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5

MENSAE SECVNDAE.

[Bring chaplets: let us pour the unmix'd wine]

Bring chaplets: let us pour the unmix'd wine
To the good Genius and the Gods, nor least
To Dionysus, master of the feast,
Whose crown and sceptre is the sovereign vine.
With violets and hyacinth entwine
The ivy that his thyrsus has caress'd,
And bind the myrtle garland round our breast,
But bring no bay nor poppy of Proserpine.
Then mix the Thasian, let the cup be crown'd
With brimming bubbles, and thy fingers fair
Shall raise it to our lips, and stop our breath;
And as the cup greets each in mirthful round,
So let him sing what love or chance or care
Hath done for him, and clean forget his death.
6

Novissima Verba.

By this they have the island well in sight,
Its faint fields gleaming through the mist; all night
Have they swept on, the dark waves off the stem
Gurgling; and now the morning star is bright.
Only four days ago with cart and mules
We drove to where the running water cools
The round white pebbles, slipping over them,
In the bright meadow-border'd river pools.
There came he on us from the forest dim,
Sea worn, but like a god in face and limb;
Even a king's daughter, wonderful and fair,
Might lose her heart unblamed to one like him.
O splendour of the sunset as we went
Past the plough'd fields to where the poplars bent
About Athene's spring that, rising there,
Down the King's Meadow its white waters sent!
And there I left him, and drove down apace
Between the shipyards, through the market place,
While all the air seem'd sweet and musical,
For next day I should see him face to face.
7

And the day after, and for ever thus:
For he would stay here and be one of us,
Dwelling at ease within our palace hall
Clad in soft raiment, great and glorious.
Ah me, the ways untrod, the words unsaid!
The tender memories unremembered!
The dreadful presence of what might have been,
And life eternal of things done and dead!
One word of parting was to serve for all,
One last short word, when to the festival
He came at evening, his face flush'd and keen
With thoughts of home; and high along the hall
The great gold statues held their torches red.
I spoke, with loud seas swirling in my head,
Farewell: remember that to me this day
Thou owest thy life's ransom. Then he said
Some words in answer: his voice sounded dim,
Far off: the silver pillars seem'd to swim
Before me; and he spoke and pass'd away,
And that was the last word I had of him.
All the next day they sat along the hall
And feasted till the sun began to fall,
And the last healths were drunk; then silentl
The oarsmen, and he far above them all,
8

Went shorewards, where the swift ship rocking lay;
And the sun sank, and all the paths were grey;
Then bent they to the oars, and murmuringly
The purple water cleft and gave them way.
The twisting-horn'd slow-swinging oxen low
Across the fields: light waves in even flow
Plash on the beach: but when he went from us
The morning and the sunlight seem'd to go.
The gods are angry: we shall never be
Now as of old, when far from all men we
Dwelt in a lonely land and languorous,
Circled and sunder'd by the sleeping sea.
Yea, the Olympians then were wont to go
Among us, visible godheads, to and fro;
So far we lived from any sight or touch
Of evil, in the sea's engirdling flow.
What now if Lord Poseidon, as men say,
Be wroth against us, and will choke the bay
With a great mountain?—yet I care not much:
All things are grown the same since yesterday.
Why should I live where everything goes wrong,
Where hope is dead and only grief lasts long?
I will have rest among the asphodel;
For death is stronger, though my love be strong.
9

There will I see the women he did see,
Leda and Tyro and Antiope
And Ariadne, queens that loved too well
Of old, and ask them if they loved like me.
The last white stars grow fainter one by one;
The folding mists rise up to meet the sun;
Birds twitter on our dewy orchard trees;
Day comes: alas, my day is nearly done.
(He is on land in Ithaca by this.)
Come now, I pray thee, and with one soft kiss
Draw the life out of me and give me ease,
Queen golden-shafted, maiden Artemis.
10

Tricolor.

Blue her kirtle was, I ween

(doce amie),

Red and white her face was seen:
White as lily in a mere

(flors de lis)

Floating on the wan water,
Red as apples in a croft

(el tans d'esté)

Which her maiden plucketh oft;
Blue her eyes as blue steel bright;

(les eus vairets)

They have made my red heart white.
11

Et ego in Arcadia.

All things fade away,
The sweet spring blossoms die,
Dead the violets lie,
And the buds of May.
Summer days pass o'er
The golden autumn hours,
Summer with star-like flowers,
And the soft spring showers,
And birds sing no more.
What though the flowers die,
And stately lilies fall,
Though wither'd roses lie,
And dim death wasteth all,
In snow time, when flies south the dove,
I fly with him to kiss my love.
12

Qvem fvgis?

Supposing there had been two brothers, twin
At birth, who grew like young plants in the sun
To youth, but one died, and the other one
Living fell lower every day in sin,
Betraying his own heart, yet kept therein,
When all things else were lost and he undone,
Love of the dead strong and unstain'd alone;
Which thing avail'd of pitying gods to win
This boon, Æneas-like to pass the gate,
Living, of Death, and in the fields of Hell
And groves to nether Juno consecrate,
To meet the luckless shade of the boy; but he
Turn'd his pale face away in loathing,—well,
Even so it is with my old self and me.
13

Qvinetiam nox venit.

I.

I walk'd with Love in early June,
When all the meadow grass was wet;
Our hands were fast, our hearts were set,
Like dulcimers, to the same tune.
There by a pleasant water side
We wander'd till the sky was grey:
But of the words Love spake that day
Only these riddles do abide.
Child, are the lilies whiter than the snows?
Winter is pain.
And is the green bud fairer than the grain?
It brings the rose.
And morning dew sweeter than evening rain.

II.

I walk'd alone a winter's night:
No moon was out, nor any star;
The wind came driving from afar
And blew the sleet about with might.
14

Then came those riddles to my mind
That Love on that June day had made
We in the thymy meadow play'd;
But Love's own redes I could not find.
Child, is the poppy sweeter than the rose?
It has no thorn.
And is the evening fairer than the morn?
It brings repose.
Yea, and to die better than to be born.
15

Tyrus.

O tyrus, who art situate
Within the entry of the seas,
I God who made thee wax so great,
Princess among the provinces,
I God will lay thee desolate.
Thou sealest up the sum; in thee
Have cunning builders perfected
Thy beauty; pilots of the sea
From far talk of thy goodlihead;
Yea, ships of Tarshish sing of thee.
Fine linen out of Egypt is
Thy covering; in thy walls are found
Blue clothes and wrought embroideries
In chests of rich apparel, bound
With cords, among thy merchandise.
With coral, agate, calamus,
And all chief spices, night and day
Thy dwelling was luxurious:
All precious stones from Raämah,
Beryl and topaz, sardius,
16

Sapphire and diamond, glistering
Lay in thy courts; thy merchant folk
Out of far Eastern lands did bring
To thee as each new morning broke
Strange riches from their seafaring.
Thy shipboards were of mountain firs;
Tall cedars fell for masts for thee
In Lebanon; thy mariners
Sat on broad thwarts of ivory,
Wrought by Assyrian carpenters.
The traffickers of Syria
Occupied alway in thy fairs
From Helbon, Minnith, Amana,
With emeralds and broider'd wares;
Thy ships from far Ionia
Brought fair-hair'd slaves through mist and snow:
Yea, Dan with Javan also went
Within thy markets to and fro;
Thy merchants were the excellent
Of all lands: I God set them so.
Yea, thou art the anointed one,
The covering cherub; stones of fire
Were for thy treading; yet shall none
Find thee by searching, in the mire
And stones men spread their nets upon.
17

Shall not the isles shake at the dread
And sound of slaughter midst of thee,
When the pit holds thee and thy dead
In low waste places of the sea,
With cities not inhabited?
In that day thou whose rumour ran
Through all the corners of the sea,
Thou shalt be no God, but a man,
In face of him who slayeth thee,
For all thy craft Sidonian.
18

Nescit qvippe ille qvid sit fvtvrvm.

Thy path is set through dust and mire,
In waste lands dreary and forlorn,
In lands where weeds outgrow the corn,
And nothing is that men desire.
The Hours, unseen, are at thy side
With wings reluctant and with hands
Outstretch'd to lead thee to the lands
Where all the year is summer-tide.
And while thou heedest not, their wings
Are lightly spread, and they speed by;
Nor will thy prayers and ceaseless cry
Recall them, nor thy sorrowings.
And backward thou dost turn to mark
What lovelier form thine eyes may see
In all the measureless to be
Emerging from the distant dark.
21

While others come, as fair as they;
And others go, despised, unwoo'd;
And thou in thy relentless mood
Art ever waiting by the way
Till she, thy love, at last appears;
And in her eyes is no desire,
Nor glow from out Love's altar-fire,
But bitter vials of cold tears.
22

On a Drawing of Lionardo in the Academy at Venice.

I

O thou that lookest forth with that strange smile
Ever to thine and our great master dear,
Which, whether born of simpleness or guile,
Still brings some sense of vague mistrust and fear,
A smile which seems to fade as we draw near,
Tell us from what far country dost thou come,
For truly this our earth is not thy home?

II

From what unknown far country not of earth
What message dost thou bring us from the hand
Of him who, while he lived here, gave thee birth,
Who now dwells ever in the charmed land,
Whence he could draw, like Prosper, with his wand,
Thee and thy brethren, an enchanted quire,
To grieve our hearts with unfulfill'd desire?
23

III

O eyes divinely fresh in light of youth!
O lovely childish head of doubtful sex!
O guide perplexing on the road of truth!—
Then, is thy mission only to perplex?
Surely thy maker made thee not to vex
Our souls? No, in those tresses crowned and curled
He wove and set the riddle of the world.

IV

O virginal soft mouth of girl or boy,
Mysterious lips which praise not nor reprove,
Will you not say one word to bring us joy?
Will you not speak, and tell us, ‘I am Love’?
Thy sweet lips move not, though they seem to move.
And so, perchance, 'tis best, for, had they breath,
Who knows they might not answer, ‘I am Death’?
24

On the Sleeping Princess, St. Ursula.

By Victor Carpaccio.

In thy light childlike sleep, thy dreams are now
Of evening worship in the dim hush'd quire;
Voices and pealing sounds have died, and thou
Kneeling to pray hast won all thy desire,
And art in heaven, cloth'd not in queen's attire,
But simple maiden in her tenderer years,
Whom grace of God and Christ's sweet leading take
Into the restful bliss beyond the spheres;
So dreamest thou who never shalt awake
Where shame and sorrow all our dreaming break.
25

De Tabellâ Veneris Nascentis ab Alexandro Filipepio Florentino pictâ.

Is it not strange, the difference there may be
Between two works whose subject still is one?
I saw, where Byron's goddess ‘loves in stone,’
Another Venus risen from the sea.
Watch that Greek godhead: can this, too, be she
Wistful and pale by these young Zephyrs blown
O'er waves to shore? Can these pink roses strown
Be blossoms of that same divinity?
The same, yet not the same: to this new birth
The world hath travail'd for a thousand years,
And a changed Venus dawns on a changed earth
From out a sea whose waves are salt with tears;
And this our Love, since Greece lives not again,
If she give every joy gives too all pain.
26

Vale.

Pure crimson splendour of the sunken sun,
Dim purple, telling of the day that's done,
And pale blue glory gleaming overhead.
Strange fires are burning o'er the westward trees;
Soft sob of waters from the eastern seas,
The world is fair, but my true love is dead.
27

Song of Hylas

Which the Mysian youths sing in chorus, after their fashion, by the river Ascanius, where the boy Hylas was stolen away of the Nymphs, as the poets feign.

Strophe.

Theban Hylas, child divine,
Whither stray thy wandering feet,
By the pools where Naiads meet,
Where the Graces greet the Hours,
Where the Loves for fetters twine
Pale and purple flowers?
Hast thou, all unwitting, found,
Like Narcissus, in a stream,
Sweeter face than maiden's dream,
Lovelier eyes than god Apollo's,
When he makes the harpstring sound,
And sad Echo follows?
28

Has some god in jealous mood
Smitten thee, as the west wind
Drove the discus swift and blind
Right against the blameless brow
Hyacinthine, from whose blood
Sprang the flower of woe?
Dost thou with Amaracus
And with Amaranthus rest,
In a garden by the west,
Where the beds of spices shed
Cinnamon and calamus,
And the flowers are red?

Antistrophe.

No, thou sleepest in cool grot
Deep beneath the water floods,
In a grove of scentless buds,
Where the silver fishes leap,
Where thy lover is forgot
In a dreamless sleep.
Naiads kiss thy mouth most sweet,
And thy cheeks, like summer rose,
In a scented garden close,
Near the silver-shining lily,
Not so white as thy white feet
Hanging languidly.
29

O'er thy face and gleaming limbs,
Smooth as polish'd ivory,
Vein'd with blue of the deep sky,—
O'er thy lovely neck and hands
Calmly the dark water swims
On to many lands.
Round thee, as alone thou liest,
Gaze the sea nymphs in surprise,
Softly touch thy closed eyes,
Wonder at thy yellow hair,
Call thee, but thou ne'er repliest,
Hylas, ever fair.
30

Epilogue.

O Mother Oxford, unto whom we cry
Through all the passing loves and light desires
Of changing seasons; whom the toil that tires,
The years that sever, and the griefs that sigh,
Have no dominion over; who dost lie
Ever serene and fair, when morning fires
Thy silent pinnacles, or when thy spires
Stand flush'd with sunset in the evening sky:
Take in this dark November bare of flowers
Rough gleanings from the plashy meadow lands,
Not that our song but that thy face is sweet;
So be that for thy sake, if not for ours,
May find their place in no unkindly hands
These gifts we lay, O Mother, at thy feet.
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