 | Madrigals, songs and sonnets |  |
29
LYRICS.
34
IANTHE.
“I enter thy garden, my lover, my spouse,
I breathe the faint odour of pale daffodils,
I have gathered a leaf from the heart of the rose.
Art thou there, O my darling, my light of the house,
The house that is dark in the cup of the hills?
Look out to me now ere the river-breeze blows!”
I breathe the faint odour of pale daffodils,
I have gathered a leaf from the heart of the rose.
Art thou there, O my darling, my light of the house,
The house that is dark in the cup of the hills?
Look out to me now ere the river-breeze blows!”
Her window is open to let the cool air
Fan refreshingly brows that the noon-day made tir'd;
She sleeps! in the silence I fancy I hear
Her low-breathed whispers the calm night-winds bear;
And I see o'er the lintel her white arm attir'd
In the withering curl'd tendrils of vine-leaves grown sere.
Fan refreshingly brows that the noon-day made tir'd;
She sleeps! in the silence I fancy I hear
Her low-breathed whispers the calm night-winds bear;
And I see o'er the lintel her white arm attir'd
In the withering curl'd tendrils of vine-leaves grown sere.
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Still she sleeps! “O beloved, I knock at the door
Of thy heart with emotion: O rise, let me in!
Let the dreams with swift wings from thy slumber fly far!”
And I trill a low harmony never before
Sung by aught but one bird in this desert of sin,—
By the nightingale taught by the soul of a star.
Of thy heart with emotion: O rise, let me in!
Let the dreams with swift wings from thy slumber fly far!”
And I trill a low harmony never before
Sung by aught but one bird in this desert of sin,—
By the nightingale taught by the soul of a star.
As I cease she awakens; I hear in the calm
That small golden head on the white pillow turn;
A short sigh—and a pause, while her heart made aware
Of my presence throbs silently;—then in the balm
Of her chamber full motion, and while my eyes burn
To receive such a glory, she smiles on me there.
That small golden head on the white pillow turn;
A short sigh—and a pause, while her heart made aware
Of my presence throbs silently;—then in the balm
Of her chamber full motion, and while my eyes burn
To receive such a glory, she smiles on me there.
But I stay in the dusk of the cedar awhile,
Till she leans out inquiringly into the night;
I linger to drink the full beauty of her,
Who, as now she looks lovingly down with a smile,
Is more fair than the dawn, and more dear than the light,
Whose hair drops with spikenard, her fingers with myrrh.
Till she leans out inquiringly into the night;
I linger to drink the full beauty of her,
Who, as now she looks lovingly down with a smile,
Is more fair than the dawn, and more dear than the light,
Whose hair drops with spikenard, her fingers with myrrh.
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Then I pass from the shadow, made bold by my love,
And hold her sweet lips to my mouth in a kiss;
And there in the garden, in silent delight,
Breast to breast we hang speechless; nor mark where above
The vigilant stars are aware of all this,
Yet are gracious, and mar not the bliss of that night.
And hold her sweet lips to my mouth in a kiss;
And there in the garden, in silent delight,
Breast to breast we hang speechless; nor mark where above
The vigilant stars are aware of all this,
Yet are gracious, and mar not the bliss of that night.
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DROWNED IN DART.
Requiescat! let her lie
Where the river bubbles by;
Where, in endless prophesying
Of the bliss she shall inherit,
Never thought of death or dying
Can disturb her sleeping spirit.
Requiescat! Let her lie,
In embalming sanctity,
Where the bubbles tremble by.
Where the river bubbles by;
Where, in endless prophesying
Of the bliss she shall inherit,
Never thought of death or dying
Can disturb her sleeping spirit.
Requiescat! Let her lie,
In embalming sanctity,
Where the bubbles tremble by.
Resurgetque! she shall rise,
Light revisit those cold eyes;
Waves dissever, not for ever,
Her sweet spirit and our love;
We shall meet, to part, ah! never,
In the paradise above.
Resurgemus! we shall rise!
Though now ashy-pale she lies,
Life shall visit those cold eyes!
Light revisit those cold eyes;
Waves dissever, not for ever,
Her sweet spirit and our love;
We shall meet, to part, ah! never,
In the paradise above.
Resurgemus! we shall rise!
Though now ashy-pale she lies,
Life shall visit those cold eyes!
45
A MADONNA OF 1310.
She is stiff and thin, but the eyes at least
Shine with an earnest love and true;
Though the brows and nose, it must be confess'd,
Are formal and hard; while the sweet mouth too
Stiffens with gravity, where should float
A smile to take hearts unaware;
Yet I can fancy a carolling note
Making those white lips rosy and fair!
Shine with an earnest love and true;
Though the brows and nose, it must be confess'd,
Are formal and hard; while the sweet mouth too
Stiffens with gravity, where should float
A smile to take hearts unaware;
Yet I can fancy a carolling note
Making those white lips rosy and fair!
Was not this lady, with great gold crown,
And drapery heavy with gems, and straight,
Whose massive aureole presses down
Her lank hair like a metal plate,—
Some sweet Italian girl, whose eye,
While she sang right blithely down the street,
Flash'd up at Giotto suddenly,
As she tripp'd away on her light hind's feet?
And drapery heavy with gems, and straight,
Whose massive aureole presses down
Her lank hair like a metal plate,—
Some sweet Italian girl, whose eye,
While she sang right blithely down the street,
Flash'd up at Giotto suddenly,
As she tripp'd away on her light hind's feet?
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May we not think, as I love to dream,
That the painter,—tir'd with the weary work
Of making the saints and angels seem
(Though a dim despair in his heart would lurk)
At least a little like flesh and blood,—
Looking away in vague desire,
Suddenly caught, from where he stood,
That face, and his artist soul flash'd fire,
That the painter,—tir'd with the weary work
Of making the saints and angels seem
(Though a dim despair in his heart would lurk)
At least a little like flesh and blood,—
Looking away in vague desire,
Suddenly caught, from where he stood,
That face, and his artist soul flash'd fire,
And yearn'd, with love unsatisfied,
To frame in colour that lovely face,
And its phantom, ever by his side,
Look'd up to him with an aëry grace;
Though, for one moment, and never again,
Her soul had pierc'd his through and through,
Those eyes return'd with a weary pain,
There was flame to scorch in their pure bright blue.
To frame in colour that lovely face,
And its phantom, ever by his side,
Look'd up to him with an aëry grace;
Though, for one moment, and never again,
Her soul had pierc'd his through and through,
Those eyes return'd with a weary pain,
There was flame to scorch in their pure bright blue.
Till at last in anger he seiz'd the brush,
And work'd away with his own firm hand,
While this passion made the life-blood rush
Back to his heart, and half-unmann'd
His stalwart arm;—but the phantom-eyes
Kept him alert, and the picture grew
Under his hand, till with sad surprise
He paus'd, and nothing was left to do.
And work'd away with his own firm hand,
While this passion made the life-blood rush
Back to his heart, and half-unmann'd
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Kept him alert, and the picture grew
Under his hand, till with sad surprise
He paus'd, and nothing was left to do.
Then, as he laid the colours by,
In came a scholar-friend, no doubt,
And started and flush'd delightedly,
And hail'd this triumph of Art with a shout.
Florence and all her great and wise
Buzz'd and flutter'd around and prais'd.
Giotto the while with troubled eyes
Ruefully over his picture gaz'd;
In came a scholar-friend, no doubt,
And started and flush'd delightedly,
And hail'd this triumph of Art with a shout.
Florence and all her great and wise
Buzz'd and flutter'd around and prais'd.
Giotto the while with troubled eyes
Ruefully over his picture gaz'd;
Nothing replied, and let them admire:—
“The finest painting the world has seen!
Our Cimabue could never aspire
To this our Giotto's golden mean,
So he died, as was best!” But he silently sigh'd,
And thought of the sun-bright face, and knew,
When Man his loftiest art has tried,
He but learns how much there is left to do!
“The finest painting the world has seen!
Our Cimabue could never aspire
To this our Giotto's golden mean,
So he died, as was best!” But he silently sigh'd,
And thought of the sun-bright face, and knew,
When Man his loftiest art has tried,
He but learns how much there is left to do!
48
COWPER AT MUNDSLEY.
[_]
During the winter of 1795, which Cowper spent at Mundsley, he walked much by the sea, endeavouring vainly to throw off the dejection which now more than ever oppressed him.
When the blood runs cold and low,
When the winds of doubting blow,
When the shadow of my life
Silences the daily strife,
When the roses fade and fall,
When the violet-odours all
Are sickening with the scent of death,
When the lone soul sorroweth,
What shall light the sombre vale?
What for comfort shall avail?
When the winds of doubting blow,
When the shadow of my life
Silences the daily strife,
When the roses fade and fall,
When the violet-odours all
Are sickening with the scent of death,
When the lone soul sorroweth,
What shall light the sombre vale?
What for comfort shall avail?
Vague desire and aspiration
Haunt me like an inspiration:
Shadowy hopes that are despairs
Pass and mock my whisper'd prayers:
Solitude, thy silent calm
Lends to me no hallowed balm;
I am fully mournful only
When most intimately lonely;
When in the busy haunts that teem
With many a bruit of active scheme,
I crack the jest, and laugh my fill,
My demon laughs as loudly still;
Yet in the sight of other eyes
He frees me from his sorceries,
And then my weary spirit knows
A little respite of repose:
With Nature, too, a happy time
Is dedicate to thoughtful rhyme,
And in her presence I enjoy
Short solace for my great annoy.
Haunt me like an inspiration:
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Pass and mock my whisper'd prayers:
Solitude, thy silent calm
Lends to me no hallowed balm;
I am fully mournful only
When most intimately lonely;
When in the busy haunts that teem
With many a bruit of active scheme,
I crack the jest, and laugh my fill,
My demon laughs as loudly still;
Yet in the sight of other eyes
He frees me from his sorceries,
And then my weary spirit knows
A little respite of repose:
With Nature, too, a happy time
Is dedicate to thoughtful rhyme,
And in her presence I enjoy
Short solace for my great annoy.
I wander'd down the grassy steep,
Where purple orchis-blossoms sleep,
Waiting until the voice of Spring
Shall wake them into blossoming;—
Alas! their Spring is yet to come;
They nestle in a happy home;
But mine, that such a promise bore,
Is frost-nipp'd and can bloom no more.
Beneath the slope, the fringèd sea,
Lulled by its own low minstrelsy,
Was dreaming in the amber light
Which like a woven mantle bright
The sun threw o'er it. Here and there
Great gulls flapp'd through the heavy air,
And, on the pebble-girdled shore,
The pale green wavelets o'er and o'er
Went tumbling with a drowsy sense
Of universal indolence.
It was a day as sweet as rare,
When January, cold and bare,
Put on for once the golden hue
Of apple-blossom time. I grew
Heart-soften'd by the warm excess
Of unexpected loveliness;
And for a while forgot the shade
That lurks for me in every glade,
The bony fear that will not rest,
Nor pause from troubling my poor breast.
I cannot hope to live again,
And lose this load of quiet pain,
Until the years that speed so fast
Shall bring delightful calm at last!
The grand fulfilment of desire
Shall tip their angel-wings with fire,
Or else the lapse of time shall bless
My spirit with forgetfulness;
God in his mercy grant me peace,
And bid this demon-sorrow cease,
Or bear me in his arms of love
To amaranthine bowers above!
Where purple orchis-blossoms sleep,
Waiting until the voice of Spring
Shall wake them into blossoming;—
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They nestle in a happy home;
But mine, that such a promise bore,
Is frost-nipp'd and can bloom no more.
Beneath the slope, the fringèd sea,
Lulled by its own low minstrelsy,
Was dreaming in the amber light
Which like a woven mantle bright
The sun threw o'er it. Here and there
Great gulls flapp'd through the heavy air,
And, on the pebble-girdled shore,
The pale green wavelets o'er and o'er
Went tumbling with a drowsy sense
Of universal indolence.
It was a day as sweet as rare,
When January, cold and bare,
Put on for once the golden hue
Of apple-blossom time. I grew
Heart-soften'd by the warm excess
Of unexpected loveliness;
And for a while forgot the shade
That lurks for me in every glade,
The bony fear that will not rest,
Nor pause from troubling my poor breast.
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And lose this load of quiet pain,
Until the years that speed so fast
Shall bring delightful calm at last!
The grand fulfilment of desire
Shall tip their angel-wings with fire,
Or else the lapse of time shall bless
My spirit with forgetfulness;
God in his mercy grant me peace,
And bid this demon-sorrow cease,
Or bear me in his arms of love
To amaranthine bowers above!
69
ODE TO THE EARTH.
I
O thou eternal Danae, whose breastIs open ever to the showering gold,
Who ever dost in thy warm arms enfold
The god-like fervour, by a god possess'd!
Now, while the glory of the happy May
Is robing thee in festal bravery
Of vernal foliage gay,
And the sweet birds on every leafy spray
Bright minstrels are, that hymn their love to thee,—
I, too, though less melodious far than they,
Yet loving thee, O Mother, fervently,
Would sing, though faltering, one impassion'd song
In token of the praises that belong
To thee, who art our goddess, by great Jove
Lov'd, and made worthy of our reverent love.
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II
In every ferny brake and hollow wild,Warm'd into life, the children of the spring
Leap in their glory, and on foot or wing
Go forth through fair green leafage undefil'd;
Long shoots of lush and thornless eglantine
Fill up the darkening ways,
Through which Apollo darts his arrowy rays
From rosy morn on till his slow decline;
Now Philomel trills out her tenderest lays
In fragrant valleys when the moon is low;
And listening ye may hear, when she is dumb,
The sweet sedge-warbler, ere the night-winds blow,
Piping a feebler treble, till there come
Faint echoes from the hollow elms a-row.
III
Mother, the skies that o'er thy flowery dellsBend as a solemn dome, are calm and blue;
Now floats a white cloud-island slowly through
The stainless realms where nothing evil dwells;
And like a bird on spirit-wings I rise
Far up to its pure cliffs, and thence gaze down
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For Loveliness is on thy brows a crown,
And, in the clear sunlighted weather,
Glory and Hope and Love seem met together,
To fill the air with dreams of Paradise,
And that first mystic day,
When out of Chaos and dim Night God drew
Thy glimmering orb, and sped thee on thy way!
IV
Then, waking from that strange primeval trance,With joy thou didst His guiding voice obey,
And watched the planets in their pearly dance
Attend thy motion in a proud array;
Then o'er thy caverns and thy gleaming vales
Flew the clear-wingèd Spirit of the Spring,
And in her hands did bring
Such wealth of life, whether of leaf or limb,
That even the glad revival of to-day,
The fresh young breath that hails
The music of this morn, were all too dim
To shadow forth the least of that delight,
When every gloomy corner was made bright
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And all the green-wood joy of earliest May.
V
How to the core was thy profound heart stirr'dBy all this light, and fair tranquillity!
Yet from the heavens came down one awful word;
And how was all thy splendour gone and fled,—
Gone like the spirit of one dead!
For o'er thy breast flow'd the remorseless sea;
The long roll of the stormy waves was heard
In each green valley, where the brooding bird,
Deep in the noiseless leafage, had found rest,
And a fair sylvan nest;
The voice of many waters only sounded
Through the abyss, where still thy darkling globe
Roll'd on its ceaseless course, for ever bounded
By the dim belt of floods as by a robe.
VI
Then o'er thy weltering rim one moment hover'dAn angel, fire-envelop'd, rainbow-wing'd,
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Thy aching orb; the abyss was ring'd
With flame that lit thy sad and gloomy path,
And lick'd the waters with its arrowy heat;
The glory that then pulse-like beat
Upon the waters, dried their might away.
Ah! even in this repose which thy heart hath
In these late times, thou canst recall that day
Of comfort after anguish, the defeat
Of adverse powers that marr'd thy early love,
And the victorious aid that hail'd thee from above!
VII
The island-cloud whereon my spirit sateHas faded like white foam upon the shore;
For a swift wind its gauzy fabric tore:
And now on viewless wings elate
I speed my visionary flight
O'er bosky glen, and heather-mantled height;
Be thou my Guide, my Teacher, and inspire
My heart with such poetic fire,
That ever where my else-unheeded voice
Shall echo through the land, all men may know
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And feel their weary hearts with hope and gladness glow.
VIII
Far in warm lands across the Atlantic seaHast thou no home, O Mother, for thy child,
Where in the southern forest, dim and wild,
I might hold sweet communion silently
With all thy fairest subjects, and with thee?
There, there, where thou art queen and uncontroll'd,
Where gentle creatures still are calm and bold,
Where troops of mild-eyed deer unharass'd graze,
Might I not walk, and with down-gazing eyes,
Ponder in silence, and grow pure and wise,
Till, led by thee, and full of Magian lore,
I might return, and teach in tuneful lays
The lessons of those quiet days;
Or else, in that fair wilderness grown old,
Lay on thy kindly breast my scanty locks and hoar?
IX
Silence, weak heart! no words of thy repiningCan change the order of the fateful years;
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In this chill northern land! the time for tears
Is fled, with all the sorrows of the snow:
Now once again the milder zephyrs blow;
Flower-buds are dreaming in the deep fresh grass;
Waken, O Earth, my dull and weary spirit,
New glory to inherit!
Teach these faint eyes what sacred pleasures flow
From thy least valued places; wherefore go
To distant lands, when beauties here surpass
All that a poet in his dreams can see?
Therefore with humbled heart and head bent low,
Here will I rest until thou speak'st to me!
X
Great Mother, now thy solemn voice I hear!Forgive the lightness of my opening song,
In which I did thy serious story wrong,
With idle names of worship old and sere,
Prating to thee of Grecian gods once dear
To priest and poet! empty dreamers they!
The gods they dreamt of, all are pass'd and dead!
Rather would I with bow'd, uncover'd head,
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With reverent voice, to Him who set thee here;
Who guides thee on thy wild mysterious way;
Whose power and love surpass all earthly measure;
Who clothes thee now with all the bloom of May,
And fills thy vales with green and golden treasure,
And decks thy mountain-sides with purple hues of pleasure!
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