On Viol and Flute :: :: University of Virginia Library

Red blossom of a fruit-tree, and the sweet
Long leaves and slim of arching branches meet
Above this pleasant bower of shadowy grass,
This trysting-place of love where we entreat
Time to go by us and hoar Death to pass.

Between the green boughs rises on the sky
The pale blue sea, a wonder to the eye,
And spreading softly on its utter rim
The rich dawn-crimsons flush and pale and die,
And fade into the morning cold and dim.

This is the only place we have for love;
The nightingale, the wood-thrush and the dove
May hide from the destroyer; we alone
To desert earth and barren sky above
In vain for rest and safety make our moan.

Yet this one leafy nook is left for us,
Whose flowery walls are not yet ruinous;
Here we may hide us till the night be done,
And fly away unwounded,—even thus,—
While scarce we linger for the tell-tale sun.

Stay, love! the perfect sunrise is not yet;
Sparkles of gold and rose-colour are set
Along the waters and the shimmering sky,
But still the woodland avenues are wet,
And all our night of passion not gone by.

We will not go till over the white sea
The first rim of the gold sun peeringly
Laugh out into the air, and fiery feet
Leap over the wan waterfloods that he
May climb into the world and find it sweet.

In one last cup of amber-coloured wine
Pledge me our sacred passion, thine and mine,
Then drain the chalice into this wild rose,
For Love may know the fair oblation thine
If he should pass our lair to-day, who knows?

This scented vintage Love himself has pressed,
And this aroma with his breath caressed;
The smell of all flowers dedicate to him
In this divinest cordial is compressed,
And wild wood-flavours lurk about the brim.

How like white birds the small sails far below
Veer out into the imminent sharp snow
Of flooding dawn! like butterflies afloat,
They skim upon the waters to and fro,
A quivering life in every happy boat.

And dark upon the verge of that bright well
That floods out light, a splendid miracle,
Behold one little pinnace very far,
And whither it is going, who can tell,
And who the pilot is, and what the star!

Ah dearest! for the star of our desire
Is red and heart-shaped with a core of fire,
And evermore cloud-shadows of the night
Pursue it up the heavens ever higher,
And all the name we give it is Delight.

Ah darling! for our hollow lives are led
By one round whose ineffable crowned head
The lights of heaven flash and are not dim;
By such a spirit are we piloted,
And Love in Passion is the name of him.

O that some frail boat from the sounding shore
Might carry us, to come again no more,
To sail far out into the burnished east,
Till in some island never seen before
The terror of our hunted lives had ceased.

Shall we to-day be wise, and to win rest
Tear heart from heart and panting breast from breast,
Shall I to this way, you to that way go,
And each with some new common love be blessed,
And quite forget?—ah! kiss me and say, No!

Now till the stars are bright again, farewell!
And let your own heart's beating, like a bell,
At night-fall bring you back among the flowers
With some new thing and passionate to tell
Of dreamy longings thro' the weary hours!

And if they find and slay us, love, what then?
We shall no more be numbered among men,
But in the choir of Love's victorious
Our name and praise shall pass the fame of ten,
And Love himself be glorified in us!

THE ALMOND TREE.

Pure soul, who in God's high-walled Paradise
Dost walk in all the whiteness of new birth,
And hear'st the angels' shrill antiphonies,
Which are to heaven what time is to the earth,
Give ear to one to whom in days of old
Thou gavest tears for sorrow, smiles for mirth,
And all the passion one poor heart could hold!

Behold, O Love! to-day how hushed and still
My heart is, and my lips and hands are calm;
When last I strove to win you to my will,
The angels drowned my pleading in a psalm;
But now, sweet heart, there is no fear of this,
For I am quiet; therefore let the balm
Of thy light breath be on me in a kiss!

Alas! I dream again! All this is o'er!
. . . See, I look down into our garden-close,
From your old casement-sill where once you wore
The ivy for a garland on your brows;

There is no amaranth, no pomegranate here,
But can your heart forget the Christmas-rose,
The crocuses and snowdrops once so dear?

But these, like our old love, are all gone by,
And now the violets round the apple-roots
Glimmer, and jonquils in the deep grass lie,
And fruit-trees thicken into pale green shoots;
Thy garth, that put on mourning for thy death,
Is comforted, and to the sound of lutes
Dances with Spring, a minstrel of bright breath.

But I am not yet comforted, O Love!
Does not the auriole blind thy gentle eyes?
That crimson robe of thine the virgins wove
Trammels thy footsteps with its draperies,
Else thou would'st see, would'st come to me, if even
The Cherubim withstood with trumpet-cries,
And barred with steel the jewelled gates of heaven!

In vain, in vain! Lo! on this first spring-morn,
For all my words, my heart is nearer rest,
And though my life, through loss of thee, is worn
To saddest memory by a brief dream blest,
I would not mar one moment of thy bliss

To clasp again thy bright and heaving breast,
Or fade into the fragrance of thy kiss.

Yet would an hour on earth with me be pain?
A greater boon than this of old was won
By her, who through the fair Sicilian plain
Sought her lost daughter, the delicious one,
With tears and rending of the flowery hair,
And sang so deftly underneath the sun,
That Hell was well-nigh vanquished by her prayer.

Hail, golden ray of God's most blessed light!
Hail, sunbeam, breaking from the faint March sky!
What rosy vision melts upon my sight?
What glory opens where the flashes die?
Surely she comes to me on earth, and stands
Among the flowerless lingering trees that sigh
Around her, and she stretches forth her hands.

Her hands she stretcheth forth, but speaketh not,
And all the bloom and effluence round her rise
That crown her heavenly saintship with no spot,
Herself the fairest flower in Paradise;
Draw near and speak to me, O Love, in grace,
And let me drink the beauty of thine eyes,
And learn of God by gazing in thy face.

Tempt not my passion with such lingering feet,
My trembling throat and strained white lips are numb;
Through black twined boughs I see thy body, sweet!
Robed in rose-white, thou standest calm and dumb!
O heart of my desire, no more delay,
Yet nearer in thy cloudy glory come,
Yet nearer, or in glory fade away!

Fade then, sweet vision! fail, O perfect dream!
There is no need of words of human speech,
And the blind extacy of thought I deem
A loftier joy than mortal sense can reach;
No more, ye flowers of Spring, shall my dull song
Be heavy in your ears, but, each to each,
My love and I hold converse and be strong.

The mystic splendour pines away, and leaves
Its fainter shadow in the almond-tree,
Whose cloud of bloom-white blossom earliest cleaves
The waste wan void of earth's sterility;
Before the troop of lyric Dryades
Veiled, blushing as a bride, it comes, and see!
Spring leaps to kiss it, glowing in the breeze.

While life shall bring with each revolving year
Its winter-woes and icy mystery,

This fair remembrance of the sun shall bring
My thoughts of Love re-risen in memory;
Old hopes shall blossom with the west wind's breath
And for Her sake the almond-bloom shall be
The white fringe on the velvet pall of death.

FORTUNATE LOVE.

IN SONNETS AND RONDELS.

I. FIRST SIGHT.

When first we met the nether world was white
And on the steel-blue ice before her bower
I skated in the sunrise for an hour,
Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light,
Was red against the bare boughs black as night;
Then suddenly her sweet face like a flower,
Enclosed in sables from the frost's dim power,
Shone at her casement, and flushed burning bright
When first we met!
My skating being done, I loitered home,
And sought that day to lose her face again;
But Love was weaving in his golden loom
My story up with hers, and all in vain
I strove to loose the threads he spun amain
When first we met.

II. ELATION.

Like to some dreaming and unworldly child
Who sits at sunset in the mist of hope,
When all the windows of the west lie ope,
Flooding the air with splendour undefiled,
And sees, by fancy in a trance beguiled,
An angel mount the perilous burning slope,
Winning the opal and the sapphire cope,
And laughs for very joy and yearning wild;—
So I, in whose awakening spirit Love
Rules uninvited, not to be controlled,
Am happiest when I struggle not, but hold
My windows open and my heart above,
Watching, with soul not bowed nor over-bold,
The august air with which his footsteps move.

III. IN CHURCH-TIME.

I took my flute among the primroses
That lined the hill along the brown church-wall,
For she was there; till shades began to fall,
I piped my songs out like a bird at ease,
When suddenly the distant litanies
Ceased, and she came, and passed beyond recall,
And left me throbbing, heart and lips and all,
And vanished in the vistaed cypress-trees;
Ah! sweet, that motion of harmonious limbs
Drove all my folly hence, but left me faint!
Oh! be not, my desire, so wholly saint,
That I must woo thee to the rhythm of hymns!
Ah! me, my dizzy brain dissolves and swims!
And all my body thrills with keen constraint!

IV. DEJECTION AND DELAY.

Canst thou not wait for Love one flying hour,
O heart of little faith? are fields not green
Because their rolling bounty is not seen?
Will beauty not return with the new flower?
Because the tir'd sun seeks the deep sea-bower
Where sleep and Tethys tenderly convene,
And night and starless slumber intervene,
Shall sunlight no more thrill the world with power?
True Love is patient ever; by the brooks
He hath his winter-dreams, a fluent choir,
And waits for summer to revive again;
He knows that by-and-by the woodland-nooks
Will overflow with blossoming green fire,
And swooping swallows herald the warm rain.

V. EXPECTATION.

When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay,
When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow,
Adown the winding river I will row,
And watch the merry maidens tossing hay,
And troops of children shouting in their play,
And with my thin oars flout the fallen snow
Of heavy hawthorn-blossom as I go,
And shall I see my love at fall of day
When flower-time comes?
Ah, yes! for by the border of the stream
She binds red roses to a trim alcove,
And I shall fade into her summer-dream
Of musing upon love,—nay, even seem
To be myself the very god of love,
When flower-time comes!

VI. IN THE GRASS.

Oh! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth,
Keen with a thousand quivering sunlit fires,
Green with the sap of satisfied desires
And sweet fulfilment of your sad pale birth,
Behold! I clasp you as a lover might,
Roll on you, bathing in the noon-day sun,
And, if it might be, I would fain be one
With all your odour, mystery and light,
Oh flame of grass!
For here, to chasten my untimely gloom,
My lady took my hand, and spoke my name;
The sun was on her gold hair like a flame;
The bright wind smote her forehead like perfume;
The daisies darkened at her feet; she came,
As Spring comes, scattering incense on your bloom,
Oh flame of grass!

VII. RESERVATION.

Her terrace looking down upon the lake
Has corners where the deepest shadows are,
And there we sit to watch the evening-star,
And try what melody our lutes can make;
Our reticent hearts with longing almost break,
The while her violet eyes strain out afar,
As though her soul would seek the utmost bar
Where faltering sunset quivers, flake by flake;
My forehead rests against the balustrade;
My cheeks flush hot and cold; my eager eyes
Are fixed on hers until the moon shall rise,—
The splendid moon of Love,—and unafraid
The utmost debt of passionate hope be paid,
And all be given that now her heart denies.

VIII. BY THE WELL.

Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face,
With fingers spread, I set you like a weir
To stem this ice-cold stream in its career,—
And chill your pulses there a little space;
Brown hands, what right have you to claim the grace
To touch her head so infinitely dear?
Learn courteously to wait and to revere,
Lest haply ye be found in sorry case,
Hot hands that yearn!
But if ye bring her flowers at my behest,
And hold her crystal water from the well,
And bend a bough for shade when she will rest,
And if she find you fain and teachable,
That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell?
In your embrace may some sweet day be pressed,
Hot hands that yearn!

IX. MAY-DAY.

The Past is like a funeral gone by,
The Future comes like an unwelcome guest,
And some men gaze behind them to find rest
And some urge forward with a stifled sigh;
But soft perennial flowers break forth and die,
And sweet birds pair and twine a woodland nest;
They, sifting all things, find the Present best,
And garnish life with that philosophy.
Like birds, like flowers, oh! let us live To-day,
And leave To-morrow to the Fates' old fingers,
And waste no weeping over Yesterday!
Lo! round about the golden lustre lingers,
The fresh green boughs are full of choral singers,
And all the Dryades keep holiday.

X. MISTRUST.

The peacock screamed and strutted in the court,
The fountain flashed its crystal to the sun,
The noisy life of noon was just begun,
And happy men forgot that life was short;
We two stood, laughing, at the turret-pane,
When some Apollo of the ranks of Mars,
Crimson with plumes and glittering like the stars,
Galloped across below, and there drew rein.
To see so confident a man-at-arms
My heart sank suddenly from sun to shade,
But she, who knows the least of Love's alarms,
Laid one soft hand upon my throbbing wrist,
And in her eyes I read the choice she made,
And anger slumbered like a tired child kissed.

XI. EAVESDROPPING.

While May was merry in the leafy trees
I found my fair one sitting all alone,
Where round our well the long light ferns had grown
So high, so deep, that she was drowned in these,
And her bright face and yellow buoyant hair
Scarce peered above them, where she sat and read,
Flecked by the leaf-lights wavering overhead,
A great black-letter book of verses rare;
Wherein our Chaucer, years and years ago,
Wove the sad tale of Cryseyde untrue,
And Troylus yearning with a broken heart;
At last she, sighing, shut the rhythmic woe,
And let her sweet eyes dream against the blue,
And swore she would love truly, for her part.

XII. A GARDEN-PIECE.

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood,
And underneath the films and blossoms shone
Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown
To ripe magnificence in solitude;
The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed
Her shoulders with her shining hair outblown,
And dyed her breast with many a changing tone
Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood
Among the flowers;
She raised her arm up for her dove to know
That he might preen him on her lovely head;
Then I, unseen, and rising on tip-toe,
Bowed over the rose-barrier, and lo!
Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead,
Among the flowers!

XIII. CONFIDENT LOVE.

Now all day long we wander hand in hand,
And taste of love in many wondrous ways;
And still my fingers tremble with amaze
To find they rest in hers at her command;
We sit together in the sweet corn-land,
Her light head quivering on my sun-burnt throat,
The while the gold threads of her loose hair float
Along my shoulder by the light wind fanned;
And thus for many days we lightly played
Shepherd and shepherdess with mimic crook,
And sunned and shaded in the elm-tree's nook,
Until the newness of our love decayed
And then we rose and left the heights and strayed
Along the glen and down beside the brook.

XIV. LOVERS' QUARREL.

Beside the stream and in the alder-shade,
Love sat with us one dreamy afternoon,
When nightingales and roses made up June,
And saw the red light and the amber fade
Under the canopy the willows made,
And watched the rising of the hollow moon,
And listened to the water's gentle tune,
And was as silent as she was, sweet maid,
Beside the stream;
Till with “Farewell!” he vanished from our sight,
And in the moonlight down the glade afar
His light wings glimmered like a falling star;
Then ah! she took the left path, I the right,
And now no more we sit by noon or night
Beside the stream!

XV. RECONCILIATION.

But walking on the moors at dawn one day,
When all the sky was flushed with rosy hue,
I saw her white robe dabbled in the dew,
Among the sparkling heather where she lay;
Sobbing, she turned from me, and murmured “Nay!”
Then rising from the ground, she strove anew
To turn away, but could not stir, and flew
At last into my arms the old sweet way;
And Love, that watched us ever from afar,
Came fluttering to our side, and cried “O ye,
Who think to fly, ye cannot fly from me;
Lo! I am with you always where you are!”
Yet henceforth are we twain and are not three,
Though Love is on our foreheads like a star.

XVI. THE FEAR OF DEATH.

Beneath her window in the cool, calm night,
I stood and made as though I would have sung,
Being full of life and confident and young,
And dreaming only of my love's delight;
Then suddenly I saw the glooms divide,
And gliding from the darkest cypress-tree
Death came, white-boned, and snatcht my lute from me,
And sat himself, grimacing, by my side.
Just then, as when the golden moon looks down
On starless waters from a stony sky,
My love's fair face shone out above on high;
Whereat I, fearing nothing of Death's frown,
Turned smiling to salute her lovely head,
And when I turned again, lo! Death had fled!

XVII. EXPERIENCE.

Deep in the woods we walked at break of day,
And just beyond a whispering avenue,
Where all the flowers were nodding, full of dew,
We heard a sound of speaking far away;
And turning saw a pale calm queen assay
To tell that Love was cruel and untrue,
To knots of girls in white and cream and blue,
Who round her feet, while listening, lounged and lay,
Deep in the woods.
But we two crushed the moss with silent feet,
And passed aside unseen; for what to us,
Who knew Love's breath, and fanned its passionate heat,
And laughed to hear our hearts' twin pulses beat,
Were tuneless songs of maidens murmuring thus,
Deep in the woods?

XVIII. THE EXCHANGE.

Last night, while I was sitting by her side,
And listening to her boddice' silken stir,
And stroking her soft sleeves of yellow fur,
I gave the sweet who is to be my bride
A little silver vinaigrette, star-eyed,
And chased with cupids; and received from her
The gold-embossed pomander-box of myrrh
She pounced her white hands with at eventide.
My sleep till dawn was all consumed with thirst,
And passionate longing; then the great sun's light
Burst through my flimsy dreams, and nothing tells
Of all the joy that gladdened me last night,
Except this little golden box that smells
As her sweet hands did when I kissed them first.

XIX. UNDER THE APPLE-TREE.

Against her breast I set my head, and lay
Beneath the summer fruitage of a tree,
Whose boughs last spring had borne for her and me
The fleeting blossom of a doubtful day;
That rose and white had tasted swift decay,
And now the swelling fruits of certainty
Hung there like pale green lamps, and fair to see,
And I was strong to dream the hours away
Against her breast;
Her satins rustled underneath my head,
Stirred by the motions of her perfect heart,
But she was silent, till at last she said,—
While all her countenance flushed rosy-red,—
“Dear love! oh! stay forever where thou art,
Against my breast!”

XX. EPITHALAMIUM

High in the organ-loft, with lilied hair,
Love plied the pedals with his snowy foot,
Pouring forth music like the scent of fruit,
And stirring all the incense-laden air;
We knelt before the altar's gold rail, where
The priest stood robed, with chalice and palm-shoot,
With music-men, who bore citole and lute,
Behind us, and the attendant virgins fair;
And so our red aurora flashed to gold,
Our dawn to sudden sun, and all the while
The high-voiced children trebled clear and cold,
The censer-boys went swinging down the aisle,
And far above, with fingers strong and sure,
Love closed our lives' triumphant overture.

FLOWER OF THE MARIGOLD.

Faint amorist, make haste to go
And take your humble violets hence,
Or else my Lady's eyes will show
They move not her magnificence;
The man must bring a bolder flower
Who fain would be her paramour.

She stands up stately, like a palm
That breathes the warmth of tropic air;
Her looks are fixed in such a calm
As vast Egyptian statues wear;
The very motion of her hands
Is redolent of antique lands.

And I have found the flower she loves,
Whose burning leaves shut in the sun;
All day to watch his path it moves,
And dreams of him when day is done,
And when my passionate tale I told,
I wooed her with a marigold!

SUNSHINE BEFORE SUNRISE.

The ice-white mountains clustered all around us,
But arctic summer blossomed at our feet;
The perfume of the creeping sallows found us,
The cranberry-flowers were sweet.

The reindeer champed the moss, and high and over
The sparkling peak that crowned the dim ravine
The sky was violet-blue; and loved by lover
We clung, and lay half-seen.

Below us through the valley crept a river,
Cleft round an island where the Lap-men lay;
Its sluggish water dragged with slow endeavour
The mountain-snows away.

One thin blue curl of wood-smoke rose up single,—
The only sign of life the valley gave;
But where the fern-roots and the streamlets mingle
Our hearts were warm and brave.

My arm was round her small head sweetly fashioned,
Her bright head shapely as a hyacinth-bell;
So silent were we that our hearts' impassioned
Twin throb was audible.

Alas! for neither knew the language spoken
Amongst the people whence the other came;
A few brief words were all we had for token,
And just each other's name.

“My love is pure as this blue heaven above you!”
I said,—but saw she let the meaning slip;
“Jeg elsker Dem,” I felt must be, “I love you!”
And answered, lip to lip.

Oh! how the tender throbbing of her bosom
Beat, bird-like, crushed to mine in that embrace,
While blushes, like the light through some red blossom,
Dyed all her dewy face.

There is no night-time in the northern summer,
But golden shimmer fills the hours of sleep,
And sunset fades not, till the bright new-comer,
Red sunrise, smites the deep.

But when the blue snow-shadows grew intenser
Across the peaks against the golden sky,
And on the hills the knots of deer grew denser,
And raised their tender cry,

And wandered downward to the Lap-men's dwelling,
We knew our long sweet day was nearly spent,
And slowly, with our hearts within us swelling,
Our homeward steps we bent.

Down rugged paths and torrents mad with foaming,
With clinging hands, we loitered, blind with joy,
I thought a long life spent like this in roaming
Would never tire or cloy.

And very late we saw before us, dreaming,
The red-roofed town where all her days had been,
And far beyond, half shaded and half gleaming,
The blue sea, flecked with green.

Ah! sweet is life and sweet is youth's young passion,
And sweet the first kiss on a girl's warm cheek;
Since then we both have learnt in broken fashion
Each other's tongues to speak;

And many days and nights of love and pleasure
Have laid their fragrant chaplets on our hair,
And many hours of eloquent wise leisure
Have made our lives seem fair;

But Memory knows not where so white a place is
In all her shining catalogue of hours,
As that one day of silent warm embraces
Among the cranberry-flowers.

LYING IN THE GRASS.

Between two golden tufts of summer grass,
I see the world through hot air as through glass,
And by my face sweet lights and colours pass.

Before me, dark against the fading sky,
I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie:
With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red,
Rich glowing colour on bare throat and head,
My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie,
I seem to move with them in harmony,—
A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I.

The music of the scythes that glide and leap,
The young men whistling as their great arms sweep,
And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary butterflies that droop their wings,
The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings,
And all the lassitude of happy things,

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood
That gushes through my veins a languid flood,
And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head,
And clean white apron on her gown of red,—
Her even-song of love is but half-said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes;
Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose:
They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass, and vanish, I am there.
I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair,
Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.

Ah! now the rosy children come to play,
And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay;
Their clear high voices sound from far away.

They know so little why the world is sad,
They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad;
Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there;
Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair,
And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise,
And sudden whims and innocent extacies;
What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days,
And coloured like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little gods and loves portrayed,
Through ancient forests wandering undismayed,
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight,
A strong man feels to watch the tender flight
Of little children playing in his sight;

What pure sweet pleasure, and what sacred love,
Comes drifting down upon us from above,
In watching how their limbs and features move.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind,
I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star
That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,—
A microcosm where all things living are.

And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death
Should come behind and take away my breath,
I should not rise as one who sorroweth;

For I should pass, but all the world would be
Full of desire and young delight and glee,
And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is flying; in the silver-blue
The young moon shines from her bright window through:
The mowers are all gone, and I go too.

PARADISE.

Her eyes are a twin columbine,
Her lips more red than cherry-knots,
Her polished cheek a nectarine,
Her hair the hue of apricots;
Her every feature mocks a flower,
Or shames the ripeness of ripe fruit,
And in her mind, from hour to hour,
Aroma'd fancies bud and shoot.

She seems, in this sweet solitude,
My Eve and Eden both in one,
And I an Adam, red and rude,
Too coarse for her to wait upon;
But every day I love her more,
And hope in Heaven to grasp the whole,
To rise to heights unguessed before
And through her body learn her soul.

ELSINORE.

I sat on the walls of Kronborg;
And below me, along the beach,
The soldiers were strolling and lounging,
And spreading their linen to bleach.

Their pipe-lights streamed in the sea-wind,
And now and again I heard,
Laughed out under yellow moustaches,
The ring of a Danish word.

While above them an English poet,
Not half so merry or strong,
Was mingling their mirth with the sunlight,
And weaving them into a song.

For the sea was a tremulous opal,
The sky more purple than blue,
And across the Sound to Sweden
The white gulls flashed and flew.

My heart was one with the pleasure
That laughed out around me then,—
The joy of the sea sun-smitten,
And the life of the strong brown men.

And I rose in a great exultation,
While the citadel gloomed at my feet,
And along the jut of the bastions
The north and the south sea beat.

The curve of the pearl-white shingle
Ran northward to Marienlyst,
And I thought of the pale Ophelia's
Sad mouth strained to be kissed.

And I knew that from where I was standing,
In old days long gone by,
Hamlet had heard at midnight
The ominous spectre cry.

Then all my spirit was shaken,
And the old verse-music rose
To my lips, with its cadenced wisdom,
And full sonorous close.

And the art of Shakspere was added
To the great glad splendour there,
Fulfilling the physical beauty
And glory of light and air.

Till my heart was flushed with the passion
Of love like the perfume of wine,
And the mouth of an unseen Nereid
Was pressed in a kiss to mine.

Blown up by the winds from the waters,
She rose in a delicate mist,
And my lips still burn with the ardour
Of the mystical kiss she kissed.

IN THE BAY.

Far out to east one streak of golden light
Shows where the lines of sea and heaven unite,—
White heaven shot through with film of flying cloud,
Grey sea the wind just flutters and makes bright,
And wakes to music neither low nor loud.

Two horns jut out, and join, and rim the bay,
Save where a snow-white strip of shingle may
Break through the bar, where, black as black can be,
Their steep and hollow rocks resound all day
The jarred susurrus of the tumbling sea.

Here on a sunny shelf, while hot the air
Flooded our limbs and faces, brown and bare,
We lounged and shouted, plashing with slow feet
The warm and tidal pools that wasted there,
And down below us saw the sea-foam beat.

Then, leaping down together with a cry,
I watched them dash into the waves, and fly
Around the shallows as a sea-bird bends,
Tossing the froth and streaming, and then I
Plunged like Arion to my dolphin-friends.

The cool impassive water clung and pressed
Around our buoyant bodies, head and breast;
Downward I sank through green and liquid gloom,
By all the streams of shoreward seas caressed,
Dark vitreous depths by faint cross-lights illumed.

And rising once again to sunlit air
We flung the salt-drip back from beard and hair,
And shouted to the sun, and knew no more
The trodden earth, with all its pain and care,
But set our faces sea-ward from the shore.

Then, lo! the narrow streak of eastern light
Along the dark sea's line, began to smite
Its radiance up the heaven; the flying mist
Sped from the sky, and left it gold and white,
And made the tossing sea like amethyst.

Midway between the rocks that girt the bay,
An islet rose, of rock as black as they;
Sombre it stood against the glowing sky
And two of us swam out to it straightway,
And cleft the waves with strenuous arm and thigh.

And as I strove and wrestled in the race,
I turned and saw my comrade's merry face;
The sunlight fell upon his hair, and through
The film of water showed the sinewy grace
Of white limbs, bright against the sea's green-blue.

So, laughingly, we won the rock, and then
Climbed up and waited for our fellow-men;
Sat on the eastward brink of it, and let
The cold foam cling upon our feet again,
And plash our limbs with tangle crushed and wet.

There, holding back the wet hair from my eyes,
The moment seized me with its strange surprise;
Straightway I lost all sense of present things,
And, in the spirit, as an eagle flies,
I floated to the sunrise on wide wings.

Some antique frenzy sliding through my brain
Made natural thought a moon upon the wane,
Fast fading in a vague and silvery sky;—
I know not if such moments be not gain;
They teach us surely what it is to die.

But suddenly my comrade spoke; the sound
Recalled my soul again to common ground;
And now, like sea-gods on a holiday,
My friends were tumbling in the foam around,
And made the waters hoary with their play.

With that, I spread my naked arms, and drew
My hands together o'er my head, and knew
That all was changing into cool repose,
And while into the pulsing deep I flew
My glad heart sang its greeting; ah! who knows

What power the sea may have to understand,
Since all night long it whispers to the land,
And moans along the shallows, and cries out
Where skerries in the lonely channels stand,
And sounds in drowning ears a mighty shout?

“Sea that I love, with arms extended wide,
I clasp you as the bridegroom clasps the bride;
Strong sea, receive me throbbing; close me round
With tender firm embracings! Not denied,
I plunge and revel in thy cool profound!

“There are who fear thee; what have I to fear?
Lover, whose frowns and very wrath are dear!
Shake out the odours of the windy waves,
Sound thy dim music that my ears may hear;
I shall not tremble though thy channels rave!

“Have I not known thee? Lo! thy breath was mild
About my body when I was a child;
My hair was blanched with sea-winds full of brine;
No voice beguiled me as thy voice beguiled;
The loveliest face my childhood knew was thine!

“Then on the shore in shadow; but to-day
I plunge far out into the sun-lit spray;
A child's heart gave thee all a child's heart can,
But now I love thee in a bolder way,
And take the fiercer pastime of a man.

“Nor I alone enjoy thee! Here a score,
Comrades of mine and still a million more
Might leap to thee; thou would'st rejoice again,
Like her of old whose mystic body bore
As many breasts as there are mouths of men!

“Clinging, thy cool spray makes us thine alone;
We have no human passion of our own;
Here all is thine, prone body and dumb soul;
Thine for thy waves to dash, thy foam to crown,
Thy circling eddies to caress and roll!”

With that I shot along the glittering sea,
Parting the foam, and plunging full of glee,
Tossed back my tangled hair, and struck far out
Where orient sunrise paved a path for me,
And whispering waves returned my lyric shout.

Behind me and around me, lithe and fair,
Like Triton-kings at sport my comrades were,—
Some tossing conchs that they had dived to find,
Some spreading ruddy limbs and sunshot hair
To woo the soft cool kisses of the wind.

It seemed the sea had heard my hymn of praise,
And laughed beneath the torrid sky ablaze;
The pure green water lapped us, warm and red;
The sweet life throbbed in us in wondrous ways;
We let the sunlight stream on hands and head.

Ah! for the sky put off its robe of gold;
A sharp wind blew out of a cloudy fold;
The bitter sea but mocked us! To the core
The keen breeze pierced us with a cutting cold,
And sad and numb we huddled to the shore.

So pass life's ectasies, and yet, ah me!
What sorrow if no change should ever be,
Since, out of grieving at a present blight,
Come sweeter wafts of garnered memory,
And sweeter yearning for a new delight.

And but for that chill end in rain and wind,
I know not if my changing brain would find
On its palìmpsest memories of that day,
When full of life and youth and careless mind
We dashed and shouted in the sunlit bay.

FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF IBSEN.

I.

ILLE.

Agnes, my exquisite butterfly,
I will catch you sporting and winging;
I am weaving a net with meshes small,
And the meshes are my singing.

HÆC.

If I am a butterfly, tender and small,
From the heather-bells do not snatch me;
But since you are a boy, and are fond of a game,
You may hunt, though you must not catch me!

ILLE.

Agnes, my exquisite butterfly,
The meshes are all spun ready;
It will help you nothing to flutter and flap:
You are caught in the net already.

HÆC.

That I am a butterfly, bright and young,
A swinging butterfly, say you?
Then, ah! if you catch me under your net,
Don't crush my wings, I pray you.

ILLE.

No! I will daintily lift you up,
And shut you into my breast;
There you may shelter the whole of your life,
Or play as you love best.

II.

In the sunny orchard-closes,
While the warblers sing and swing,
Care not whether blustering Autumn
Break the promises of Spring;
Rose and white the apple-blossom
Hides you from the sultry sky;
Let it flutter, blown and scattered,
On the meadows by-and-by.

Will you ask about the fruitage
In the season of the flowers?
Will you murmur, will you question,
Count the run of weary hours?
Will you let the scarecrow clapping
Drown all happy sounds and words?
Brothers, there is better music
In the singing of the birds!

From your heavy-laden garden
Will you hunt the mellow thrush?

He will pay you for protection
With his crown-song's liquid rush!
O! but you will win the bargain,
Though your fruit be spare and late,
For remember, Time is flying,
And will shut your garden-gate.

With my living, with my singing,
I will tear the hedges down!
Sweep the grass and heap the blossom,
Let it shrivel, pale and brown!
Swing the wicket! Sheep and cattle,
Let them graze among the best!
I broke off the flowers; what matter
Who may revel with the rest!

LÜBECK.

We sat in Lübeck underneath
The lindens of the minster-close;
Round us the city, still as death,
Was gathered like a rose.

The great red tower sprang over us,
Far up a dome of sapphire glow
More vast and clear and luminous
Than English summers know.

Faint flutings of the fluctuant breeze
Sang from the orchards out of sight,
And whispered through the linden-trees,
And stirred the shadowy light.

And, whistling low, a gooseherd came,
And led his flock across the grass;
And then we saw a burgher dame,
Demurely smiling, pass.

We sucked the juice from tangled skeins
Of currants, rosy-red and white,
And in the wind the ancient vanes
Were creaking out of sight.

And little maidens, too, came by,
And shook their tails of flaxen hair;
We held a conclave, small and shy,
To taste our juicy fare.

Then, wandering down by mouldering towers,
We reached at last a little knoll;
And there, among the pansy-flowers,
We read of “Atta Troll.”

How sweetly in the falling light
The broad still river, like a moat,
Swung, with its water-lilies white,
And yellow buds afloat!

A little matter! but such moods
Make up the sum of happy hours;
In uncongenial solitudes
They come to us like flowers.

So lay that afternoon to sleep
Among your dearest pansy-knots,—
The hushed herbarium where you keep
Your heart's forget-me-nots,

Remembering how the day went by
At Lübeck, by the minster-towers,
Enshrined in all the mystery
Of mediæval hours.

Jaly, 1872.

MOORLAND.

Now the buttercups of May
Twinkle fainter day by day,
And the stalks of flowering clover
Make the June fields red all over,—

Now the cuckoo, like a bell,
Modulates a sad farewell,
And the nightingale, perceiving
Love's warm tokens, ends her grieving,—

Now the coyest lovers find
Hollows suited to their mind,
Where, in sultry twilight weather,
Lips and hair may melt together,—

Let us twain arise and go
Where the freshening breezes blow,
Where the granite giant moulders
In his circling cairn of boulders!

Just a year ago to-day,
Friend, we climbed the self-same way,
Through the village-green, and higher
Past the smithy's thundering fire.

Up and up and where the hill
Wound us by the cider-still;
Where the scythers from the meadow
Sat along the hedge for shadow;

Where the little wayside-inn
Signals that the moors begin,
Ah! remember all our laughter,
Loitering at the bar,—and after!

All must be the same to-day,
All must look the same old way,
Only that the sweet child-maiden
We admired so well, fruit-laden,

Now, like an expanded bud,
Must be blown to womanhood,
And the fuller lips and bosom
Must proclaim the perfect blossom.

One step more! Before us, lo!
Sheer the great ravine below,
Empty, save where one brown plover
Wheels across the ferny cover!

Here, where all the valley lies
Like a scroll before our eyes,
Let us spend our golden leisure
In a world of lazy pleasure.

Comrade, let your heart forget
All the thoughts that fray and fret;
Till the sun-down flares out yonder,
Stretch here in the fern, and ponder.

Only just to touch your hair
Is as much as I can bear,
Or with clinging languid fingers
Half to press your hand that lingers.

See, below us, where the stream
Winds with broken silver gleam,
How the nervous quivering sallows
Bend and dare not touch the shallows!

In that willow-shaded pool,
When last June the airs were cool,
How we made the hot noon shiver
With our plunge into the river.

In the sweet sun, side by side,
You and I and none beside!
Head and hands, thrown backward, slacken,
Sunk into the soft warm bracken.

Up in heaven a milky sky
Floats across us leisurely;
When we close our eyes, the duller
Half-light seems a faint red colour.

In this weary life of ours
Pass too many leaden hours;
In our chronicles of passion
Too much apes the world's dull fashion.

If our spirits strive to be
Pure and high in their degree,
Let us learn the soaring pæan
Under God's own empyrean.

Leisure in the sun and air
Makes the spirit strong and fair;
Flaccid veins and pallid features
Are not fit for sky-born creatures.

Come then, for the hours of May
Wane and falter, day by day,
And the thrushes' first June chorus
Will have waked the woods before us!