-like sought to scent the flowerless land,
And with their breath make all the icy air
Quiver with lovely summer, and thy sand
Now eddy stream-like as with rippling hair.
But make us one with all the women fair
Who flower-like sought to scent the flowerless land,
And with their breath make all the icy air
Quiver with lovely summer, and thy sand
Now eddy stream-like as with rippling hair.
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VIII.—THE DEATH OF THE FIRST FAIR WOMAN.
For when the first fair trembling woman died
Death was abolished—all his heart did melt
E'en at that utter beauty which he felt
Gathered like some strange blossom at his side.
He could not bear the beauty of his bride—
He could not bear the stroke her beauty dealt
Soft and white-handed; as he grasped her belt,
Kissing, life-loosening, death was deified.
Death was abolished—all his heart did melt
E'en at that utter beauty which he felt
Gathered like some strange blossom at his side.
He could not bear the beauty of his bride—
He could not bear the stroke her beauty dealt
Soft and white-handed; as he grasped her belt,
Kissing, life-loosening, death was deified.
He could not bear the ecstasy of this
The first embrace of her the first red rose;
Fainting, death vanished in a stream of bliss,
Made one with life and love in thrills and throes
Delicious—at the beauty of her kiss
Death shudders; all his threatening purpose goes.
The first embrace of her the first red rose;
Fainting, death vanished in a stream of bliss,
Made one with life and love in thrills and throes
Delicious—at the beauty of her kiss
Death shudders; all his threatening purpose goes.
IX.—THE EMBRACE.
Oh marvellous embrace of death and life,
What will the final wondrous issue be?
Red rose what is thine own futurity,
Now thou art unto death a flower-lipped wife?
What shall be, now, the ending of this strife?
Now thou hast kissed the mouth of death shall he
Forsake his old malign ascendancy—
Will all his valleys now with buds be rife?
What will the final wondrous issue be?
Red rose what is thine own futurity,
Now thou art unto death a flower-lipped wife?
What shall be, now, the ending of this strife?
Now thou hast kissed the mouth of death shall he
Forsake his old malign ascendancy—
Will all his valleys now with buds be rife?
216
Oh woman, woman, surely this strange tale
Has utter meaning—Love upon life's air
Pours immortality, and thou art pale
With over-love, a lily in thine hair,
A rose upon thy breast: cast off thy veil,
Kill death with body over-sweet to bear.
Has utter meaning—Love upon life's air
Pours immortality, and thou art pale
With over-love, a lily in thine hair,
A rose upon thy breast: cast off thy veil,
Kill death with body over-sweet to bear.
X.—THE RAPTURE BEYOND.
And all the rapture beckoning beyond!
The tender grasses soft beside the way,
And all the fervour of the first long day
In heaven, and all love's kisses pure and fond!
Death is the enchanter who with magic wand
Shall turn earth's skies Novembral, cold and grey,
Into sweet sunsets sweet as the display
Of August, when the red cloud-mail is donned.
The tender grasses soft beside the way,
And all the fervour of the first long day
In heaven, and all love's kisses pure and fond!
Death is the enchanter who with magic wand
Shall turn earth's skies Novembral, cold and grey,
Into sweet sunsets sweet as the display
Of August, when the red cloud-mail is donned.
All flowers in heaven are women—all are white
Therefore; they dazzle gleaming from the sod,
Soft from the valley, silver from the height,
Moon-tinted round each grass-bedecked abode,
Fragrant and fresh as from the burning bright
Profound unutterable embrace of God.
Therefore; they dazzle gleaming from the sod,
Soft from the valley, silver from the height,
Moon-tinted round each grass-bedecked abode,
Fragrant and fresh as from the burning bright
Profound unutterable embrace of God.
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XI.—WITHIN THE NIGHT.
Surely, within the sacred folding night
All lovers meet beneath the smiling stars,
All chains are loosened, broken are all bars—
Love is the conqueror—his the iron might.
Mute with a rapture passing speech in height
The lovers wander forth in golden cars
Of love now, no more, glaring day-flame mars—
No more the inquisitive intrusive light.
All lovers meet beneath the smiling stars,
All chains are loosened, broken are all bars—
Love is the conqueror—his the iron might.
Mute with a rapture passing speech in height
The lovers wander forth in golden cars
Of love now, no more, glaring day-flame mars—
No more the inquisitive intrusive light.
Beside dim forests or beside the sea
All lovers meet, in dream-land, and their lips
Cling close together soft and tenderly;
The hot sun's glory is love's moon-eclipse—
The tides of night doth Venus traverse; she
The wide intoxicating moonbeams sips.
All lovers meet, in dream-land, and their lips
Cling close together soft and tenderly;
The hot sun's glory is love's moon-eclipse—
The tides of night doth Venus traverse; she
The wide intoxicating moonbeams sips.
XII.—NO DESPAIR.
Therefore let no one lover e'er despairl
For though his lady distant be by day,
At night she wanders with him in the way,
And lights his path with floods of golden hair:
Makes all the road a blossoming garden rare
By wandering scents that from her bosom stray,
Or round her forehead like a spring-breeze play—
Touching to holier life the enamoured air.
For though his lady distant be by day,
At night she wanders with him in the way,
And lights his path with floods of golden hair:
Makes all the road a blossoming garden rare
By wandering scents that from her bosom stray,
Or round her forehead like a spring-breeze play—
Touching to holier life the enamoured air.
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Let but the lover wait—then suddenly
Before him, glorious with pure body white,
His one fair moon of women he shall see
Rising to rule the empire of the night;
Her sudden eyes, now deep, now swift with glee,
Shall flame across his path, and lead aright.
Before him, glorious with pure body white,
His one fair moon of women he shall see
Rising to rule the empire of the night;
Her sudden eyes, now deep, now swift with glee,
Shall flame across his path, and lead aright.
XIII.—THE FIRST ROSE.
The first sweet rose-bud was a woman's hand:—
God saw the hand, he saw that it was fair,
And, eager, longed the prize away to bear
To his own Paradise, his chosen land.
For miles of Paradise in hopeless sand
Were sunk, and perfumed not the dry faint air—
So, with his keen sword severed he the rare
And white delight; far-gleaming, subtle, grand.
God saw the hand, he saw that it was fair,
And, eager, longed the prize away to bear
To his own Paradise, his chosen land.
For miles of Paradise in hopeless sand
Were sunk, and perfumed not the dry faint air—
So, with his keen sword severed he the rare
And white delight; far-gleaming, subtle, grand.
The red drops quivered slowly from the wrist—
But ever as a rosebud the sweet toy
Blossomed in heaven, and ever God's mouth kissed
The token, laughing with a jealous joy:
“For,” said he, “now let man do what he list—
Having her hand, her heart I can destroy.”
But ever as a rosebud the sweet toy
Blossomed in heaven, and ever God's mouth kissed
The token, laughing with a jealous joy:
“For,” said he, “now let man do what he list—
Having her hand, her heart I can destroy.”
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XIV.—THE FIRST RED ROSE.
But the pale bleeding wrist took life anew
For man's sweet sake, and blossomed on the earth,
And at this blossom's splendid trembling birth
Heaven helped by soft showers of strength-quickening dew.
Soon the red wrist a red rose 'neath the blue
Of heaven flamed—and man with quiet mirth
Appraised the flower and knew what it was worth,
Left God the white rose, and content, withdrew.
For man's sweet sake, and blossomed on the earth,
And at this blossom's splendid trembling birth
Heaven helped by soft showers of strength-quickening dew.
Soon the red wrist a red rose 'neath the blue
Of heaven flamed—and man with quiet mirth
Appraised the flower and knew what it was worth,
Left God the white rose, and content, withdrew.
This splendid blossom tinged with woman's blood
Man holdeth ever; nor can God dispose
Its petals in his heavenly solitude:—
Fair woman best her heart of passion knows,
And though one slay her in a jealous mood,
Each drop of blood turns to her lover's rose.
Man holdeth ever; nor can God dispose
Its petals in his heavenly solitude:—
Fair woman best her heart of passion knows,
And though one slay her in a jealous mood,
Each drop of blood turns to her lover's rose.
XV.—FROM LOVE.
From Love the high celestial story sprang!
Sweet Love the gates of heaven deep-set in gold
Alone hath power and magic to unfold—
At Love's voice all the heavenly valleys rang!
Love's foot it was that smote with martial clang
The floors of hell, and, spirit ever bold,
The captives from that pitiable hold
Released—at Love's step all the dumb mouths sang.
Sweet Love the gates of heaven deep-set in gold
Alone hath power and magic to unfold—
At Love's voice all the heavenly valleys rang!
Love's foot it was that smote with martial clang
The floors of hell, and, spirit ever bold,
The captives from that pitiable hold
Released—at Love's step all the dumb mouths sang.
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The thought of harps and heaven is only love
Made visible and audible on high:—
God reigneth truly, yea, he reigns above,
But all his empire in a woman's eye
Is holden—and the Spirit we call God's Dove
In woman's dove-like bosom fluttereth nigh.
Made visible and audible on high:—
God reigneth truly, yea, he reigns above,
But all his empire in a woman's eye
Is holden—and the Spirit we call God's Dove
In woman's dove-like bosom fluttereth nigh.
XVI.—NO GREATER JOY.
There is no greater joy than simple joys:—
The man who once has kissed a living rose
The utmost circle of God's bounty knows,—
All heavenly raptures are our fancy's toys.
With plumes spread in divinest equipoise
Love forth throughout the swaying planet goes—
His bosom is God's bosom, and it glows
Ardent against the wind that upward buoys.
The man who once has kissed a living rose
The utmost circle of God's bounty knows,—
All heavenly raptures are our fancy's toys.
With plumes spread in divinest equipoise
Love forth throughout the swaying planet goes—
His bosom is God's bosom, and it glows
Ardent against the wind that upward buoys.
Truly, we dream of heavenly roses red,
And lilies fairer than our lilies white,
And crowns more pure than bay-leaves for the head:—
But when we win that glory's utmost sight,
And laugh to wear our victory, being dead,
Mere grass shall be than God's best throne more bright.
And lilies fairer than our lilies white,
And crowns more pure than bay-leaves for the head:—
But when we win that glory's utmost sight,
And laugh to wear our victory, being dead,
Mere grass shall be than God's best throne more bright.
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XVII.—AN ANGEL.
Slowly and white the first sweet angel came
Towards me in heaven, and held within her hands
A garland woven of white violet-bands,
With one rose in the centre like a flame.
It seemed a fit return of love and fame—
Meet recompence for wanderings o'er the sands
Of lonely earth, and toil in desert lands—
Ready I was the blossom-wreath to claim.
Towards me in heaven, and held within her hands
A garland woven of white violet-bands,
With one rose in the centre like a flame.
It seemed a fit return of love and fame—
Meet recompence for wanderings o'er the sands
Of lonely earth, and toil in desert lands—
Ready I was the blossom-wreath to claim.
But, when I touched it, all the wondrous smell
Of those white violets brought the earth again
Before me, and it was as if there fell
Upon the ground soft showers of spring-like rain—
And the angel was the rose too sweet to tell
I' the centre: just a woman, white thro' pain.
Of those white violets brought the earth again
Before me, and it was as if there fell
Upon the ground soft showers of spring-like rain—
And the angel was the rose too sweet to tell
I' the centre: just a woman, white thro' pain.
XVIII.—THE TEMPEST.
The tempest of the sovereignty of God
Down-smote me,—like a flower I fell before
His thunder's perilous terrific roar,
Crushed flat on the convulsed and trembling sod.
The lightning flashed forth like his flaming rod,
And the utmost tingling heaven strange portents bore—
And life seemed just a bubble, nothing more—
And the universe like one red furnace glowed.
Down-smote me,—like a flower I fell before
His thunder's perilous terrific roar,
Crushed flat on the convulsed and trembling sod.
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And the utmost tingling heaven strange portents bore—
And life seemed just a bubble, nothing more—
And the universe like one red furnace glowed.
But soon the storm was over, and I heard
Loud in the tree-tops glistening from the rain,
The voice of Love sonorous as a bird
Who knows the speckled partner marks his strain:
And all God's sovereignty seemed now conferred
On Man and Woman—the lone god-like twain.
Loud in the tree-tops glistening from the rain,
The voice of Love sonorous as a bird
Who knows the speckled partner marks his strain:
And all God's sovereignty seemed now conferred
On Man and Woman—the lone god-like twain.
| The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems | |