 | Under the dawn |  |
207
PAIN-CHORDS.
To Beauty.
Pain-chords sounding from my harp,Sometimes bitter, sometimes sharp,
Sometimes from excess of pain
Ringing out a worthy strain,
Sometimes whispering low delight
As of waters in the night,
Sometimes burning with the heat
Of Apollo's midday feet,
Sometimes tender as the moon
Floating thro' her nightly swoon—
Such chords in my hand I bring,
Piercing all my soul I sing.
Not to personal Beauty now
Do I make my songful vow.
Not to lips of rosy red
Is my harp's allegiance wed,
208
Do I recount tales of woe,
Not to any eyes of green
Sing of sorrows I have seen,
Rather to the Lord of all
Coming, at His knees I fall,
Bringing gifts whence He may choose;
Flowers I brought of varied hues
To my Lady—to the Lord
Many a sorrow-smitten chord
I would carry, mixed as well
With the old familiar swell
Of Love's music; lay thine hand,
God of sky, and sea, and land,
Lay thy holy hand on these,
Thy pure fingers, if it please,
And it may be they shall sound
As songs wherein joys abound,
And my Book shall no more be
Pain-chords, of a verity,
Rather tunes of perfect joy,
Glad notes chanted from a boy,
Songs of happy calm instead
Of those chords to which were wed
Storms and sick delirious things,
With black vengeance on their wings,
Many a terror and discord
Written with red point of sword,
209
Beauty! change these sad sounds soon
Into heavenly hymns of life,
That, exultant, from this strife
I may rise—remembering thee;
Beauty, who didst ravish me,
When the first poetic fire
Swept with fury o'er my lyre—
Beauty, who would'st never let
My weak fainting heart forget—
Passionate Beauty, who didst save
From a foul, inglorious grave
My sad genius many times,
Giving me to life and rhymes
Once again—God, Saviour, Queen,
Hear me! thou know'st what I mean.
| Under the dawn | |