The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) Selected and revised by the author. Copyright edition. In two volumes |
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| IV. | BOOK IV.
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 | The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) |  |
133
BOOK IV.
EXILE.
“Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.”
Dante, l'Inferno, Canto V.
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.”
Dante, l'Inferno, Canto V.
135
ON THE SEA.
Come! breathe thou soft, or blow thou bold,
Thy coming be it kind or cold,
Thou soul of the heedless ocean wind,—
Little I rede, and little I reck,
Tho' the mast be snapp'd, and the dripping deck
Swept bare of whatever the billow can find,
If only thou wilt but blow from me,
And bury in yonder boiling sea,
This weight on my heart and mind!—
Thy coming be it kind or cold,
Thou soul of the heedless ocean wind,—
Little I rede, and little I reck,
Tho' the mast be snapp'd, and the dripping deck
Swept bare of whatever the billow can find,
If only thou wilt but blow from me,
And bury in yonder boiling sea,
This weight on my heart and mind!—
Welcome, you blasts that round me roar!
Welcome you hissing heaps of wave,
Whose heavy heads and shoulders hoar
Are now a mountain, and now a cave,
And now a foam-fleckt slumbrous floor
Of seething scum! True hearts, and brave,
Courage! The broad sea darkens before,
And the black storm follows us fast behind.
The day is dead in his dismal grave.
His dirge is chaunted by wave and wind.
We are rid at last of the hated shore,
Out of the reach of coward and slave,
And free of all bonds that bind.
Comrades, the night is long.
I will sing you an ancient song
Of a tale that was told
In the days of old,
Of a Baron brave and strong,
‘Who left his castled home,
When the cross was raised in Rome,
And swore on his sword
To fight for the Lord,
And the banners of Christendom.
To die or to overcome!
In hauberk of mail, and helmet of steel,
And armour of proof from head to heel,
Oh, where the foe that shall make him reel?
True knight on whose crest the cross doth shine!
They buckled his harness, brought him his steed—
A stallion black of the land's best breed—
Belted his spurs, and bade him God-speed
'Mid the Paynim in Palestine.
But the wife that he loved, when she pour'd him up
A last deep health in her golden cup,
Put poison into the wine.
Welcome you hissing heaps of wave,
Whose heavy heads and shoulders hoar
Are now a mountain, and now a cave,
And now a foam-fleckt slumbrous floor
Of seething scum! True hearts, and brave,
Courage! The broad sea darkens before,
And the black storm follows us fast behind.
The day is dead in his dismal grave.
His dirge is chaunted by wave and wind.
We are rid at last of the hated shore,
Out of the reach of coward and slave,
And free of all bonds that bind.
136
I will sing you an ancient song
Of a tale that was told
In the days of old,
Of a Baron brave and strong,
‘Who left his castled home,
When the cross was raised in Rome,
And swore on his sword
To fight for the Lord,
And the banners of Christendom.
To die or to overcome!
In hauberk of mail, and helmet of steel,
And armour of proof from head to heel,
Oh, where the foe that shall make him reel?
True knight on whose crest the cross doth shine!
They buckled his harness, brought him his steed—
A stallion black of the land's best breed—
Belted his spurs, and bade him God-speed
'Mid the Paynim in Palestine.
But the wife that he loved, when she pour'd him up
A last deep health in her golden cup,
Put poison into the wine.
‘So he rode till the land he loved grew dim,
And that poison began to work in him,—
Blithely chaunting his battle hymn;
And proudly tossing his noble crest;
Glad of the deeds to be done in the east,
And glad of the glory he goeth to win:
With his young wife's pictured beauty prest
To its treasured place on his harness'd breast,
And her poison'd wine within.
‘Alas! poor knight, poor knight!
For he carries the foe he cannot fight
In his own true breast shut up.
He hath pledged his life
To a faithless wife,
In the wine of a poison'd cup!’
And that poison began to work in him,—
Blithely chaunting his battle hymn;
And proudly tossing his noble crest;
Glad of the deeds to be done in the east,
And glad of the glory he goeth to win:
With his young wife's pictured beauty prest
To its treasured place on his harness'd breast,
And her poison'd wine within.
137
For he carries the foe he cannot fight
In his own true breast shut up.
He hath pledged his life
To a faithless wife,
In the wine of a poison'd cup!’
Comrade, thy hand in mine!
While all is dark on the brine,
Pour me, no stinted flow
Of that fullhearted wine
Whose purple grape was aglow,
Ere my sire was born, or thine,
With a thousand fancies fine.
My friend, I care not now
If the wild night-wind should blow
Our bark beyond the poles:—
To drift thro' fire or snow,
Out of reach of all we know—
Cold heart, and narrow brow,
Smooth faces, sordid souls!
Lost, like some pale crew
Of Ophir's trading galleys,
On a witch's island! who
Wander the tamarisk alleys,
Where the heaven is blue,
And the soft sea too,
That murmurs among the valleys.
While all is dark on the brine,
Pour me, no stinted flow
Of that fullhearted wine
Whose purple grape was aglow,
Ere my sire was born, or thine,
With a thousand fancies fine.
My friend, I care not now
If the wild night-wind should blow
Our bark beyond the poles:—
To drift thro' fire or snow,
Out of reach of all we know—
Cold heart, and narrow brow,
Smooth faces, sordid souls!
Lost, like some pale crew
Of Ophir's trading galleys,
On a witch's island! who
Wander the tamarisk alleys,
Where the heaven is blue,
And the soft sea too,
That murmurs among the valleys.
‘Perisht with all on board!’
So runs the vagrant fame—
Thy wife weds another lord,
My kinsmen forget my name,
While we wander out of sight,
Till the beard on the chin is white,
And scant are the curls on the head.
One dreams on poppy flowers,
Strewn for the bridal bed
Of some young witch: with showers
Of milkwhite manna, shed
Thro' dim enchanted bowers,
His drowsy lips are fed.
With ruin'd gods one dwells,
In caverns among the fells,
Where the lion and lynx lie dead,
And a single shadow tells
The reason why,—outspread
By the upas, dark and dread,
O'er the horrible silence of sultry dells
In Elephanta, the Red.
So runs the vagrant fame—
Thy wife weds another lord,
My kinsmen forget my name,
138
Till the beard on the chin is white,
And scant are the curls on the head.
One dreams on poppy flowers,
Strewn for the bridal bed
Of some young witch: with showers
Of milkwhite manna, shed
Thro' dim enchanted bowers,
His drowsy lips are fed.
With ruin'd gods one dwells,
In caverns among the fells,
Where the lion and lynx lie dead,
And a single shadow tells
The reason why,—outspread
By the upas, dark and dread,
O'er the horrible silence of sultry dells
In Elephanta, the Red.
139
VENICE.
The sylphs and ondinesAnd the seakings and queens
Once, on the waves built a wonderful a city,
As lovely as seems
To some bard, in his dreams,
The soul of his sweetest love-ditty.
Long ago! long ago! ah, that was long ago!—
Thick, as on chalices
Kings keep for treasure,
Jewel-born lustres,
Temples and palaces,
Places of pleasure,
Glitter'd in clustres;
Night broke out shining
With splendour and festival
O'er the meandering murmurous streets,
Seawaves went pining
With love thro' the musical
Multiform bridges and marble retreats
Of this city of wonder, where dwelt the ondines
Long ago, and the sylphs, and the seakings and queens.
Ah, that was long ago!—
But the sylphs and ondines,
And the seakings and queens
Are fled under the waves.
140
Down the glimmering tide,
('Mid forms silently passing, as silent as any!)
Here in the waves
Of this city of graves
To bury my heart,—one grave more to the many!—
141
RINALDO RINALDI.
I.
It is midnight, and moonlight, and musicAbroad on the odorous air.
Out of diamonded darknesses flashing,
The oars of the fleet gondolier
Flit over the somnolent water,
And pause by the porphyry pier,
In the light on the wave that is washing
The weed-strewn slippery stair;
Whereby to the rose-redden'd terrace
Many a gay cavalier
Leads many a laughing lady,
Under luminous lattices there.
Like the upthrust stems, bright-budded,
Of some wonderful water-plant,
Or a cluster of turban'd toadstools,
By the pier of the palace slant
All manner of brilliant-banded
Purple and scarlet poles;
And the gondolas tether'd to them
Glitter in gorgeous shoals.
'Tis a terrace paven mosaic,
And mantled with myrtle and rose;
Round an ancient Venetian palace
All vivid with glory that flows
142
In clustres, and crescents, and rows;
Whose splendour is spray'd by the jewels
That sparkle on coronall'd brows.
To the moon of the midsummer weather,
That low in the warm air hovers,
From the lamplit garden-grove
The nightingales warble together,
Delighting the souls of young lovers
In many a wanton alcove.
It is night in the city of pleasure,
Sweet night in the season of love;
And as, sway'd by a musical measure,
The jubilant multitudes move,
Love throbs in the nightingales' throats,
That warble what words cannot tell;
Love beams from the beautiful moon;
Love swims in the languerous glances
Of the dancers adown the dim dances;
And thrills in the tremulous notes
That rise into rapture, and swell
From viol, and flute, and bassoon.
II.
The terminal tree on the terraceIs a sable cypress tree;
And the statue that gleams beneath it
Mnemosyne's statue must be.
To the palace a guest unbidden
Doth a black-stoled gondola bear,
And the count Rinaldo Rinaldi
Hath mounted the marble stair.
In camlet cloak (not merrily
143
And doublet of sad-colour'd quilt,
Steel giaco, and dark plume, drest,
Slowly he walk'd, and warily,
Unlike a greeted guest,
Grasping his good sword's hilt,
And hiding the mail on his breast,
And gazing before him drearily,
—Eagerly, and yet wearily,
Like one who, with bosom opprest
Either by grief or guilt,
Seeth, before him, the crest
Of a city for refuge built,
And yearneth and sigheth for rest,
Yet knoweth his wish is unblest,
And, foreseeing his blood will be spilt,
Is resolved to die fighting at least.
III.
There rustled a robe in the roses,Unheard by the revellers there;
For the sound of the mighty music
Was strong on the midnight air.
There rustled a robe, no louder
Than if a light bird it were;
And, under the sable shadow
Of the terminal cypress tree,
By the image that, gleaming thro' it,
Mnemosyne's image must be,
The lady Irene Riario
Lean'd from the terrace her fair
Face, with the midsummer moonlight
Clear on her coronall'd hair.
144
The minstrels urge it and rouse.
The music is sounding, the dancers bounding,
Silken mummers and masks surrounding
The radiant resonant house.
“Siora,” the Count said unto her,
“The shafts of ill fortune pursue me.
Growing older, it ever grows newer,
The grief of the olden time;
And the foes that have sworn to undo me
Have chased me from clime to clime.
False foemen! never my falchion
Could they shatter in open fight;
But they dug their pits in the darkness,
And they spread their snares on the night:
My heart they have well-nigh broken,
And my life they have broken quite.
Yet dying men have arisen
'Neath the stroke of the slayer's knife,
And slaves from the chain and the prison
Have rush'd, and reconquer'd life,
In the heat of a hope rekindled
By the steel-cold stab of despair;
For mighty in misery even
Is man's worship of one thing fair.
To others be all that you are, love.
—A lady more lovely than most;
To me be the one spared star, love,
That lights to his haven the lost:
A shrine that, for tender devotion,
In the desert wan marriners deck
With the garments yet dripping from ocean
And the last jewel saved from the wreck!”
145
IV.
What the lady Irene Riario(By Mnemosyne's statue, that shone
Thro' the shade of the cypress tree)
To the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi
Replied then, it never was known,
And known now it never will be.
But the moon is set; and the dawning
Of day, in the starless heaven,
Over the dead night hovers,
Like the dead night's ghost unshriven;
From the lattices no light gleams;
From the porch, with its purple awning,
From the garden's myrtle covers,
From the pier where the water, driven
'Twixt the slant poles, blushes and gleams,
The minstrels, and maskers, and mummers
Are gone like the leaves of lost summers;
The dancing dames, and even
The last of the lingering lovers,
Have flitted away; and it seems
As tho' that revel had only been
The brief fantastic pageant seen
By a sick man, whom some morphian cup,
For fever-wasted lips fill'd up,
Hath mock'd with gorgeous dreams.
V.
Alone, Rinaldo RinaldiStood in the sable shade
Over Mnemosyne's image
By that terminal cypress made.
Silent and dark was the garden;
146
The sad wide street of wan water,
With but one black gondola there.
The heavens were changing above him:
The dawn came chill on the air,
And, darkening the cypress darker,
Whiten'd the wakeful skies.
He drew from his bosom a kerchief.
“Would,” he sigh'd, “that her face were less fair!”
And, folding the kerchief, he cover'd
Mnemosyne's marble eyes.—
147
THE PORTRAIT.
The man who told this tale is not
Either you, or I, good friend;
Who may therefore, glad of our better lot,
Hear his story told to the end.
Either you, or I, good friend;
Who may therefore, glad of our better lot,
Hear his story told to the end.
I
Midnight past! Not a sound of aughtThro' the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs.
II
A night of tears! for the gusty rainHad ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;
And the moon look'd forth, as tho' in pain,
With her face all white and wet:
III
Nobody with me, my watch to keep,But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.
IV
Nobody else, in the country placeAll round, that knew of my loss beside,
But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,
Who confess'd her when she died.
148
V
That good young Priest is of gentle nerve,And my grief had moved him beyond controul;
For his lip grew white, as I could observe,
When he speeded her parting soul.
VI
I sat by the dreary hearth alone:I thought of the pleasant days of yore:
I said “the staff of my life is gone:
The woman I love is no more.
VII
“Gem-clasp'd, on her bosom my portrait lies,Which next to her heart she used to wear—
It is steep'd in the light of her loving eyes,
And the sweets of her bosom and hair.”
VIII
And I said—“the thing is precious to me:They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;
It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
If I do not take it away.”
IX
I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,And crept up the stairs that creak'd for fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.
X
The moon shone over her winding sheet.There, stark she lay on her carven bed:
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.
149
XI
As I stretch'd my hand, I held my breath;I turn'd, as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.
XII
I thought, at first, as my touch fell there,It had warm'd that heart to life, with love;
For the thing I touch'd was warm, I swear,
And I could feel it move.
XIII
'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slowO'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side:
And at once the sweat broke over my brow,
“Who is robbing the corpse?” I cried.
XIV
Opposite me, by the tapers' light,The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
And neither of us moved.
XV
“What do you here, my friend?” . . . The manLook'd first at me, and then at the dead.
“There is a portrait here. . .” he began;
“There is. It is mine,” I said.
XVI
Said the friend of my bosom, “yours, no doubt,The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know.”
150
XVII
“This woman, she loved me well,” said I.“A month ago,” said my friend to me:
“And in your throat,” I groan'd, “you lie!”
He answer'd. . . “let us see.”
XVIII
“Enough!” I return'd, “let the dead decide:And whose soever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraign'd by Love.”
XIX
We found the portrait there, in its place:We open'd it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was—neither his nor mine.
XX
“One nail drives out another, at least!The portrait is not ours,” I cried,
“But our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,
Who confess'd her when she died.”
151
THE CASTLE OF KING MACBETH.
I
This is the castle of King Macbeth.And here he feasts, when the daylight wanes,
And the moon is abroad o'er the blasted heath,
His earls and thanes.
II
A hundred harpers, with harps of gold,Harp thorough the night high festival:
And the revelling music thereof is roll'd
From hall to hall,
III
While the wassailers shout till the rafters rockO'er the ringing board: and their shout is borne
To the courts outside where the crowing cock
Is waked ere morn.
IV
But there is one room of that castle old,In a cobwebb'd turret,—a dismal room,
For in it a corpse sits crown'd and cold.
There are four know whom.
V
One of those four the king must be:But the secret is his, and he keepeth it well.
The others that know are the witches three:
But they are in hell.
152
MYSTERY.
I.
The hour was one of mystery,When we were sailing, she and I,
Down the dark, the silent, stream.
The stars above were dim with love;
And the wandering airs beneath
Did from odorous woodlands breathe
Faint as when light whispers move
Fresh-kist lips, whose sighs betray
Whither wishful fancies stray
Thro' a slumbering maiden's dream;
While round and round the night we wound,
Till we came, at last, to the Isle of Fays.
And all the while from the faëry isle
That music, that music of other days!
II.
It was the mellow midst of June.And the sudden silent moon
Rising (as our bark we left
On the bank) from out a cleft
In a piney mountain, beam'd
First red, then wondrous white.
A goblin glory gleam'd
From the Palace; and, with that light,
The sound of the viols stream'd
Thro' the casements over the night.
153
At the casements, two by two.
The dew was in the grass,
And the glow-worm in the dew.
III.
We came to the Palace. We mounted the stair.The great hall-doors wide open were.
And all the dancers that danced in that hall
Greeted us to the festival.
Only, each noble cavalier
Had his throat red-lined from ear to ear:
'Twas a collar of merit, I have heard,
Which a queen upon each had once conferr'd:
And each of the lovely ladies there,
With subtle eyes and floating hair,
Whenever she laugh'd, or smiled, let slip
What seem'd to me the shadowy tip
Of a little mouse's tail, that stirr'd
In the dimpling warmth of a wanton lip.
A mist of magical splendour lay
Along the opiate air; and, thro'
The rosy light of the languerous haze,
Forth from the deep-toned orchestra
Came flowing, heavy with sounds I knew,
That music of other days.
IV.
My arm enlaced her winsome waist,And down the dance we two,
Wound in one, with locks undone
And mingled footsteps, flew.
But, in the midst of the melody,
Low at mine ear I heard her sigh,
154
“What aileth thee?” Low moan made she,
“The roof will fall tonight on this hall!
Already the rafters are reeling above.
But the outside air is quiet and fair.
Lead me into the grove.”
V.
We wander'd into the grove. We foundA bower by woodbine woven round.
The music made a mellower sound.
Her long hair gamboll'd glittering
Over her scarlet, green, and violet vesture
In a cataract of amber light;
And the moon's magnificence did cling
Close about her, like a glorious clothing.
All at once, a sudden snowy gesture
Of her white hand flash'd upon my sight,
Much against my will, the golden ring;
Which, meanwhile, I had forgotten quite;
Else, it might have mingled love with loathing.
VI.
Then I said “O beauty bounteous fair!“The abundant brightness of thine hair.
Never seem'd more bountifully bright.
The moon is fair, and the sweet air
Is sighing with excess of fond delight.
Here let us, therefore, stay, till the star of the dawning day
Gives warning to the watchers of the night
That the world is aware, and they
Who have secrets to hide from a world grown grey
Must hasten out of sight.”
155
VII.
“That may not be,” she answer'd me,“For I was lately wed
With this gold ring to an Ogre King.
My husband is old,” she said,
“Old and grey; therefore all day
My little harp I softly play,
Playing to him, till his eyes wax dim,
And he calls for his posset cup.
But into the brewage I pour
A juice which he drinks thirstily up
And sleeps till the night is o'er.
Then, finger on lip, away I slip,
And down the hills till I reach the stream.
I call to thee clear till the boat appear,
And we sail together thro' dark and dream.
But, if he should wake and not find me,
Over brook, thoro' brake, and by turret and tree,
He will follow me fast, and find us at last,
Bursting into the woodbine bower.
For, tho' woven well, neither charm nor spell
In the presence of him hath power.
The shy fays and elves can take care of themselves:
For the island is theirs, and they know
That, for their sweet sakes, the forests and brakes
Will hide them from every foe:
And little heed of what may befall
Have the knights who are dancing in yonder hall,
For, with or without their heads,—(they all
Carry them loose, and carry them so
Never for use, but only for show,
Since what heads they had once they have lost long ago)
Each, as fast as he may, well to horse and away
156
And each dame of the house
Hath a little dun mouse
That will whisper her when to be gone,
(For never yet was there any device
Crafty enough to catch those little mice;
They have play'd their pranks so oft ere now
That they are wary, and full well know
How to look after their own)
But we, ah love, in the trampled grove
We shall be left alone,
Follow'd and found by the fate we fled,
Trapp'd and caught by the curse we dread,
And by our own doing undone!”
V.
I stood up in the strong moonshine,And both her hands I held in mine.
I held them fast, she could not stir,
And bitterly I cried to her
“Look in my face. My cheek is white,
My back is bow'd, before the time,
From plucking magic herbs by night,
And weaving many a wizard rhyme,
And all for thee! yet all in vain
The wizard's wondrous art is mine,
Tho' over subtle spirits I reign,
And starry genii half divine,
If one brute fact in flesh and blood,—
All body with no soul,—hath power,
Even in the haunted solitude
Of this elf-builded woodbine bower,
To bar my will, and blast my bliss,
157
—Not mine whom thou hast sought, but his
From whom my spells have rescued thee.”
I loosed her hands. She did not stir.
The moonlight flow'd 'twixt me and her,
And, where the moonlight bathed the ground,
A lute, with loveknots gaily bound,
Left in the woodbine bower I found.
I seized the lute, and struck the chords:
With music wild I mix'd wild words:
Down at her feet my limbs I flung,
And, looking under her eyelids, sung
“Sigh no more! try no more
So to fight with fate, sweet!
Error went too fast before,
Caution comes too late, sweet.
Grief is making up her store:
We may let her wait, sweet.
Sigh no more! I no more
May avert, nor thou restore
What's to come and what is o'er,
Be it love or hate, sweet.”
IX.
Like the slow soft settling downOver earth and over heaven
Of a southern summer even,
Dark, with trembling starlight strown,
Slowly, slowly over me
Warm delicious darkness grew;
Not unlit,—for I could see
Eyes love-languid beaming thro'
That sweet darkness. Then I threw
158
All around it, and down-drew
Brows, and breast, and breathing mouth,
Till their mingled sweetness stoop'd,
Pausing on me, and we droop'd
And sunk together,—drooping sinking
Whither? Ah, there was no thinking
Then, and now there is no knowing
Whither! but by sweet swift ways
Downward ever; and all the while
Round about us, flowing, flowing,
From the flutes and lutes of the elves and fays,
Out of the midst of the moonlit isle
That music of other days!
X.
Oh, if it were but a dream of the night,A dream that I dream'd in sleep,
Then why is my cheek so woeful white,
And this wound in my heart so deep?
And, if it were but a dream, it broke
Too soon, albeit too late I awoke,
Waked by the smart of a sudden stroke
Which hath stunn'd me so, and stupified,
That I cannot remember, nor ever shall,
What was the close of that festival,
Nor when from out of their wizard hall
Fled the knights and the dames and the dancers all.
One thing only methinks I know,
And that is the weight of an Ogre's blow.
Yet still at times I seem to hear
Chaunted, perchance, by elves and fays,
159
That washes an island desert and drear
Where a house hath fallen, and some one hath died,
Faintly, fitfully floating near
Along the lonesome and leafless ways,
That maddening music of other days.
160
GOING BACK AGAIN.
I
I dream'd that I walk'd in Italy,When the day was going down,
By a water that silently wander'd by
Thro' an old dim-lighted town,
II
Till I came to a palace fair to see.Wide open the windows were.
My love at a window sat; and she
Beckon'd me up the stair.
III
I roam'd thro' many a corridor,And many a chamber of state:
Dim and silent was every floor
And the day was growing late.
IV
When I came to the little rose-colour'd roomFrom the curtains outflew a bat.
The window was open: and in the gloom
My love at the window sat.
V
She sat with her guitar on her knee,But she was not singing a note,
For some one had drawn (ah, who could it be?)
A knife across her throat.
161
TWO OUT OF THE CROWD.
I
One circle of all its golden hoursThe flitting hand of the time-piece there,
In its close white bower of china flowers,
Hath rounded unaware:
II
While the firelight, flung from the flickering wallOn the large and limpid mirror behind,
Hath redden'd and darken'd down o'er all,
As the fire itself declined.
III
Something of pleasure, and something of painThere lived in that sinking light. What is it?
Faces I never shall look at again,
In places you never will visit,
IV
Reveal'd themselves from each faltering ember,While, under a palely-wavering flame,
Half of the years life aches to remember
Reappear'd, and died as they came.
V
To its dark Forever an hour hath goneSince either you or I have spoken:
Each of us might have been sitting alone
In a silence so unbroken.
162
VI
I never shall know what made me look up(In this cushion'd chair so soft and deep,
By the table where, over the empty cup,
I was leaning, half asleep)
VII
To catch a gleam on the picture up thereOf the saint in the wilderness under the oak;
And a light on the brow of the bronze Voltaire,
Like the ghost of a cynical joke;
VIII
To mark, in each violet, velvet foldOf the curtains that fall twixt room and room,
The drowsy flush of the red light roll'd
Thro' their drapery's glowing gloom.
IX
O'er the Rembrandt there—the Caracci here—Flutter warmly the ruddy and wavering hues;
And St. Anthony over his book has a leer
At the little French beauty by Greuze.
X
There—the Leda, weigh'd over her white swan's back,By the weight of her passionate kiss, ere it falls;
On the ebony cabinet, glittering black
Thro' its ivory cups and balls:
XI
Your scissors and thimble, and work laid away,With its silks, in the scented rose-wood box;
The journals, that tell truth every day,
And that novel of Paul de Kock's:
163
XII
The flowers in the vase, with their bells shut closeIn a dream of the far green fields where they grew;
The cards of the visiting people and shows
In that bowl with the sea-green hue.
XIII
Your shawl, with a queenly droop of its own,Hanging over the arm of the crimson chair:
And, last—yourself, as silent as stone,
In a glow of the firelight there!
XIV
I thought you were reading all this time.And was it some wonderful page of your book
Telling of love, with its glory and crime,
That has left you that sorrowful look?
XV
For a tear from those dark, deep, humid orbs,'Neath their lashes, so long, and soft, and sleek,
All the light in your lustrous eyes absorbs,
As it trembles over your cheek.
XVI
Were you thinking how we, sitting side by side,Might be dreaming miles and miles apart?
Or if lips could meet over a gulf so wide
As separates heart from heart?
XVII
Ah, well! when time is flown, how it fledIt is better neither to ask nor tell.
Leave the dead moments to bury their dead.
Let us kiss and break the spell!
164
XVIII
Come, arm in arm, to the window here;Draw by the thick curtain, and see how, to night,
In the clear and frosty atmosphere,
The lamps are burning bright.
XIX
All night, and for ever, in yon great town,The heaving Boulevart flares and roars;
And the streaming Life, flows up and down
From its hundred open doors.
XX
It is scarcely so cold, but I and you,With never a friend to find us out,
May stare at the shops for a moment or two,
And wander a while about.
XXI
For when in the crowd we have taken our place,(—Just two more lives to the mighty street there!)
Knowing no single form or face
Of the men and women we meet there,—
XXII
Knowing, and known of, none in the wholeOf that crowd all round, but our two selves only,
We shall grow nearer, soul to soul,
Until we feel less lonely.
XXIII
Here are your bonnet and gloves, dear. There—How stately you look in that long rich shawl!
Put back your beautiful golden hair,
That never a curl may fall.
165
XXIV
Stand in the firelight . . . so, . . . as you were—Oh my heart, how fearfully like her she seem'd!
Hide me up from my own despair,
And the ghost of a dream I dream'd!
166
BLUEBEARD.
I
Fair in the love of Fatima(A maiden like an evening star)
Lay hid this stain'd and crookèd life,
As in its sheath my scimitar:
II
For fair with flowrets damasceneThe sheath is traced and twined about,
But on the blade are blood-spots black
That time and rust will not wear out.
III
Beneath the hot pomegranate boughsAt sunset here alone we sat.
To call back something from that hour,
I'd give away my Caliphat.
IV
“—Am I not fair?”“As evening air,”
I answer'd.
“Fresh?”
“As April's sky.”
“Whate'er I be,” she whisper'd me,
“I love thee, and all thine am I.
167
V
“Be satisfied.”“Alas!” I sigh'd.
And “wherefore do'st thou sigh?” she said.
“Because I trace in thy fair face
“The likeness of a face that's dead.”
VI
Rash question, rash reply!The rest
Is writ in tears where all who read
Revile my name. Ah Fatima,
Why did'st thou seek to know my dead?
VII
Large realms were thine, with one reserve:Full many a chamber, many a hall,
Thy wandering thought was free to rove:
I gave thee up the keys of all.
VIII
One only key I warn'd thee, spareTo use; because it opes a door
That's shut for thy sake and for mine,
But, open'd once, will shut no more:
IX
And thou that door hast oped, and thouHast gazed upon the dead, and I
That most thy fault, rash child, deplore,
Must needs inflict its penalty!
168
FATIMA.
I
A year ago, thy cheek was brightAs oleander buds that break
The dark of yonder dells by night
Above the lamplit lake.
II
Pale as a snow drop in CashmereThy face to night, fair infant, seems.
Ah, wretched child! what do'st thou hear
When I talk in my dreams?—
169
RESURRECTION.
I
At Paris it was, at the Opera there;—And she look'd like a Queen of old time that night,
With the wreathèd pearls in her raven hair,
And her breast with the diamond bright.
II
Side by side in our box we sat,Together, my bride-betroth'd and I:
My gaze was fix'd on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by:
III
And both were silent, and both were sad.Queenly she lean'd on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!
IV
I have not a doubt she was thinking thenOf her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest, and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.
V
That narrow gate to the kingdom of heaven,He was not too portly, I trust, to pass.
I wish him well, for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.
170
VI
Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,As I had not been thinking of aught for years,
Till over mine eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.
VII
I thought of the dress that she wore last time,When we stood, 'neath the cypress trees, together,
In that lost land, in her own soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather,
VIII
By the broken wall, on the brown grass plot;And her warm white neck in its golden chain:
And her full, soft hair, wound into a knot,
And falling loose again:
IX
And the jasmin-flower in her fair young breast,(O the faint sweet smell of that jasmin-flower!)
And the last bird singing alone to his nest,
And the first star over the tower.
X
I thought of our little quarrels and strife,And the letter that brought me back my ring.
And it all seem'd then—in the waste of life—
Such a very little thing!
XI
For I thought of her grave below the hill,Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over.
And I thought . . . ‘were she only living still,
How I could forgive her, and love her!’
171
XII
And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower,
Which she used to wear in her breast.
XIII
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,It made me creep, and it made me cold!
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
Where a mummy is half unroll'd.
XIV
And I turn'd and look'd. She was sitting thereIn a dim box over the stage; and drest
In the dress that I knew,—with that full soft hair,
And that jasmin in her breast.
XV
She was there, and I was here:And the glittering horseshoe curved between:
And from here to there, and from tier to tier,
—From my bride that was to have been,
XVI
To my early love, with her eyes down-cast,And over her blush-rose face the shade,
(In short, from the Future back to the Past)
There was but a step to be made.
XVII
To my early love from my future brideOne moment I look'd. Then I stole to the door,
And traversed the passage, and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.
172
XVIII
My thinking of her, or the music's strain,Or something that never will be exprest.
Had brought her back from the grave again
And brought her back to my breast.
XIX
She is not dead, and she is not wed!But she loves me now, and she loved me then!
And the very first word that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.
XX
The Marchioness there, of Carabas,She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,
And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass,
She may marry whomever she will.
XXI
But I will marry my own first love,With her blush-rose face: for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.
XXII
The world is fill'd with folly and sin,And love must cling where it can, I say:
For Beauty is easy enough to win;
But one isn't loved every day.
XXIII
And I think, in the lives of most women and men,There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back, and be forgiven.
173
THE CHESS-BOARD.
Irene, do you yet remember,Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I play'd chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah, still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight.
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand:
The double Castles guard the wings:
The Bishop, bent on distant things,
Moves, sidling, through the fight.
Our fingers touch: our glances meet,
And falter; falls your golden hair
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
Rides slow her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.
Ah me! the little battle's done,
Disperst is all its chivalry;
Full many a move, since then, have we
'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made,
And many a game with Fortune play'd,—
What is it we have won?
This, this at least—if this alone;—
174
As in those old still nights of yore,
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise)
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world, and wintry weather,
And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes,
Play chess, as then we play'd, together!
175
HOME-SICKNESS.
I, often lying lonely, over seas,
At ope of day, soft-couch'd in foreign land,
Dream a green dream of England; when young trees
Make murmur, and the amber-stripèd bees
To search the woodbine through, a busy band,
Come floating at the casement, while new-tann'd
And tedded hay sends fresh on morning breeze
Incense of sunny fields, through curtains fann'd
With invitations faint to Far-away.
So dreaming, half-awake, at ope of day,
Dream I of daisy greens, and village pales,
And the white winking of the warmèd may
In blossomy hedge, and brown oak-leavèd dales,
And little children dear, at dewy play,
Till all my heart grows young and glad as they;
And sweet thoughts come and go, like scented gales,
Through an open window when the month is gay.
At ope of day, soft-couch'd in foreign land,
Dream a green dream of England; when young trees
Make murmur, and the amber-stripèd bees
To search the woodbine through, a busy band,
Come floating at the casement, while new-tann'd
And tedded hay sends fresh on morning breeze
Incense of sunny fields, through curtains fann'd
With invitations faint to Far-away.
So dreaming, half-awake, at ope of day,
Dream I of daisy greens, and village pales,
And the white winking of the warmèd may
In blossomy hedge, and brown oak-leavèd dales,
And little children dear, at dewy play,
Till all my heart grows young and glad as they;
And sweet thoughts come and go, like scented gales,
Through an open window when the month is gay.
But often, wandering lonely, over seas,
At shut of day, in unfamiliar land,
What time the serious light is on the leas,
To me there comes a sighing after ease
Much wanted, and an aching wish to stand
Knee-deep in English grass, and have at hand
A little churchyard cool, with native trees,
And grassy mounds thick-laced with ozier band,
Wherein to rest at last, nor further stray.
So, sad of heart, muse I, at shut of day,
On safe and quiet England; till thought ails
With inward groanings deep, for meadows gray,
Gray copses cool with twilight, shady dales,
Home-gardens, full of rest, where never may
Come loud intrusion; and, what chiefly fails
My sick desire, old friendships fled away.
I am much vext with loss. Kind Memory, lay
My head upon thy lap, and tell me tales
Of the good old time, when all was pure and gay!
At shut of day, in unfamiliar land,
What time the serious light is on the leas,
To me there comes a sighing after ease
Much wanted, and an aching wish to stand
Knee-deep in English grass, and have at hand
A little churchyard cool, with native trees,
And grassy mounds thick-laced with ozier band,
176
So, sad of heart, muse I, at shut of day,
On safe and quiet England; till thought ails
With inward groanings deep, for meadows gray,
Gray copses cool with twilight, shady dales,
Home-gardens, full of rest, where never may
Come loud intrusion; and, what chiefly fails
My sick desire, old friendships fled away.
I am much vext with loss. Kind Memory, lay
My head upon thy lap, and tell me tales
Of the good old time, when all was pure and gay!
177
FATA MORGANA.
I
When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with,Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain,
We drowse back, in dreams, to days that life begun with,
And their tender light returns to us again.
II
I have cast away the tangle and the tormentOf the cords that bound my life up in a mesh:
And the pulse begins to throb that long lay dormant
'Neath their pressure; and the old wounds bleed afresh.
III
I am touch'd again with shades of early sadness,Like the summer-cloud's light shadow in my hair:
I am thrill'd again with breaths of boyish gladness,
Like the scent of some last primrose on the air.
IV
And again she comes, with all her silent graces,The lost woman of my youth, yet unpossest:
And her cold face so unlike the other faces
Of the women whose dead lips I since have prest.
178
V
The motion and the fragrance of her garmentsSeem about me, all the day long, in the room:
And her face, with its bewildering old endearments,
Comes at night, between the curtains, in the gloom.
VI
When vain dreams are stirr'd with sighing, near the morning,To my own her phantom lips I feel approach:
And her smile, at eve, breaks o'er me without warning
From its speechless, pale, perpetual reproach.
VII
When Life's dawning glimmer yet had all the tint thereOf the orient, in the freshness of the grass,
(Ah what feet since then have trodden out the print there!)
Did her soft, her silent footsteps fall, and pass.
VIII
They fell lightly, as the dew falls, 'mid ungather'dMeadow-flowers; and lightly linger'd with the dew.
But the dew is gone, the grass is dried and wither'd,
And the traces of those steps have faded too.
IX
Other footsteps fall about me—faint, uncertain,In the shadow of the world, as it recedes:
Other forms peer thro' the half-uplifted curtain
Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds.
179
X
What is gone is gone for ever. And new fashionsMay replace old forms which nothing can restore:
But I turn from sighing back departed passions
With that pining at the bosom as of yore.
XI
I remember to have murmur'd, morn and even,“Though the Earth dispart these Earthlies, face from face,
Yet the Heavenlies shall surely join in Heaven,
For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space:
XII
“Where it listeth, there it bloweth; all existenceIs its region; and it houseth, where it will.
I shall feel her through immeasurable distance,
And grow nearer, and be gather'd to her, still.
XIII
“If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses,Brows, and breast, and lips, and language of sweet strains,
I shall know her by the traces of dead kisses,
And that portion of myself which she retains.”
XIV
But my being is confused with new experience,And changed to something other than it was;
And the Future with the Past is set at variance;
And Life falters 'neath the burthens which it has.
180
XV
Famisht hopes press fast behind me, weakly wailing:Faint before me fleets the good I have not done:
And my search for her may still be unavailing
'Mid the spirits that are pass'd beyond the sun.
181
CONSOLATION.
When I perceive how slight and poor appears(Though with sad care and strong compulsion brought
Down rangèd rhymes with strenuous search of thought)
The express'd result of my most passionate years;
Remembering, too, from what divinest spheres
Stoop'd many a starry visitant, and taught
My spirit at her toils,—how round her wrought
Strong Raptures, Sorrows, Splendours rich in tears,
My whole heart fails me. Then an inward voice
Replies, ‘Possess thyself, and be content.
Life's best is bound not by the utterance
Of any word, nor may in sound be spent,
To win back echoes out of hollow chance.
What thou hast felt is thine. If much, rejoice.’
182
A CONFESSION AND APOLOGY.
'Tis time that I should loose from life at last
This heart's unworthy longing for the past,
Ere life be turn'd to loathing.
For love,—at least, this love, of one for one,—
Is, at the best, not all beneath the sun,
And, at the worst, 'tis nothing.
This heart's unworthy longing for the past,
Ere life be turn'd to loathing.
For love,—at least, this love, of one for one,—
Is, at the best, not all beneath the sun,
And, at the worst, 'tis nothing.
Not that, of all the past, I would forget
One pleasure, or one pain. I cherish yet,
And would dishonour never,
All I have felt. But, cherisht tho' it be,
'Tis time my past should set my future free
For life's renew'd endeavour.
One pleasure, or one pain. I cherish yet,
And would dishonour never,
All I have felt. But, cherisht tho' it be,
'Tis time my past should set my future free
For life's renew'd endeavour.
Not much I reverence that remorse which flies
To desert caves, and bids its dupes despise
Themselves, on whom it preys;
Wasting the worth of life on worthless pain,
To make the future, as the past was, vain,
By endless self-dispraise:
To desert caves, and bids its dupes despise
Themselves, on whom it preys;
Wasting the worth of life on worthless pain,
To make the future, as the past was, vain,
By endless self-dispraise:
183
As tho', forsooth, because a man is not
His self-made god, he needs must curse his lot
With self-contempt! as tho'
Some squalid maniac, that with lifelong moan
Insults man's flesh and blood, with these hath done
The best that man can do!
His self-made god, he needs must curse his lot
With self-contempt! as tho'
Some squalid maniac, that with lifelong moan
Insults man's flesh and blood, with these hath done
The best that man can do!
Nor am I keen to urge that common claim
On this world, or another,—here, for fame,
Which only grows on graves,—
Or, there, for so much, purchasable here
By earth's joy stinted, of celestial cheer;
The stimulant of slaves!
On this world, or another,—here, for fame,
Which only grows on graves,—
Or, there, for so much, purchasable here
By earth's joy stinted, of celestial cheer;
The stimulant of slaves!
Not for reward,—not for release from pain,—
But with a man's imperative disdain
Of all that wastes man's nature,
Rise, O my soul, and reach to loftier things,
Untrammell'd by this florid weed that clings,
Stunting a spirit's stature!
But with a man's imperative disdain
Of all that wastes man's nature,
Rise, O my soul, and reach to loftier things,
Untrammell'd by this florid weed that clings,
Stunting a spirit's stature!
I was not born to sit, with shrowded head,
Piping shrill ditties to the unburied dead,
While life's arm'd host sweeps by.
I hear the clarion call, the warsteed neigh,
The banner fluttering in the wind's free play,
The brave man's battle-cry:
Piping shrill ditties to the unburied dead,
While life's arm'd host sweeps by.
I hear the clarion call, the warsteed neigh,
The banner fluttering in the wind's free play,
The brave man's battle-cry:
184
And I am conscious that where all things strive
'Tis shameful to sit still. I would not live
Content with a life lost
In chasing mine own fancies thro' void air,
Or decking forth in forms and phrases fair
The miserable ghost
'Tis shameful to sit still. I would not live
Content with a life lost
In chasing mine own fancies thro' void air,
Or decking forth in forms and phrases fair
The miserable ghost
Of personal joy or pain. The ages roll
Forward; and, forward with them, draw my soul
Into time's infinite sea.
And to be glad, or sad, I care no more:
But to have done, and to have been, before
I cease to do and be.
Forward; and, forward with them, draw my soul
Into time's infinite sea.
And to be glad, or sad, I care no more:
But to have done, and to have been, before
I cease to do and be.
From the minutest struggle to excell
Of things whose momentary myriads dwell
In drops of dew confined,
To spirits standing on life's upmost stair,
Whose utterances alter worlds, and are
The makers of mankind,
Of things whose momentary myriads dwell
In drops of dew confined,
To spirits standing on life's upmost stair,
Whose utterances alter worlds, and are
The makers of mankind,
All things cry shame on lips that squander speech
In words which,—if not deeds,—are worthless each.
Not here are such words wanted,
Where all bestirs itself,—where dumb things do
By nobly silent action speak, and go
Forth to their fates undaunted.
In words which,—if not deeds,—are worthless each.
Not here are such words wanted,
Where all bestirs itself,—where dumb things do
By nobly silent action speak, and go
Forth to their fates undaunted.
185
Shame on the wretch who, born a man, foregoes
Man's troublous birthright for a brute's repose!
Shame on the eyes that see
This mighty universe, yet see not there
Something of difficult worth a man may dare
Boldly to do and be!
Man's troublous birthright for a brute's repose!
Shame on the eyes that see
This mighty universe, yet see not there
Something of difficult worth a man may dare
Boldly to do and be!
Yet is there nought for shame in any thing
Once dear and beautiful. The shrivell'd wing,
Scathed by what seem'd a star
And proved, alas, no star, but withering fire,
Is worthier than the wingless worm's desire
For nothing fair or far.
Once dear and beautiful. The shrivell'd wing,
Scathed by what seem'd a star
And proved, alas, no star, but withering fire,
Is worthier than the wingless worm's desire
For nothing fair or far.
Rather the ground that's deep enough for graves,
Rather the stream that's strong enough for waves,
Than the loose sandy drift
Whose shifting surface cherishes no seed
Either of any flower or any weed,
Which ever way it shift,
Rather the stream that's strong enough for waves,
Than the loose sandy drift
Whose shifting surface cherishes no seed
Either of any flower or any weed,
Which ever way it shift,
Or stagnant shallow which the storms despise
Nought finding there to prey upon, I prize.
Why should man's spirit shrink
From feeling to the utmost,—be it pain
Or pleasure,—all 'twas form'd, nor form'd in vain,
To feel with force? I think
Nought finding there to prey upon, I prize.
Why should man's spirit shrink
From feeling to the utmost,—be it pain
Or pleasure,—all 'twas form'd, nor form'd in vain,
To feel with force? I think
186
That never to have aim'd and miss'd, is not
To have achieved. I hold the loftier lot
To ennoble, not escape,
Life's sorrows and love's pangs. I count a man,
Tho' sick to death, for something nobler than
A healthy dog or ape.
To have achieved. I hold the loftier lot
To ennoble, not escape,
Life's sorrows and love's pangs. I count a man,
Tho' sick to death, for something nobler than
A healthy dog or ape.
I deem that nothing suffer'd or enjoy'd
By a man's soul deserves to be destroy'd,
But rather to be made
Means of a soul's encreased capacity
Either to suffer,—and to gain thereby
A more exalted grade
By a man's soul deserves to be destroy'd,
But rather to be made
Means of a soul's encreased capacity
Either to suffer,—and to gain thereby
A more exalted grade
Among the spirits purified by pain,
Or to enjoy,—and thereby to attain
That lovelier influence
Reserved for spirits that, 'mid the general moan
Of human griefs, praise God with clearest tone
Of joyous trust intense.
Or to enjoy,—and thereby to attain
That lovelier influence
Reserved for spirits that, 'mid the general moan
Of human griefs, praise God with clearest tone
Of joyous trust intense.
And, for this reason, I would yet keep fair
And fresh the memory of all things that were
Sweet in their place and season.
And I forgive my life its failures too,
Since failures old, to guide endeavours new,
Are good for the same reason.
And fresh the memory of all things that were
Sweet in their place and season.
And I forgive my life its failures too,
Since failures old, to guide endeavours new,
Are good for the same reason.
187
REQUIESCAT.
I sought to build a deathless monumentTo my dead love. Therein I meant to place
All precious things, and rare: as Nature blent
All single sweetnesses in one sweet face.
I could not build it worthy her mute merit,
Nor worthy her white brows and holy eyes,
Nor worthy of her perfect and pure spirit,
Nor of my own immortal memories.
But, as some rapt artificer of old,
To enshrine the ashes of a virgin saint,
Might scheme to work with ivory, and fine gold,
And carven gems, and legended and quaint
Seraphic heraldries; searching far lands,
Orient and occident, for all things rare,
To consecrate the toil of reverent hands,
And make his labour, like her virtue, fair;
Knowing no beauty beautiful as she,
And all his labour void, but to beguile
A sacred sorrow; so I work'd. Ah, see
Here are the fragments of my shatter'd pile!
I keep them, and the flowers that sprang between
Their broken workmanship—the flowers and weeds!
Sleep soft among the violets, O my Queen—
Lie calm among my ruin'd thoughts and deeds.
| The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) | |