The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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| VII. | VII. |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
VII.
Fair creature pardon! Those were happy days
(Were not they, princess?) when within thy gaze
I basked as doth a snake beneath the sun:
—Yet, wherefore, after all that I have done
Of folly, call me like the serpent grey,
Which hath been wise esteemed from earliest day!
I only on the flowers of thought have hung
As yet, and I have not the adder's tongue,
Nor am I wary as that creature is:
Yet have I stolen from thee the poor bliss
Of ignorance, and wedded thy fine mind
To intellectual shapes and fancies bright,
And taught thee to look at the dazzling light
Of Truth, which striketh the dull sinner blind.
We two have read together glorious rhyme
Which Homer old and his great brothers writ,
In Attica and Greece, and the world lit
With Fame through everlasting thought and time.—
And we have read my master Petrarch's lays,
And fed his learned lamp with words of praise
Whereat he kindly smiled. Gracious is he:
(Like a good spirit hath he been to me,
A light in the perilous dark;) his soul is full
Of all that is wise and great and beautiful,
And wheresoever, princess, thou shalt go,
Wear thou his well-lamented songs of woe
Close to thy soul:—to mine they are a calm;
A shadow to my passion,—(like the palm
Which hangeth cool above the Indian's brow:)
A fountain where my brain may bathe its fever:
A refuge which is sure and tireth never;
And to my wounded thought sweet and perpetual balm.
(Were not they, princess?) when within thy gaze
I basked as doth a snake beneath the sun:
—Yet, wherefore, after all that I have done
146
Which hath been wise esteemed from earliest day!
I only on the flowers of thought have hung
As yet, and I have not the adder's tongue,
Nor am I wary as that creature is:
Yet have I stolen from thee the poor bliss
Of ignorance, and wedded thy fine mind
To intellectual shapes and fancies bright,
And taught thee to look at the dazzling light
Of Truth, which striketh the dull sinner blind.
We two have read together glorious rhyme
Which Homer old and his great brothers writ,
In Attica and Greece, and the world lit
With Fame through everlasting thought and time.—
And we have read my master Petrarch's lays,
And fed his learned lamp with words of praise
Whereat he kindly smiled. Gracious is he:
(Like a good spirit hath he been to me,
A light in the perilous dark;) his soul is full
Of all that is wise and great and beautiful,
And wheresoever, princess, thou shalt go,
Wear thou his well-lamented songs of woe
147
A shadow to my passion,—(like the palm
Which hangeth cool above the Indian's brow:)
A fountain where my brain may bathe its fever:
A refuge which is sure and tireth never;
And to my wounded thought sweet and perpetual balm.
Would I might call unto thy heart the hours,
Those pleasant hours, when we roamed so free,
Listening and talking by the Naples' sea!
Or gathering from thy father's gardens flowers
To braid thy hair on some feast-coming night:—
Oh! still most dear are those gone hours to me;
Yet dearer those when at the young eve-light,
Seated familiar near thy cedar tree,
We watched the coming moon, and saw how she
Journeyed above us on her sightless track,
And chased with serene looks the fleecy rack,
Or smiled as might the huntress-queen of Heaven
Floating, attended by her starry court,
O'er plain and mountain where their shadowy sport
Is again revealed,—or when all passion-driven,
Leaving the azure moors she seeks her way
Through cloud and tempest and the peal'd alarms
Of thunder, and the lightning's quivering wrath,
Guided by Love unto the Latmian's arms.—
Oh! so wast thou by love and duty guided,
And we were ruled by thee; for each one prided
Himself upon obedience,—not in vain,
For thou wast as a virtue without stain,
A visible perfection shining clear,
A creature fairer than man worships here.
Those pleasant hours, when we roamed so free,
Listening and talking by the Naples' sea!
Or gathering from thy father's gardens flowers
To braid thy hair on some feast-coming night:—
Oh! still most dear are those gone hours to me;
Yet dearer those when at the young eve-light,
Seated familiar near thy cedar tree,
We watched the coming moon, and saw how she
Journeyed above us on her sightless track,
And chased with serene looks the fleecy rack,
Or smiled as might the huntress-queen of Heaven
Floating, attended by her starry court,
O'er plain and mountain where their shadowy sport
Is again revealed,—or when all passion-driven,
148
Through cloud and tempest and the peal'd alarms
Of thunder, and the lightning's quivering wrath,
Guided by Love unto the Latmian's arms.—
Oh! so wast thou by love and duty guided,
And we were ruled by thee; for each one prided
Himself upon obedience,—not in vain,
For thou wast as a virtue without stain,
A visible perfection shining clear,
A creature fairer than man worships here.
—Mammon is worshipped here, an idol base;
And Belial, cozener, (varnished round with grace
And smiling sin)—and the blood-hungry God
Black Moloch, whose large stained feet have trod
Temples down to the dust and holy towers,
And ravaged the green fields and peasants' homes,
And filled the river wheresoe'er it roams
And the great Sea with gore: The forests deep
He hath cursed, and startled from their innocent sleep
And cast upon their tops his red rain showers;
And he hath killed the oak that stood for ages
To bear his slaughters on the ocean wide,
And he hath torn the books of saints and sages,
And struck the house of Science in his pride,
And drained the widow of her refuge tear,
(The last) and bade the young bride live alone,
And mocked the sire's grey hairs, the orphan's moan:—
Fierce war, in whatsoever shape he comes
A curse—Bellona-like, or fiery-red,
Or like a comet staring kingdoms dead,—
Or heralded by steeds and stormy drums,
Blood and the fear of death and pennons flying,
And close behind the murdered dead, and dying,
Insolent ever,—hateful in all hues
Figures and mocks and signs wherewith the Muse
Hath hid him from the execrating world;
Whether with flashing arms and flags unfurl'd
He stands outnumbering the thick leaves at noon,
Or sends his trumpets braying at the moon,
Or runs from rank to rank, like courage caught
From victors grey by those who never fought:—
[OMITTED]
But thou—O princess! thou wast born to save
The frail world from oblivion. Thou didst give
A light more lovely than did ever live
On earth or the wide waters, or in air,
Or such as are upon the blue sky lying,
To lift low passion from its brute despair,
And save the poetry of love from dying.
And Belial, cozener, (varnished round with grace
And smiling sin)—and the blood-hungry God
Black Moloch, whose large stained feet have trod
Temples down to the dust and holy towers,
And ravaged the green fields and peasants' homes,
And filled the river wheresoe'er it roams
And the great Sea with gore: The forests deep
He hath cursed, and startled from their innocent sleep
And cast upon their tops his red rain showers;
And he hath killed the oak that stood for ages
149
And he hath torn the books of saints and sages,
And struck the house of Science in his pride,
And drained the widow of her refuge tear,
(The last) and bade the young bride live alone,
And mocked the sire's grey hairs, the orphan's moan:—
Fierce war, in whatsoever shape he comes
A curse—Bellona-like, or fiery-red,
Or like a comet staring kingdoms dead,—
Or heralded by steeds and stormy drums,
Blood and the fear of death and pennons flying,
And close behind the murdered dead, and dying,
Insolent ever,—hateful in all hues
Figures and mocks and signs wherewith the Muse
Hath hid him from the execrating world;
Whether with flashing arms and flags unfurl'd
He stands outnumbering the thick leaves at noon,
Or sends his trumpets braying at the moon,
Or runs from rank to rank, like courage caught
From victors grey by those who never fought:—
[OMITTED]
But thou—O princess! thou wast born to save
150
A light more lovely than did ever live
On earth or the wide waters, or in air,
Or such as are upon the blue sky lying,
To lift low passion from its brute despair,
And save the poetry of love from dying.
I thought that beauty was a fable, framed
To enchant the soul of boyhood into day,
Lest it should lie in slumbers dark alway;
I thought that life would such chained dreams dissever;
But thou didst shine upon me:—I was shamed
And struck to adoration dumb, for ever.
Thou wonder of the earth! fable or dream
Never entranced like thee: no thought, nor theme,
Vision however wild nor loneliest mood,
Imagination, with her airy brood
Of spirits that go mad beyond the stars
(But here are chained and fettered by the bars
Of earthly things too palpable)—ev'n She
Cannot from out her empire wide and free
Call up a beauty beautiful like mine:—
I kiss thee from the distance, Queen divine!
To enchant the soul of boyhood into day,
Lest it should lie in slumbers dark alway;
I thought that life would such chained dreams dissever;
But thou didst shine upon me:—I was shamed
And struck to adoration dumb, for ever.
Thou wonder of the earth! fable or dream
Never entranced like thee: no thought, nor theme,
Vision however wild nor loneliest mood,
Imagination, with her airy brood
Of spirits that go mad beyond the stars
(But here are chained and fettered by the bars
Of earthly things too palpable)—ev'n She
Cannot from out her empire wide and free
151
I kiss thee from the distance, Queen divine!
| The Flood of Thessaly | |