University of Virginia Library

SAPPHO.

(A REVERY.)

The full moon glitters on the sand,
The North Sea ripples on the strand,
The low cliff's shadow from above
Falls on a little landlock'd cove,
Which, deep and dang'rous to the edge,
Mines underneath the chalky ledge,
Save where the bank, with gentle sink,
Slopes downward to the water's brink.
Here Harold stood: the night was clear,
And through the purple atmosphere
The stars shone brightly, and the sea
Sang chorus to his rhapsody:
A man whom all might happy deem,
And women love, and men esteem;
Full broad of shoulder, strong of arm,
And deaf to anger or alarm,
But chivalrous in hastiness
To champion trouble or distress;
As great in spirit as in frame,
In danger and distress the same,
With wild, dark, handsome, haunting face—
And strength in manhood serves for grace:
Able was he to hold his own,
And worthy admiration;
Accustom'd since he scarce could stand
To the stern pastimes of his land:
At first to shoulder off the stool
The other little boys at school,
And then to wrestle and to fight
With ten-year rivals, his delight;
Then competition took the place
Of stand-up fighting face to face;
There were brave battles to be fought
In beating other boys at sport;
And as the rolling years went on
Great glory in such sports he won;
Fours to true leg, straight spanking drives
Snick'd twos and threes, clean cuts for fives,
Fast ripping balls, well on the wicket,
Made him renown'd in Rugby cricket.
Hot ‘hacks’ exchanged, ‘tries’ dearly bought;
A hero in the sterner sport.
He'd stalk'd the red deer over Highland rocks;
He'd ‘taken’ untried fences for the fox;
In Kentish copses, 'neath an autumn sun,
The largest bag had fallen to his gun;
In Norway rivers, waist-deep in the flood,
Salmon of weight had yielded to his rod:
Alone, afoot, on many a weary day,
O'er steep wet moor and featureless highway,
He strode to fields of unforgotten fights
Of Rupert's cavaliers and Clifford's knights;
To storied castles shatter'd in the war
'Twixt Crown and Commons, minsters where of yore
Dunstan and Baeda fed the sacred light
Of learning in the long dark English night;
To abbeys rich with knightly founders' bones,
And gifts of bygone heroes and kings' sons;
To great cathedrals hallow'd by the pray'r
Of great dead men; to cities famed and fair;
To torrents foaming, fretting, falling fast,
And mighty rivers slowly sailing past
By stately halls and immemorial trees;
To lonely wolds and humming village leas,
Green downs, and grey gaunt mountains, and broad plains
Strewn with old chieftains' tombs and fallen fanes;
To silent reed-fring'd lake and lone sea-shore,
As silent, save for surf and storm wind's roar.
He knew the names of all known stars in heaven—
The heralds of the morning and the even;
He knew the names of all the birds that fly,
And beasts that range beneath the Northern sky,
And many fish that in the north seas ply;
He knew the gauzy denizens of air,
And had a hoard wherein the rich and rare
Of daily butterfly and nightly moth
Were ranged together, and he knew in troth
The name of every flow'r that wood and field
From Cornwall to Northumberland do yield.
And sometimes, when he heard the stirring hum
Of music or great shoutings, there would come
Heroes and hosts: Herman and Hannibal,
Etzel, the Cid, Roland of Roncesvalles,
Harold of Hastings, Richard Lion-heart
And Edward the Black Prince; nor far apart,
Hawkins and Drake, Raleigh and Frobisher,
And the great Howard, Ironside Oliver
And his Ironsides, and Rupert, hand-on-sword,
And Buonaparte, and he who cross'd the ford
Against advice and conquer'd on that day
When he won Plassey and England India;
And those Six Hundred heroes. And at times,
Releas'd by midnight's necromantic chimes,
Came the true lovers and wild souls of yore—
Dauntless Medea, one from Naxos' shore,
Helen and light-heart Paris, Psyche true,
Aspasia and the masterman who drew
More glory from her sweetness than the sway
Of Athens in her hour, and Thaïs gay,
Who ruled the world's commander: with these came
Dido and lone Iarbas, hearts of fame,
That lov'd at odds; and some of later name—
Abelard, Heloïse, and Rosamond,
And Castile's Eleanor, whose love was found
Proof against poison, and the Florentine
Who bore deep graven on his heart divine
The little maid twice seen through years of power
And years of pain: and many a rare hour
Came the white Queen of Scots. Here all who fell
Victims to service true, or lov'd too well,
Were welcome, for his wild heart long'd to know
Such love as beauty tender'd long ago.
Indeed, he ev'ry gift could boast
But the three gifts he valued most—
Wealth to pet beauty, beauty's self,
Won for his own sake, not for pelf,
And laurels of a poet: he
Enough had tasted of all three
To thirst for more. To many a maid
His fancy'd for a moment stray'd;
Blue eyes and hazel, grey and brown,
Had answer'd frankly to his own;
Auburn and flaxen, black and gold,
Had mesh'd his heart in glossy fold;
But ever came an undertone
Of something wanting in each one.
The lady of his choice should be
Sublime in her simplicity,
Of lowly mind and high estate,
And fairy-light in grace and gait;
One who would try to understand
Whate'er he wrote, whate'er he plann'd;
With fitful anger for defence
Against abus'd obedience,
And just sufficient patience
To obviate unjust offence;
With beauty intellectual,
The rarest witchery of all,
And curly clustering wealth of hair
Indented by a forehead fair,
And broad and creamy; thoughtful eyes,
Open in innocent surprise,
Melting in pity, fired in wrath,
Pouring the soul's whole secret forth
In love, not unacquaint with tears.
She must have tender girlish fears,
And a soft voice, with elfin mirth,
And presence equal to her birth;
She must be coy—the more they cost
More dear they are, the dearest most;
But when she yields let her confess
With all the gentler tenderness,
And hungry kiss and hot caress.
Passion and love walk hand in hand:
Content is imitation bland
For widowers and second wives,
And men whose ledgers are their lives;
Youth's passion-flow'r is delicate
And, blighted, blossoms not till late.