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HOUSE FANTASTIC

Stood the house where I was born
In a garden made of old;
There the heavy, scented flowers
Lay in wait to trap the hours,
Snare the days in bosks and bowers
And the moons in mazes fold.
In the house where I was born
Vivid light of rose and gold,
Permeating vast and fair
Vaulted heights of heavy air,
Held the netted sunbeams there—
In that mansion, ah, how old!
In the house where I was born
Mystic echoes waking told,
In a legend-haunted tongue,
As of viols half unstrung,
Of the days when life was young,
Pulsing through that mansion old!
110

In the house where I was born
On a time the light grew cold,
Columns moulder'd moist and wet—
Walls where little runnels met:
Woe is me, that old spinet
Standing in the mansion old!
In the house where I was born,
Overlooking weir and wold,
Heirs of Kings who once held sway
Mourn'd for grandeur pass'd away,
Fortunes now in such decay
As o'ertook that mansion old.
In the house where I was born,
Meats were meagre, wine was doled:
Would the Genius e'er restore
That exalted state of yore?
To invoke him who forbore,
Praying in the mansion old?
In the house where I was born,
Long by mystic rites ensoul'd,
That spinet with ghostly tone,
By one melody unknown,
Could the Genius call alone
Watching o'er this mansion old.
In the house where I was born
Gentle maidens, masters bold,
To search out the secret brought
Happy faces, eager thought,
And grew old there—as they wrought,
Perish'd in that mansion old.
111

O'er the house where I was born
Many barren ages troul'd,
Till in singing robes came I,
With a ballad heart to try
Unattempted melody,
Pouring through the mansion old.
In the house where I was born
Forth the glorious measures roll'd,
And beneath my fingers playing
That spinet resounded, swaying;
There was moaning, there was maying
In the resonant mansion old.
In the house where I was born
Came the abbot, coped and stoled,
Came the censers, came the lights;
Lovers lost their bridal nights;
Rock'd the bases, cried the heights;
Answer'd all the mansion old:
Singing of the splendid Quest,
Nature's secret end confess'd;
Type and sign
And things divine;
How unskilful senses learn
The true matter to discern;
How the artist's zeal intense
May the ruling secret wrest;
Solemn call and sacred mission;
And beyond—the seeing sense;
And yet beyond—the Vision.
In the house where I was born
That which hinders yet will hold;
All the songs to silence ran,
As when first the dole began:
For the anthem and the man
Tarries still that mansion old.
112

From the house where I was born,
From the mildew, from the mould,
Into this great world I went,
Midst the sign and sacrament,
And another meaning lent
Legend of the mansion old.
In the house where I was born,
By unresting ghosts patroll'd,
This old tale of song and art
Of the mystery is part
And the instrument man's heart,
Waiting in that mansion old;
In the house where I was born,
Till the gifted hand unfold
Music living, music rare,
The long-sought forgotten air
Sleeping latent everywhere,
As within that mansion old.

The Vindication

In the house where I was born
Let the newer tale be told;
Claricord or organ deep,
Open tones from Nature sweep,
But more secret tones asleep
Rest, as in that mansion old;
And the discord heard at times
In the music, in the rhymes,
Tripping stave and jarring tone,
Intimate perchance that He,
Hidden in the mystery,
Artist of the ways unknown,
Also seeks the perfect key
For the cosmic melody.
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