The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
O Saturn, fallen king!
Older than the firmament:—Before the Sun,
Before the Moon, before the glittering Stars
Thou wast;—and art thou gone!—
Older than the firmament:—Before the Sun,
Before the Moon, before the glittering Stars
Thou wast;—and art thou gone!—
Oh! could I with my verse
Stay thy chained ruin,
Strait I would rehearse,
Though my own undoing
Followed, as the night
Followeth the bier of the pale twilight.
Stay thy chained ruin,
Strait I would rehearse,
Though my own undoing
Followed, as the night
Followeth the bier of the pale twilight.
But, ah! in vain, in vain!
Down-smitten by the sun's
Rays, immortal pain
Through thy furrows runs,
Like the fierce quick lightning,
When the storm is brightening.
Down-smitten by the sun's
Rays, immortal pain
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Like the fierce quick lightning,
When the storm is brightening.
And tears, as from huge fountains
Where the Sea is nursed,
Spring,—and lo! the mountains,
Moan until they burst:
The great throne that bore thee
Shrinks to dust before thee.
Where the Sea is nursed,
Spring,—and lo! the mountains,
Moan until they burst:
The great throne that bore thee
Shrinks to dust before thee.
Every thing that ‘was’
Pines its life away;
So shall all things pass
Which have birth to-day:
What is joy or sorrow
But—To-day—To-morrow?
Pines its life away;
So shall all things pass
Which have birth to-day:
What is joy or sorrow
But—To-day—To-morrow?
Life shall re-assume
Its peculiar birth:
Though it seek the tomb,
It shall seek the earth
Again; and like a star,
Or as angels are,
Winged with etherial beauty fair and free,
Shall through finer regions flee,
More bright, more soft, more green;
Than ever here were seen
In Tempe's valley or Idalian groves,
Yet there the Cretan doves
Sang to the silent branches without fear,
And not a voice was near
Save her's who for the boy Narcissus sighed,
And, too much loving, died.
Its peculiar birth:
Though it seek the tomb,
It shall seek the earth
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Or as angels are,
Winged with etherial beauty fair and free,
Shall through finer regions flee,
More bright, more soft, more green;
Than ever here were seen
In Tempe's valley or Idalian groves,
Yet there the Cretan doves
Sang to the silent branches without fear,
And not a voice was near
Save her's who for the boy Narcissus sighed,
And, too much loving, died.
Love in etherial light cannot outrave
Its strength, nor perish from excess of scorn:
But, like the zephyr to the wild sea-wave,—
Like echo to sweet music,—like the morn,
Whose pearl-bright sorrow doth the leaves adorn,
It giveth strength and grace. Its boundless range
Is all the blue dominion of the sky;
It cannot pass away; it cannot change;
But like the perfum'd ether spreads its power
O'er the celestial vales and azure hills,
And with immaculate passion stirs and fills
All hearts, while Beauty—the eternal dower
Of Heaven, grows brighter still thro' each transcendant hour.
Its strength, nor perish from excess of scorn:
But, like the zephyr to the wild sea-wave,—
Like echo to sweet music,—like the morn,
Whose pearl-bright sorrow doth the leaves adorn,
It giveth strength and grace. Its boundless range
Is all the blue dominion of the sky;
It cannot pass away; it cannot change;
But like the perfum'd ether spreads its power
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And with immaculate passion stirs and fills
All hearts, while Beauty—the eternal dower
Of Heaven, grows brighter still thro' each transcendant hour.
Here, on this dusty earth, perhaps the Spirit
Of Love may droop, or soil its radiant wings:
Perhaps a—something it may chance inherit
Of what is around:—and yet the bird that sings
In prison learneth a melodious strain,
And often its sweetest song is born of pain.
So, in the land of sorrows, Love may shine,
Thro' clouds—thro' tears perhaps, yet still divine,
Divine as beauty—as the light of truth,
And fed with passion and immortal youth,
And music, like some white enchanted bird
In old times on Arabian waters heard.
Oh! then Imagination was a God,
And on the world with radiant steps he trod,
And every leaf he touched, and every hue
He glanced on became bright, and all was true:
And still—as soft as fable, Nature sings
Still in the shadowy woods and haunted springs:
And birds at break of morn still wake the sun,
And some (more sweet) still chaunt when day is done;
And some the night wind witch with amorous sighs:
Only the swan is mute—until it dies.
Of Love may droop, or soil its radiant wings:
Perhaps a—something it may chance inherit
Of what is around:—and yet the bird that sings
In prison learneth a melodious strain,
And often its sweetest song is born of pain.
So, in the land of sorrows, Love may shine,
Thro' clouds—thro' tears perhaps, yet still divine,
Divine as beauty—as the light of truth,
And fed with passion and immortal youth,
And music, like some white enchanted bird
In old times on Arabian waters heard.
Oh! then Imagination was a God,
And on the world with radiant steps he trod,
And every leaf he touched, and every hue
He glanced on became bright, and all was true:
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Still in the shadowy woods and haunted springs:
And birds at break of morn still wake the sun,
And some (more sweet) still chaunt when day is done;
And some the night wind witch with amorous sighs:
Only the swan is mute—until it dies.
| The Flood of Thessaly | |