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Commemorations and Inscriptions
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The Vanishing Boat
H. S.
He is dying,—
He is dying in England in the clammy heat,
And, in the quiet room where he is lying,
The coverlet is white from head to feet,
Like this white fjord beneath this milky sky.
I sit, and almost see him die.
Here where the tender evening breeze is sighing
Along the beech-wood coverts, sigh on sigh,
Where all the lingering airs are cool and sweet
With woodruff and the soft, crush'd juniper,
And scarce a bough can stir,
It is so still here in the fading day;
And there, in England, miles and miles away,
He is dying.
He is dying in England in the clammy heat,
And, in the quiet room where he is lying,
The coverlet is white from head to feet,
Like this white fjord beneath this milky sky.
I sit, and almost see him die.
Here where the tender evening breeze is sighing
Along the beech-wood coverts, sigh on sigh,
Where all the lingering airs are cool and sweet
With woodruff and the soft, crush'd juniper,
And scarce a bough can stir,
It is so still here in the fading day;
And there, in England, miles and miles away,
He is dying.
All messages come slowly
To this pure haunt of sylvan loneliness;
Perchance even now he hath put off the stress
Of life, and its extremest weariness,
For rest more calm and holy.
I know not if the face I seem to see
Upon the long white visionary bed
Be living still, or hath been sometime dead;
For it is shrouded wholly,
As by the mist that lifts from off the sea,
As by the wood-smoke drifting in the wood.
I know not if I greet my friend
Still here, but sinking to an end;
Or gaze across the interlude
Of a cold beginning mystery;
Or see before me lying stiff and frore
The statue that is he no more.
To this pure haunt of sylvan loneliness;
Perchance even now he hath put off the stress
Of life, and its extremest weariness,
For rest more calm and holy.
I know not if the face I seem to see
Upon the long white visionary bed
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For it is shrouded wholly,
As by the mist that lifts from off the sea,
As by the wood-smoke drifting in the wood.
I know not if I greet my friend
Still here, but sinking to an end;
Or gaze across the interlude
Of a cold beginning mystery;
Or see before me lying stiff and frore
The statue that is he no more.
Howe'er it be, farewell!
Farewell, from shining fjord and pine-clad fell,
From odorous brae and unfamiliar shore,—
Now I shall see that sacred face no more;
No more from those mild and transfigured eyes
See flash the gracious miracle
Of sympathetic thoughts and sage replies,—
Those eyes that were the store
Of kindness unreproving, keen and wise.
Farewell, farewell!
The darkness gathers round me in the bell
Of cowslip-coloured air;
And the long coast beyond grows pale and faint.
A little vanishing boat returning thither
Sends silver streamers in her wake,
Altho' her oars scarce break
The lucent mirror of the lake.
She passes into silence and dim light,
She fades into the cowslip-coloured night,—
She passes,—whither?
Farewell, from shining fjord and pine-clad fell,
From odorous brae and unfamiliar shore,—
Now I shall see that sacred face no more;
No more from those mild and transfigured eyes
See flash the gracious miracle
Of sympathetic thoughts and sage replies,—
Those eyes that were the store
Of kindness unreproving, keen and wise.
Farewell, farewell!
The darkness gathers round me in the bell
Of cowslip-coloured air;
And the long coast beyond grows pale and faint.
A little vanishing boat returning thither
Sends silver streamers in her wake,
Altho' her oars scarce break
The lucent mirror of the lake.
She passes into silence and dim light,
She fades into the cowslip-coloured night,—
She passes,—whither?
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I know not. But I know
From me the silent occupant must go;
Whatever message to this shore he brought,
Whatever comforting of heart's annoy,
Whatever cargo of clear thought,
Whatever freight of hope and joy,—
His hour is over and his mission done.
Thanks for the long day's happy work he wrought,
Thanks for his cheerful toil beneath the sun,
Thanks for the victories he won.
Now, late at evening, with a silver thread
Of loving memories in his wake, he goes.
Perchance the distance brings him what he sought,
Perchance the further shore, where he is fled,
Is mirage to the dead.
Who knows, who knows?
From me the silent occupant must go;
Whatever message to this shore he brought,
Whatever comforting of heart's annoy,
Whatever cargo of clear thought,
Whatever freight of hope and joy,—
His hour is over and his mission done.
Thanks for the long day's happy work he wrought,
Thanks for his cheerful toil beneath the sun,
Thanks for the victories he won.
Now, late at evening, with a silver thread
Of loving memories in his wake, he goes.
Perchance the distance brings him what he sought,
Perchance the further shore, where he is fled,
Is mirage to the dead.
Who knows, who knows?
To all at length an end!
All sailors to some unseen harbour float.
Farewell, mysterious, happy, twilight boat.
Farewell, my friend!
All sailors to some unseen harbour float.
Farewell, mysterious, happy, twilight boat.
Farewell, my friend!
Munkebjerg, Jutland,
August 1900.
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Aubrey de Vere
1814-1902.
In the far romantic morning, when the bards in golden weather,
Ringed with dew and light and music, struck their giant lyres together,
Came a child and stood beside them, gazed adoring in their eyes,
Hushed his little heart in worship of a race so calm and wise.
Ringed with dew and light and music, struck their giant lyres together,
Came a child and stood beside them, gazed adoring in their eyes,
Hushed his little heart in worship of a race so calm and wise.
They are gone, those gods and giants, caught Elijah-like to glory,
Now their triumphs and their sorrows are a part of England's story;
Years and years agone they vanished; but the child who loved them well,
Still has held the ear of mortals with a far-off tale to tell.
Now their triumphs and their sorrows are a part of England's story;
Years and years agone they vanished; but the child who loved them well,
Still has held the ear of mortals with a far-off tale to tell.
Theirs were voices heard like harps above the congregated thunder;
His, a trembling hymn to beauty, or a breath of whispered wonder;
When the world's tongue spoke, he faltered; but above the turmoil rolled
Fragments of romantic rapture, echoes of the age of gold.
His, a trembling hymn to beauty, or a breath of whispered wonder;
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Fragments of romantic rapture, echoes of the age of gold.
Others stun the years to homage with their novelty and splendour;
He was shy and backward-gazing, but his noiseless soul was tender.
When he sang, the birds sang louder, for his accents, low and clear,
Never hushed a mourning cushat, never scared a sunning deer.
He was shy and backward-gazing, but his noiseless soul was tender.
When he sang, the birds sang louder, for his accents, low and clear,
Never hushed a mourning cushat, never scared a sunning deer.
Now the last of all who communed with the mighty bards has perished;
He is part of that eternity he prophesied and cherished;
Now the child, the whisperer passes now extremity of age
Shuts the pure memorial volume, turns the long and stainless page.
He is part of that eternity he prophesied and cherished;
Now the child, the whisperer passes now extremity of age
Shuts the pure memorial volume, turns the long and stainless page.
Where some westward-hurrying river to the bright Atlantic dashes,
In some faint enchanted Celtic woodland hide this poet's ashes,
That the souls of those old singers whom the clans of song hold dear,
Nightly may return to hover o'er the grave of their De Vere.
In some faint enchanted Celtic woodland hide this poet's ashes,
That the souls of those old singers whom the clans of song hold dear,
Nightly may return to hover o'er the grave of their De Vere.
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For a Tomb at Canterbury
E. W. B., October 11, 1896
No pain that mars the trembling brow,
No flutterings of the soul were his;
Death, shaken softly from its bough,
Dropt downward, and its touch a kiss.
No flutterings of the soul were his;
Death, shaken softly from its bough,
Dropt downward, and its touch a kiss.
Clasped in a cloud of secret prayer,
Faint, from the upland path he trod,
Sighing, he sank through veils of air,—
Then round him felt the Arms of God.
Faint, from the upland path he trod,
Sighing, he sank through veils of air,—
Then round him felt the Arms of God.
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Dirge
John Ruskin, January 1900.
Mourn, upward-stealing vapours, sunset-amber,
Cirrhus and cumulus of fire and snow!
No more against the labouring west-wind clamber,
But pour your tears upon the mead below,
Since he who shepherded your cohort slow,
Who named and loved and watched you, one by one,
Goes darkly down to that immortal chamber,
Whence he shall never see you blot the sun,
Nor chase and toss the dancing stars on high,
Nor weave your tender woof, when day is done,
Over the silken sky.
Cirrhus and cumulus of fire and snow!
No more against the labouring west-wind clamber,
But pour your tears upon the mead below,
Since he who shepherded your cohort slow,
Who named and loved and watched you, one by one,
Goes darkly down to that immortal chamber,
Whence he shall never see you blot the sun,
Nor chase and toss the dancing stars on high,
Nor weave your tender woof, when day is done,
Over the silken sky.
Mourn, mourn, ye Alps, whose crystal paradises
Know neither space nor time, save when and where
The avalanche from desperate precipices
Tolls a rude thundering hour through shuddering air,
He who amongst you walked, and named you fair,
And traced each delicate hornèd crest with joy,
And justified your savage sacrifices,
Him shall no more your azure glens decoy;
Far from your silver light, your starry gust,
Him to eternal stillness tears convoy,
To silence and to dust.
Know neither space nor time, save when and where
The avalanche from desperate precipices
Tolls a rude thundering hour through shuddering air,
He who amongst you walked, and named you fair,
And traced each delicate hornèd crest with joy,
And justified your savage sacrifices,
Him shall no more your azure glens decoy;
Far from your silver light, your starry gust,
Him to eternal stillness tears convoy,
To silence and to dust.
76
Madrigal on the Birthday of Queen Victoria
Lady on the silver throne,
Like the moon thou art to me,
Something bright, august and lone,
Infinite in majesty.
How can I, a pilgrim, sing
Such a dazzling, distant thing?
Like the moon thou art to me,
Something bright, august and lone,
Infinite in majesty.
How can I, a pilgrim, sing
Such a dazzling, distant thing?
But the Moon came down to earth,
Wiping tears from human eyes;
Thou dost bend to grief and mirth,
Woman in thy smiles and sighs;
Empress, take the human praise
That a subject dares not raise.
Wiping tears from human eyes;
Thou dost bend to grief and mirth,
Woman in thy smiles and sighs;
Empress, take the human praise
That a subject dares not raise.
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To Henrik Ibsen on entering his Seventy-fifth Year, March 20, 1902
Red Star, that on the forehead of the North
Hast flared so high and with so fierce a blaze,
Thy long vermilion light still issues forth
Through night of fir-woods down the water-ways,
In urgent wrath of sinister wild rays;
Lower it falls, and nearer to the sea,—
But still the dark horizon flames with thee.
Hast flared so high and with so fierce a blaze,
Thy long vermilion light still issues forth
Through night of fir-woods down the water-ways,
In urgent wrath of sinister wild rays;
Lower it falls, and nearer to the sea,—
But still the dark horizon flames with thee.
All stars and suns roll their predestined course,
Invade the zenith, poise, then downward turn;
Thrust onward by some godlike secret force,
They sparkle, flush, and, e'er they fade, they burn,
Each quenched at last in its historic urn;
Each sloping to its cold material grave;
Yet each remembered by the light it gave.
Invade the zenith, poise, then downward turn;
Thrust onward by some godlike secret force,
They sparkle, flush, and, e'er they fade, they burn,
Each quenched at last in its historic urn;
Each sloping to its cold material grave;
Yet each remembered by the light it gave.
Thy radiance, angry Star, shall fill the sky,
When all thy mortal being hath decayed;
Thine is a splendour never doomed to die,
Long clouded by man's vapours, long delayed,
But risen at last above all envious shade:
Amid the pearly throng of lyric stars,
Thy fighting orb has stormed the sky like Mars.
When all thy mortal being hath decayed;
Thine is a splendour never doomed to die,
Long clouded by man's vapours, long delayed,
But risen at last above all envious shade:
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Thy fighting orb has stormed the sky like Mars.
And when the slow revolving years have driven
All softer fire below the western wave,
Though strange new planets crowd our startled heaven,
The soul will still bear on its architrave
The light, reflected, that thy lustre gave.
Hail, burning Star! A dazzled Magian, I
Kneel to thy red refulgence till I die.
All softer fire below the western wave,
Though strange new planets crowd our startled heaven,
The soul will still bear on its architrave
The light, reflected, that thy lustre gave.
Hail, burning Star! A dazzled Magian, I
Kneel to thy red refulgence till I die.
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Inscription for a certain Glade in the Isle of Wight
Here the earliest whitethroat sings,Fern-owls weave their noiseless rings,
Here the light is always pure,
And the fragrant hours endure;
Here the wind-flowers waken soon,
Here the month is always June,—
For a foot was here at night,
And an eye that swam in light,
When the fitful moonbeam shone
On the tears of Tennyson.
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