XVIII.
FINE WEATHER BY BAIAE.
Virgil to Horace.
1
Sweet is soft slumber, Horace, after toil,
To him who holds the glebe and ploughs the fruitful soil,
Sweet to salt-blooded mariners, on decks washed red with storm,
Deep sleep wherein past tempest and green waves
Make shadows multiform;
2
Sweet 'tis to Cæsar, when the red star, grown
Swart with war's dust, doth fade, to loll upon a throne
Dispensing gifts, while on his lips a crafty half-smile dies,
And the soft whispers of approving Rome
Fan his half-closëd eyes!
3
Sweet to Tibullus, sick and out of tune,
What time his elegies like wolves howl at the moon,
Comes Pity loos'ning Delia's zone as breezes part a cloud;
And sweet to thee a wine-cup rough with sleep,
After the tawny crowd.
4
And further, sweetly comes a scroll from thee,
To Virgil where he dwells at Baiae near the sea—
For, sick with servile snakes of state that twine round Cæsar's foot,
He welcomes thy moist greeting and thy thought
Poetically put.
5
Such alternation of unrest and rest,
All fitful peace and passion of the yearning breast,
Deepen the meanings flashing swift in Joy's pink-lidded eyne,
And help the Hours to juggle with the fruits
Of easy creeds like thine.
6
The time-glass runs, the seasons come and go,
After the rain, the flowers, after the flowers, the snow;
This Hour is pale and olive-crown'd, that splash'd with rebel-mud—
This, flusht to gaze on Cæsar's laurell'd brows,
That, drunk with Cæsar's blood!
7
Shall merest mortal man with drowsy nod
Sit under purple vine and doze and ape the god?
Wave down the everlasting strife of earth and air and sea?
And, like a full-fed fruit that gorges light,
Grow rotten on the tree?
8
Leave the grand mental war that mortals keep?
Eat the fat ears of corn, yet neither sow nor reap?
Loll in the sunshine, sipping sweets, what time the din of fights
Quenches the wind round Troy, and very gods
Feel dizzy on their heights?
9
Nay, friend!—For such a man each hour supplies
Portents that mock his ease, affright his languid eyes:
The very elements are leagued to goad him blood and brain,
The very Sun sows drouth within his throat
Until it raves for rain!
10
Methinks I see thee sitting in the sun,
Whose kisses melt thy crusty wrinkles one by one:
Thy lips droop darkly with a worm of thought, half sad, half wroth,
Which stirs the chrysalis mouth, then, ripe with wine,
Bursts like a golden moth.
11
Unfaith is with thee, Horace. Sun and wind
Disturb the tranquil currents of thy heart and mind;
In midst of Joy, comes pigmy doubt, prick-pricking like a flea,
Till, wide awake, you rack your brains to prove
Your perfect bliss to me.
12
O better far, if Man would climb, to range
Thro' sun and thunder-storm tempestuous paths of change,
To mingle with the motion huge of earth and air and main,
And lastly, fall upon a bed of flowers
When wearied down by pain.
13
Deep, deep, within Man's elemental parts—
Earth, water, fire, and air that mix in human hearts,—
Subsists Unrest that seeketh Rest, and flashes into gleams
That haunt the soul to action, and by night
Disturb our sleep with dreams.
14
And thus we fashion with a piteous will
The gods in drowsy mildness seated on a hill,
The day before them evermore, the starry night behind,—
Inheritors of the divine repose
We seek and cannot find.
15
Woe, woe, to him, who craving that calm boon
Falleth to sleep on beds of poppy flowers too soon!
The elements shall hem him in and fright his shrieking soul,
And, since he asks for light, Lightning itself
Shall scorch his eyes to coal!
16
My Horace!—I am here beside the deep,
Weaving at will this verse for Memory to keep:
I share the sunshine with my friend, and like a lizard bask;
But I, friend, doubt this summer joy,—and you
Shall answer what I ask.—
17
Bluff March has blown his clarion out of tune,
Gone is the blue-edged sickle of the April moon;
Faded hath fretful May behind a tremulous veil of rain,—
But I would the boisterous season of the winds
And snows were here again!
18
For I am kneeling on the white sea-sand,
Letting the cold soft waves creep up and kiss my hand;
A golden glare of sunshine fills the blue air at my back,
And swims between the meadows and the skies,
Leaving the meadows black.
19
All is as still and beautiful as sleep:
Nay, all is sleep—the quiet air, the azure deep;
The cool blue waves creep thro' my fingers with a silver gleam,
As, lost in utter calm, I neither think
Nor act, but only dream.
20
This is the poetry of Heart's repose,
For which my spirit yearn'd thro' drifting winds and snows—
Only the tingling coolness on my hand seems part akin
To that bleak winter warring when the dream
Of peace arose within.
21
What time I dream'd of this, the winds, cast free,
Swoop'd eagle-like and tore the white bowels of the sea;
The winter tempest moved above, and storm on storm did frown;—
I saw the awful Sea bound up in cloud
And then torn hugely down.
22
Within my blood arose the wild commotion,
My soul was battling abroad with winds and ocean;
But in the centre of the wrath, all nature, sea and sky,
Call'd out aloud for peace divine as this,
And lo, I join'd the cry.
23
And calm has come, and June is on the deep,
The winds are nested, and the earth takes mellow sleep;
Yet, friend, my soul, though husht in awe, feels peace so still is pain,—
And the monotonous yearning voice within
Calls out for war again!
24
For hark! into my dream of golden ease
Breaketh the hollow murmur of untroubled seas;
And behold, my blood awakens with a thrill and sinks and swells,
As when low breezes die and rise again
On beds of asphodels.
25
Ay, now, when all is placid as a star,
My soul in incompleteness longs for active war;
Amid its utter happiness, it sighs imperfectly
In answer to the beautiful unrest
Within the sleeping sea.
26
Unsatisfied, I hunger on the land,
Only subdued by this bright water on my hand;
The beating heart within my breast for louder utterance yearns—
I listen, and the sympathetic sea
Its endless moan returns.
27
Quiet, monotonous, breathless, almost drown'd,
Inaudibly audible, felt scarce heard, cometh the sound,
Monotonous, so monotonous, but oh! so sweet, so sweet,
When my hid heart is throbbing forth a voice,
And the two voices meet.
28
The void within the calm for which I yearned,
Until this moment was imperfectly discerned;
But now I feel to the roots of life an inner melody,
That harmonises my unquiet heart
With the unquiet sea.
29
Hear I the crawling movements of the main?
Or hear I dim heart-echoes dying in the brain?
Is there but one impatient moan, and is it of the sea?
And, if two voices speak, which voice belongs
To ocean, which to me?
30
The sounds have mingled into some faint whole,
Inseparate, trembling o'er the fibres of my soul;
And the cool waves have a magic all my swooning blood to quell;
The sea glides thro' and thro' me, and my soul
Keeps sea-sound like a shell.
31
Ah, the monotonous music in my soul,
Enlarging like the waves, murmuring without control!—
Is it that changeful nature can rest not night nor day?
And is the music born of this lorn Man,
Or Ocean,—Horace, say?
32
Is there a climbing element in life
Which is at war with rest, alternates strife with strife,
Whereby we reach eternal seas upon whose shores unstirr'd
Ev'n Joy can sleep,—because no moan like this
Within those waves is heard?
