Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
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II.—MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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SPRING SONG.
Spring, Spring, sweetest Spring,
How shall I give thee welcoming?
When thy blue eye peeps from the sky,
Larks must sing, and so must I!
How shall I give thee welcoming?
When thy blue eye peeps from the sky,
Larks must sing, and so must I!
Primrose-time and cowslip-time
Have had their echoes in my rhyme;
But the first bright days that give
Frost-nipt violets leave to live,
And, the hedgerows brown between,
With seldom daisies prank the green;
Days that set clear streamlets glittering,
And the keen-eyed sparrows twittering,
That make the grass grow in the lanes,
And breathe sweet change o'er hills and plains,
Zoning with opal the grey sea—
How full of budding bliss they be!
Have had their echoes in my rhyme;
But the first bright days that give
Frost-nipt violets leave to live,
And, the hedgerows brown between,
With seldom daisies prank the green;
Days that set clear streamlets glittering,
And the keen-eyed sparrows twittering,
That make the grass grow in the lanes,
And breathe sweet change o'er hills and plains,
Zoning with opal the grey sea—
How full of budding bliss they be!
But be they foul or be they fair,
Thy odorous breath is in the air—
Glad am I, ask me not why,
Larks must sing, and so must I!
Thy odorous breath is in the air—
Glad am I, ask me not why,
Larks must sing, and so must I!
90
MADRIGAL.
When primroses begin to peer,
Though distant hills be capped with snow,
And one stray thrush will carol clear
To snowdrops drooping all a-row;
When building rooks caw as they pass,
And the sun gleams o'er misty plains,
Or melts the hoar-frost from the grass,
The blood runs brisker in the veins.
Then hey for the spring! when the sweet birds sing;
Both lads and lasses love the spring.
Though distant hills be capped with snow,
And one stray thrush will carol clear
To snowdrops drooping all a-row;
When building rooks caw as they pass,
And the sun gleams o'er misty plains,
Or melts the hoar-frost from the grass,
The blood runs brisker in the veins.
Then hey for the spring! when the sweet birds sing;
Both lads and lasses love the spring.
When sunshine fills the keen March air,
And rain-flaws whirl across the lea,
And the day veers from foul to fair,
And the sap runs in every tree;
When clouds go floating far and near,
And colt's-foot buds in miry lanes,
And all things feel the spring o' the year,
The blood runs merrier in the veins.
Then hey for the spring! when the sweet birds sing;
Both lads and lasses love the spring.
And rain-flaws whirl across the lea,
And the day veers from foul to fair,
And the sap runs in every tree;
When clouds go floating far and near,
And colt's-foot buds in miry lanes,
And all things feel the spring o' the year,
The blood runs merrier in the veins.
Then hey for the spring! when the sweet birds sing;
Both lads and lasses love the spring.
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CÄCILCHEN AT THE PIANO.
‘She drew an angel down.’
I.
Sat a maiden playingIn the twilight lone;
Through the window straying
Went the music's tone.
II.
In their gleeful labourFast her fingers flew
Through some piece of Weber,
Fiery, strange, and new;
Valse, or quaint toccata,
Rondo, fantaisie,
Saraband, sonata—
At them all went she.
III.
Spells Mozart and HaydnWrought in moods of power,
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Idling for an hour;
Themes that shook Beethoven
In the dusk she played,
(Which the little sloven
Murdered, I'm afraid).
IV.
Hark a step! How wide herBlues eyes open can!
In three strides beside her
Stands the queerest man,
Silent, quaint in vesture,
(How small hearts can beat!)
With imperious gesture
Waving her from her seat.
V.
She with awed amazementSilently obeys;
Slamming to the casement,
Down he sits and plays.
VI.
What her flippant fingersDashed at anyhow,
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Ravishingly now.
In another fashion
Speak the rushing keys—
What immortal passion!
Surging harmonies,
Melodies how tender,
Tones beyond all words,
Tempest-bursts that render
Up the ghost in chords;
Music's rapturous ocean
Billowing through the room,
Mysteries of emotion
Sighing in the gloom.
VII.
Spell-bound sat the maiden,Gazing o'er the sea
Blankly, while he played, in
Deepest reverie,
Till, by silence startled,
Quick she raised her eyes,
When no more his art held
Speechless with surprise.
With an eager question
Turned she. He had flown—
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Like a ghost was gone!
VIII.
So she sat in wonder,Musing in the gloom,
When the tuneful thunder
Lone had left the room;
Then her heart beat faster,
And her cheek grew hot;
‘Lo, it was the Master,
And I knew him not!’
95
HYMN FOR A MAY MORNING.
I.
The awakened Earth, whom now fresh fingered MayChaplets with flowers and living leaves, is dancing
Through odorous dew, to welcome the young day
In melody from the gates of dawn advancing;
Each moment, breathing rathe deliciousness,
Flies forth an airy herald, nothing coy
To utter its glad tiding, and possess
Things winter-pined with tale of Spring's success—
New victories of life and light and joy!
II.
Wide are the blissful chambers of the sky,Ranged by blithe-wingèd winds!
The blue abyss of heaven, sweet as an eye
Instinct with vigilant love, tenderly binds
All things in the spell divine
Of its own tranquillity—
A spell serene, and yet intense,
Potent, I know not how or why,
To purge with fire each baser sense,
And bid all coward cares within me die.
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III.
Spirit of Light! deign thy dew-drinking steeds,Fresh from the lucid meadows of the dawn,
To ravish me from these bounds? My soul recedes,
Into the limitless ether far withdrawn,
Where sanctuaried in light,
Dim larks in rapturous flight
Make vocal the sunbeams.
I mount, I fly,
I tremblingly aspire,
On their immortal glee's wide-quivering streams,
To the dread fount of life, love, liberty!
Kindler of song! Lord of the new-born Day!
Make me a wingèd lyre,
And in wild music let thy masculine fire
Leap from its chords, to swell the breasts of May
With passion infinite;
That with the bards of thine ethereal choir
I may outpour my song of undismayed delight,
Of unabashed desire!
IV.
O that my song were like a violin's voice,Soaring through life's tumultuous symphony
With weird prophetic cry!
That I might feel my music-shedding wings
Rush in the rushing blasts of modulation,
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And work tempestuous change in mortal things;
That from the voiceless deep my venturous voice
Might rend all hearts with dread Promethean cry,
Bursting in its last agony
The gates of hell with one strong word: ‘Rejoice!’
Then should life be new-shaped, like eddying sand
In music's Orphean hand;
New-born in Love's divinest chastities,
That kindle and not freeze.
V.
O that my song were like a trumpet's tone,Uplifted stern in thunderous proclamation
Of glory and scathing shame—
A wind sublime of holiest exaltation
In spirits pure, urging the heroic flame
To burn into that all-transcendent zone
Where crowned Ambition bleeds on Love's bright martyr-throne!
Then should the founts of homely joy outleap
From their lethargic sleep;
In poise intense of passionate self-control
Move the full-orbèd soul.
VI.
Alas! my song is all too weak a thingFor flight so wild: my soul is as a sod
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Warmed by its beating breast—the pulseless clod
Red with a martyr's passion! What were I
To mount so high in grace,
To bear the bliss of such redeeming agony?
Here let me find my place—
Where glad green buds flock out upon the boughs
To pasture on the bounties of the morn,
Where every turf draws strength from heaven's own face,
And, joying to be born,
Flowers gaze from the deep grass, lifting their brows
To her mild eyes, with eyes that fear no scorn.
VII.
O virgin-cheeked and mother-hearted May,Madonna of the months! give me to know
The tender founts that in thy bosom flow,
The shy, sweet dreams thou dream'st as day by day
Thy gleaming smiles so wistfully come and go,
The sweet heart-shudderings veiled from vulgar guess
In thy lyric loveliness.
VIII.
Thanks; for thy being into mine has past,I feel, and I expand in the glad feeling,
Thy growthful impulse working through the vast
Of tardy time; as through each sense come stealing
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Bashful prophecies of June,
Vernal voices which forehymn
Some wondrous harvest's opulent boon.
IX.
Comfort ye, hearts that weep—be comforted!Have I not wept? Take courage, ye who toil
In bitter fields! Have not I toiled, and shed
From my enslavèd soul, wingless and numb,
Red drops of anguish on the barren soil?
But now my hour is come!
I dare to raise the song, the song of joy—
The song of boundless hope I dare to raise—
Young martyr-thoughts on eager wings deploy
Through visionary ages, as I gaze;
Fire in their eyes, their faces onward bent,
Pale to the lips as the white flowers they bear,
Quickening the winds with light, they singing scare
The dull and stagnant world from base content.
No, no, they are not dead,
The loves by which we live,
The hopes for which we have bled,
Oft faint, oft vanquishéd,
The truths for which we toil, the light for which we strive!
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X.
No, though the winter of the world's despairIn tomblike night have shut us from the sun's
All-fostering face, still in our branches runs
The sap of lusty life; though sordid care
Cling round our buds like frost,
The blossom of delight lies nurturing there
In its cradle tempest-tost.
XI.
O by our wants, and by our winged desires,And our hearts' quenchless fires,
By our wild prayers, our tears outpoured like dew
Upon the fields of life, and by those rare
Impulses of deep joy, which quicken us through
With Spring's divinest air;
By each epic deed unsung,
By the loves that find no tongue,
By the faith that never dies,
By its wrestlings, by its cries,
By each meek sufferer's blood—the blood
Of Earth's mysterious motherhood—
We exorcise despair!
XII.
Still Love shall raise and comfort wan-faced Hope,And when Love bleeding lies,
Hope shall read clear her cloudy horoscope
With self-fulfilling prophecies.
101
SONG.
Hither, O love! Come hither
On pinions of young delight,
Ere the bloom of the morning wither,
While the dew lies bright;
The meadows their balm are breathing,
Day bends o'er the limpid lake,
All nature her beauties wreathing
For thy sweet sake!
On pinions of young delight,
Ere the bloom of the morning wither,
While the dew lies bright;
The meadows their balm are breathing,
Day bends o'er the limpid lake,
All nature her beauties wreathing
For thy sweet sake!
O joy is the mate of morning,
And love is the child of light,
And youth is the time for scorning
The bonds of night!
Then come—while the world lies jaded,
The elves of the woodland wake,
And dawn keeps her fields unfaded
For thy sweet sake!
And love is the child of light,
And youth is the time for scorning
The bonds of night!
Then come—while the world lies jaded,
The elves of the woodland wake,
And dawn keeps her fields unfaded
For thy sweet sake!
102
A SUMMER NIGHT.
It is a night too silver-sweet for sleep,
The stars shine softly bright, and delicate airs
Play through my open window languidly,
With summer perfume on their gentle wings,
Robbed from deep-bosomed roses. Yonder streak
Of paly gold marks where the sun went down
In burning glory; and now the rising moon
Half hides her blood-red orb behind those elms
That whisper to each other. Silent it is,
Most silent, save when from the meadow deep
The corncrake calls her mate, or far away
A watch-dog bays; so silent that you seem
To hear the growth of all things, as the dew
Sinks down refreshfully, and seem to feel
The throb of Nature's pulses, and the wings
Of Time stealthily waved with downy beat.
The stars shine softly bright, and delicate airs
Play through my open window languidly,
With summer perfume on their gentle wings,
Robbed from deep-bosomed roses. Yonder streak
Of paly gold marks where the sun went down
In burning glory; and now the rising moon
Half hides her blood-red orb behind those elms
That whisper to each other. Silent it is,
Most silent, save when from the meadow deep
The corncrake calls her mate, or far away
A watch-dog bays; so silent that you seem
To hear the growth of all things, as the dew
Sinks down refreshfully, and seem to feel
The throb of Nature's pulses, and the wings
Of Time stealthily waved with downy beat.
The starlight silence draws me: I must roam—
Past my still garden; past the pastures low
Breathing of meadow-sweet; up this dim lane;
Into the dewy woods, led by the light
Of the new-risen moon. A sudden joy—
A shudder of deep delight—thrills to my heart,
To be alone, hid in the nightly haunt
Of that fair Spirit whose permeant essence fills
Each tiniest leaf with living beauty. Here,
Where the wood-smells are sweetest, where the dew
Lies pearliest on the balmy eglantine,
And each clear drop a soul of fragrance takes
From curvy trumpets of the woodbine trails
Wreathing dark-glosséd hollies; where the flowers
Of maiden-pure wild roses strew the grass
With delicate petals—might one suddenly come
On some quaint scene of elfin revelry.
Past my still garden; past the pastures low
Breathing of meadow-sweet; up this dim lane;
Into the dewy woods, led by the light
103
A shudder of deep delight—thrills to my heart,
To be alone, hid in the nightly haunt
Of that fair Spirit whose permeant essence fills
Each tiniest leaf with living beauty. Here,
Where the wood-smells are sweetest, where the dew
Lies pearliest on the balmy eglantine,
And each clear drop a soul of fragrance takes
From curvy trumpets of the woodbine trails
Wreathing dark-glosséd hollies; where the flowers
Of maiden-pure wild roses strew the grass
With delicate petals—might one suddenly come
On some quaint scene of elfin revelry.
104
HERTHA.
I was walking alone in the heathy uplands of Sweden,
In a day of delight; when the radiant Spirit of Summer
Wooed, in his passionate prime, the frank brave heart of the Norland
To expand in his beams; when, palpitating in sunshine,
Ravished of winter-woven robes, serene in her beauty,
Proudly her limbs Titanic she bared, and bountiful bosom,
And, new clothed in delight, abandoned herself to her lover.
In a day of delight; when the radiant Spirit of Summer
Wooed, in his passionate prime, the frank brave heart of the Norland
To expand in his beams; when, palpitating in sunshine,
Ravished of winter-woven robes, serene in her beauty,
Proudly her limbs Titanic she bared, and bountiful bosom,
And, new clothed in delight, abandoned herself to her lover.
O, believe me, 'tis here alone in the cloudlands of Hertha,
Here alone that the heart can be filled with the joy of their nuptial,
When the young Summer first kisses the Earth. A jewelled Sultana,
His voluptuous East would hold him captive for ever,
Drugged with her spicy philtres; the bliss of meeting and parting,
Love's sweet rhythmical ebb and flow, the romance of a passion
Wholesome with rapture and rest—an ocean that knows not stagnation—
These are the North's. All nature, rejoicing, blesses the bridal,
When in the odour-breathing Norland, the Spirit of Summer
Wafts from his breezy wings a dewy quintessence of sunshine,
And descends in a shower of delight on highland and lowland;
When the mountains grow green to their tops with juiciest herbage;
And far up, with lows of content, to pasture are driven
Cows, deep-uddered, and milk abounds, and in opulent dairies,
Maids at the foaming churn try fortunes; when down to the valleys
Comes, with his reindeer, the mild-eyed Finn, good-humouredly singing,
Happy to water his herds in the reach of the glittering river;
When the pine and the birch exhale their odours balsamic;
When the raspberries breathe their dim delicious aroma,
And, where they drink the sweets of the sun in the glades of the woodland,
Strawberries ripen; when fiords, bights, bays—ay, the waves of the ocean
Spawn with abundance of life. O there, in happiest season,
There was I walking alone—when toward me, stepping like Hertha,
Came a maiden fair, a blonde Scandinavian Maiden.
Here alone that the heart can be filled with the joy of their nuptial,
When the young Summer first kisses the Earth. A jewelled Sultana,
His voluptuous East would hold him captive for ever,
Drugged with her spicy philtres; the bliss of meeting and parting,
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Wholesome with rapture and rest—an ocean that knows not stagnation—
These are the North's. All nature, rejoicing, blesses the bridal,
When in the odour-breathing Norland, the Spirit of Summer
Wafts from his breezy wings a dewy quintessence of sunshine,
And descends in a shower of delight on highland and lowland;
When the mountains grow green to their tops with juiciest herbage;
And far up, with lows of content, to pasture are driven
Cows, deep-uddered, and milk abounds, and in opulent dairies,
Maids at the foaming churn try fortunes; when down to the valleys
Comes, with his reindeer, the mild-eyed Finn, good-humouredly singing,
Happy to water his herds in the reach of the glittering river;
When the pine and the birch exhale their odours balsamic;
When the raspberries breathe their dim delicious aroma,
And, where they drink the sweets of the sun in the glades of the woodland,
106
Spawn with abundance of life. O there, in happiest season,
There was I walking alone—when toward me, stepping like Hertha,
Came a maiden fair, a blonde Scandinavian Maiden.
Swiftly toward me she came, her well-shod feet and well-stockinged
Planted clean on the turf, beneath her kirtle of home-spun,
Beautiful, cowlike, august—the stern, sweet curves of her figure
Clear a moment against the blue, as she crested a hillock—
Beautiful, cowlike, august, an Isis bred in the Norland!
Planted clean on the turf, beneath her kirtle of home-spun,
Beautiful, cowlike, august—the stern, sweet curves of her figure
Clear a moment against the blue, as she crested a hillock—
Beautiful, cowlike, august, an Isis bred in the Norland!
Swiftly toward me she came, her full yet firm-moulded bosom
Drinking great lungfuls of life, as she skirted the slope of the mountain,
And her clear voice rang like a silver flute thro' the valley—
Chanting some quaint old lyric—some grave significant folk-song,
Born from a nation's heart, and breathing its passionate longings
In the face of the firmament. Forests, rivers, and mountains;
And the wave-washed fiords; and waterfalls thundering ever
Through their foam-lighted glens; and pastures green of the upland—
Had their part in that folk-song; the warrior-shout of the Sea-kings;
And the low of cows, and the homely mirth of the farm-stead,
Hailing the harvest home; life, death, and winter, and summer,
Had their part in that folk-song. The frank brave heart of the Norland
Breathed it out in the sun, as balm is breathed from the pinewood.
It was exhaled, none made it, it never had a composer,
He who chanted it first lived on and sang in her spirit.
Drinking great lungfuls of life, as she skirted the slope of the mountain,
And her clear voice rang like a silver flute thro' the valley—
Chanting some quaint old lyric—some grave significant folk-song,
Born from a nation's heart, and breathing its passionate longings
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And the wave-washed fiords; and waterfalls thundering ever
Through their foam-lighted glens; and pastures green of the upland—
Had their part in that folk-song; the warrior-shout of the Sea-kings;
And the low of cows, and the homely mirth of the farm-stead,
Hailing the harvest home; life, death, and winter, and summer,
Had their part in that folk-song. The frank brave heart of the Norland
Breathed it out in the sun, as balm is breathed from the pinewood.
It was exhaled, none made it, it never had a composer,
He who chanted it first lived on and sang in her spirit.
Nearer she drew, lithe-limbed, a living robust Caryatid,
On her head a basket of dainties fresh from the dairy,
Lapped in a fair white napkin, and poised with delicate balance
Over her shoulders broad, which harmonised every motion
As in a natural dance. O did she dream of her beauty?
Her large grace? She felt it but ease, was but conscious of keeping
Poised her butter and cheeses—her rhythmic muscles obeyed her
With the gladness of tune—I read no toil in her features;
And she knitted the while, scarce glancing down at her fingers;
For her soul was a song, her motion a musical measure!
On her head a basket of dainties fresh from the dairy,
Lapped in a fair white napkin, and poised with delicate balance
Over her shoulders broad, which harmonised every motion
As in a natural dance. O did she dream of her beauty?
Her large grace? She felt it but ease, was but conscious of keeping
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With the gladness of tune—I read no toil in her features;
And she knitted the while, scarce glancing down at her fingers;
For her soul was a song, her motion a musical measure!
Back on the wings of Time was I borne for ages and ages,
Back on the wings of Time, to lands far distant, and saw the
Tents of a wandering race, the tents of our Aryan fathers,
Pitched in primæval pastures, their cattle lowing around them;
And their kings were shepherds, and in their primitive language
Milkmaid and princess were one. Here moved an Aryan Princess!
Back on the wings of Time, to lands far distant, and saw the
Tents of a wandering race, the tents of our Aryan fathers,
Pitched in primæval pastures, their cattle lowing around them;
And their kings were shepherds, and in their primitive language
Milkmaid and princess were one. Here moved an Aryan Princess!
Blue were her eyes, as the skies on a day of serenest weather,
Or forget-me-nots, gage of unchangeable, innocent, troth-plight;
Sweet was her face, with a grace the gift of the rain and the sunshine,
And her cheeks glowed bright with blood of healthiest breeding.
Or forget-me-nots, gage of unchangeable, innocent, troth-plight;
Sweet was her face, with a grace the gift of the rain and the sunshine,
And her cheeks glowed bright with blood of healthiest breeding.
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As she approached me the song on her lips died gently, not shyly,
And she met my gaze unembarrassed, and greeted me kindly,
Gave me a genial ‘Good morrow!’ then, pausing, spoke in her patois,
In her grave pure voice, some further words, which, alas! were
Lost on my ears. I could but smile; and answered in English:
‘Don't understand you, my girl.’ But in the depths of my bosom
Those strange words were singing a ‘Welcome, welcome to Sweden!’
And she met my gaze unembarrassed, and greeted me kindly,
Gave me a genial ‘Good morrow!’ then, pausing, spoke in her patois,
In her grave pure voice, some further words, which, alas! were
Lost on my ears. I could but smile; and answered in English:
‘Don't understand you, my girl.’ But in the depths of my bosom
Those strange words were singing a ‘Welcome, welcome to Sweden!’
Cowlike I called her before, but how shall I picture the beauty
Latent in that rich word—the exuberant feminine beauty,
Seeming to gather in form supreme the teeming abundance
Of the mother-force of the earth? O you comprehend me,
You who have heard in the Alps the tinkling tune of the cowbells,
You who have watched, some evening, a well-cared, thorough-bred heifer,
Mountain-bred, mountain-miened, descending the paths of the mountain,
Sure of foot as a Gemse—your heart has leapt to behold her
Large beneficent grace, as she walked sedately and neatly
At the head of the herd! But, let me ask, have you ever
Spoken to such a cow in your own vernacular English?
Well, I have; and I tell you that now as I spoke to the Maiden—
I remember it well—that now, as I answered in English,
Over her face there passed a wistful puzzled expression,
Such as I then have observed in a cow's. 'Twas as though she were seeking
Entrance to some far world, half seen in innermost vision—
Strange, bewild'ring, remote from the placid fields of her spirit.
But in a moment her eyes lit up with sunniest humour,
(Never did cow's do that; and truly for use of her fingers
Never was cow came near my blonde Scandinavian Maiden).
How those eyes lit up as she smiled! ‘I see you're a stranger.’
So, I imagine, she said; then bade me farewell, and we parted;
She on her way, I on mine. I gazed at the beautiful figure
As it passed from my view. Then first I noted with rapture
How her womanhood's strength burst forth in the glorious profusion
Of her hair, thick wound in plaits—what a pad for a basket!
Wonderful hair it was, like hemp for the galleys of Odin,
Clean first-quality Norway hemp, with luminous surface,
And the gleam of straw just playing over its masses.
How it burst from those plaits, in its vital exuberant beauty,
Burst from those careless plaits, and waved in wisps on her shoulders,
Dancing warm on the wind!
Latent in that rich word—the exuberant feminine beauty,
Seeming to gather in form supreme the teeming abundance
Of the mother-force of the earth? O you comprehend me,
You who have heard in the Alps the tinkling tune of the cowbells,
You who have watched, some evening, a well-cared, thorough-bred heifer,
Mountain-bred, mountain-miened, descending the paths of the mountain,
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Large beneficent grace, as she walked sedately and neatly
At the head of the herd! But, let me ask, have you ever
Spoken to such a cow in your own vernacular English?
Well, I have; and I tell you that now as I spoke to the Maiden—
I remember it well—that now, as I answered in English,
Over her face there passed a wistful puzzled expression,
Such as I then have observed in a cow's. 'Twas as though she were seeking
Entrance to some far world, half seen in innermost vision—
Strange, bewild'ring, remote from the placid fields of her spirit.
But in a moment her eyes lit up with sunniest humour,
(Never did cow's do that; and truly for use of her fingers
Never was cow came near my blonde Scandinavian Maiden).
How those eyes lit up as she smiled! ‘I see you're a stranger.’
So, I imagine, she said; then bade me farewell, and we parted;
She on her way, I on mine. I gazed at the beautiful figure
As it passed from my view. Then first I noted with rapture
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Of her hair, thick wound in plaits—what a pad for a basket!
Wonderful hair it was, like hemp for the galleys of Odin,
Clean first-quality Norway hemp, with luminous surface,
And the gleam of straw just playing over its masses.
How it burst from those plaits, in its vital exuberant beauty,
Burst from those careless plaits, and waved in wisps on her shoulders,
Dancing warm on the wind!
Alas! she was gone—and the sunshine
Passed with her from the day. She went—I lost her for ever!
Never again to behold her! O fool to yield her so tamely!
Fool, to let her sink back in the ocean of vague apparition
Where we float immersed, like lumps of jelly Medusan!
Fool, when a glance, a touch, a word, a step might have won her!
O to snatch her away, to possess her, to live in her beauty;
To awake her soul; to thrust it forth, like an eaglet
Fledged, from its narrow eyrie; to watch its pinions grow stronger,
Breasting the storms of the world, with the wisdom of love to sustain them!
O to fling my past to the winds for her, toil as a peasant,
Feel my pulses bound with the stalwart life of the Norland;
To grow sane in her love; to surrender myself to her keeping;
To surround her with blessing; to make her the beautiful mother
Of a beautiful race, in some far Scandinavian valley!
O to—!
‘Well I declare, what stuff the man has been writing!
(Only Mary and me—you needn't look so dumbfoundered.)
This is some idle romance your foolish brain has been weaving—
Why, you were never in Sweden: Now, were you ever in Sweden?’
‘In the spirit, my child, I was just now, when you thrust your
Dear inquisitive face between my eyes and the vision.
There, O long, long ago, in pre-matrimonial ages—
There I once saw Thekla, that blonde Scandinavian maiden,
That divinest milk-maiden, before those tricks demimundane
We were deploring last night, as she sang at the popular concert,
Hid her goddess-ship's wholesome bloom in violet-powder.
That was all.’
‘Indeed! In Sweden? and never to tell one?
Don't believe it a bit! But really I cannot have patience
With the pitiful way you men get on about women.
You're the ungratefullest things—you never will understand us,
Never will be contented, however we strive to please you.
Just when we've left our rustic ways, our homely vocations,
Our domestic receipts, our plaisters, our wonderful cordials,
All to please you, because—’
‘We insist on having Corelli,
Dished us in mangled morsels by fingers that better were sewing?
Heaven forgive us our sins if we do!’
‘'Ssh, don't be provoking!
Poor dear Jane,—what a shame to speak like that of her music!
No, you know very well our wise intellectual masters
Could not put up with such drudges—poor soulless housekeeping creatures:
Wanted ‘companions’ forsooth, had felt themselves ‘not comprehended’—
O if you only knew, you stupid things, how we read you
Through and through, like a book’—
‘Ay, skipping all but the fiction.’
‘Nonsense! I say 'tis you men who wreck your lives upon fiction,
And what fictions, the most of you! Ay, and even the best ones,
How they blunder about, poor souls, with their precious ‘ideals.’
Thorns at last will bear grapes, they think, figs grow upon thistles,
And extremes lie down, like the lion and lamb, in their Eden.
We make both ends meet in a much more practical fashion.
But what I say is that now, when we hens are, really and truly,
Doing our painstaking best to make ourselves mates for you eagles,
Fluttering after your Lordship's dreams no doubt at a distance,
Off you fly in a pet, and sigh for some beautiful savage,
Cowlike! with hair like hemp! and so forth—O when you get her,
See that she washes her face and the rest of her wonderful person—
Mary could tell you such things of the dirt of those horrible Germans!
Well, we English at least are teaching the world two great lessons:
How to make drinkable tea, and the use of good soap and cold water.
There, I hear your ‘beautiful race’ upstairs in his cradle;
Do put by those things, and go and get ready for dinner.’
Passed with her from the day. She went—I lost her for ever!
Never again to behold her! O fool to yield her so tamely!
Fool, to let her sink back in the ocean of vague apparition
Where we float immersed, like lumps of jelly Medusan!
Fool, when a glance, a touch, a word, a step might have won her!
O to snatch her away, to possess her, to live in her beauty;
To awake her soul; to thrust it forth, like an eaglet
Fledged, from its narrow eyrie; to watch its pinions grow stronger,
112
O to fling my past to the winds for her, toil as a peasant,
Feel my pulses bound with the stalwart life of the Norland;
To grow sane in her love; to surrender myself to her keeping;
To surround her with blessing; to make her the beautiful mother
Of a beautiful race, in some far Scandinavian valley!
O to—!
‘Well I declare, what stuff the man has been writing!
(Only Mary and me—you needn't look so dumbfoundered.)
This is some idle romance your foolish brain has been weaving—
Why, you were never in Sweden: Now, were you ever in Sweden?’
‘In the spirit, my child, I was just now, when you thrust your
Dear inquisitive face between my eyes and the vision.
There, O long, long ago, in pre-matrimonial ages—
There I once saw Thekla, that blonde Scandinavian maiden,
That divinest milk-maiden, before those tricks demimundane
We were deploring last night, as she sang at the popular concert,
113
That was all.’
‘Indeed! In Sweden? and never to tell one?
Don't believe it a bit! But really I cannot have patience
With the pitiful way you men get on about women.
You're the ungratefullest things—you never will understand us,
Never will be contented, however we strive to please you.
Just when we've left our rustic ways, our homely vocations,
Our domestic receipts, our plaisters, our wonderful cordials,
All to please you, because—’
‘We insist on having Corelli,
Dished us in mangled morsels by fingers that better were sewing?
Heaven forgive us our sins if we do!’
‘'Ssh, don't be provoking!
Poor dear Jane,—what a shame to speak like that of her music!
No, you know very well our wise intellectual masters
Could not put up with such drudges—poor soulless housekeeping creatures:
Wanted ‘companions’ forsooth, had felt themselves ‘not comprehended’—
O if you only knew, you stupid things, how we read you
114
‘Ay, skipping all but the fiction.’
‘Nonsense! I say 'tis you men who wreck your lives upon fiction,
And what fictions, the most of you! Ay, and even the best ones,
How they blunder about, poor souls, with their precious ‘ideals.’
Thorns at last will bear grapes, they think, figs grow upon thistles,
And extremes lie down, like the lion and lamb, in their Eden.
We make both ends meet in a much more practical fashion.
But what I say is that now, when we hens are, really and truly,
Doing our painstaking best to make ourselves mates for you eagles,
Fluttering after your Lordship's dreams no doubt at a distance,
Off you fly in a pet, and sigh for some beautiful savage,
Cowlike! with hair like hemp! and so forth—O when you get her,
See that she washes her face and the rest of her wonderful person—
Mary could tell you such things of the dirt of those horrible Germans!
115
How to make drinkable tea, and the use of good soap and cold water.
There, I hear your ‘beautiful race’ upstairs in his cradle;
Do put by those things, and go and get ready for dinner.’
116
THISTLEDOWN.
Fly, my songs, on tenderest wing,
Every blast your way shall speed;
Of my heart each tiny thing
Bears the sweet and bitter seed.
Every blast your way shall speed;
Of my heart each tiny thing
Bears the sweet and bitter seed.
Fly, till in some heart you light,
Twine your roots with its warm clay,
Pierce to death the brood of night,
And bring to birth the flowers of day.
Twine your roots with its warm clay,
Pierce to death the brood of night,
And bring to birth the flowers of day.
117
SONG.
The hare has his home on the hill,
The lark his nest in the grass;
But I lie lonely and chill,
Mocked by the winds as they pass.
The lark his nest in the grass;
But I lie lonely and chill,
Mocked by the winds as they pass.
Where, ah, where!
Ah, where shall I find, shall I find my rest,
Or hide my face from the eyes of Care?
Where, but in thy dear breast!
Ah, where shall I find, shall I find my rest,
Or hide my face from the eyes of Care?
Where, but in thy dear breast!
118
IN AUGUST.
Summer declines and roses have grown rare,
But cottage crofts are gay with hollyhocks;
And in old garden-walks you breathe an air
Fragrant of pinks and August-smelling stocks.
The soul of the delicious mignonette
Floats on the wind, and tempts the vagrant bees
From the pale purple spikes of lavender;
Waking a fond regret
For dead July, whose children the sweet-peas
Are sipped by butterflies with wings astir.
But cottage crofts are gay with hollyhocks;
And in old garden-walks you breathe an air
Fragrant of pinks and August-smelling stocks.
The soul of the delicious mignonette
Floats on the wind, and tempts the vagrant bees
From the pale purple spikes of lavender;
Waking a fond regret
For dead July, whose children the sweet-peas
Are sipped by butterflies with wings astir.
Evenings are chill, though in the glowing noon
Swelled peaches bask along a sunny wall,
And mellowing apricots turn gold—too soon
For him who loves not to be near the fall
Of the yet deathless leaves. Pale jessamine
Speaks, with her lucid stars, of shortening days
To spreading fuchsias clad in crimson bells,
Lurking beneath the twine
Of odorous clematis, whose bowery maze
Of gadding flowers the same sad story tells.
Swelled peaches bask along a sunny wall,
And mellowing apricots turn gold—too soon
For him who loves not to be near the fall
Of the yet deathless leaves. Pale jessamine
Speaks, with her lucid stars, of shortening days
To spreading fuchsias clad in crimson bells,
Lurking beneath the twine
Of odorous clematis, whose bowery maze
Of gadding flowers the same sad story tells.
119
Now from the sky fall sudden gleams of light
Athwart the plain. Black poplars in the breeze
Whiten—the willows flashing silvery white
At every gust against dark rain-clouds: these
Glooming beneath their crowns of massy snow,
And soaring onward with the wind that rocks
The sprouted elms, and shadowing as they pass
Broad corn-fields ripening slow
In upland farms, where still the uncarted cocks
Stand brown amid the verdurous aftergrass.
Athwart the plain. Black poplars in the breeze
Whiten—the willows flashing silvery white
At every gust against dark rain-clouds: these
Glooming beneath their crowns of massy snow,
And soaring onward with the wind that rocks
The sprouted elms, and shadowing as they pass
Broad corn-fields ripening slow
In upland farms, where still the uncarted cocks
Stand brown amid the verdurous aftergrass.
Now scream the curlews on the wild west coast,
And sea-birds sport in the sunned ocean—blue
As the intense of heaven. The crested host
Of mighty billows endlessly pursue
Each other in their glorious lion-play;
Surging against the cliffs with thunderous roar,
Till the black rocks seethe in thick-creaming foam,
And bursts of rainbowed spray
Fly o'er the craggy barriers far inshore,
Drenching the thrift in its storm-buffeted home.
And sea-birds sport in the sunned ocean—blue
As the intense of heaven. The crested host
Of mighty billows endlessly pursue
Each other in their glorious lion-play;
Surging against the cliffs with thunderous roar,
Till the black rocks seethe in thick-creaming foam,
And bursts of rainbowed spray
Fly o'er the craggy barriers far inshore,
Drenching the thrift in its storm-buffeted home.
Now is the season when soft melancholy
Broods o'er the fields at solemn evenfall;
The golden-clouded sunset dying slowly
From the clear west, ere yet the starry pall
Of night is silvered by the harvest moon:
When the year's blood runs rich as luscious wine
With honied ripeness: when the robin's song
Fills the grey afternoon
With warbled hope: and memories divine
Crowd to the heart, of days forgotten long.
Broods o'er the fields at solemn evenfall;
120
From the clear west, ere yet the starry pall
Of night is silvered by the harvest moon:
When the year's blood runs rich as luscious wine
With honied ripeness: when the robin's song
Fills the grey afternoon
With warbled hope: and memories divine
Crowd to the heart, of days forgotten long.
121
IN A GONDOLA.
I.
In Venice! This night so delicious—its airFull of moonlight, and passionate snatches of song,
And quick cries, and perfume of romances, which throng
To my brain, as I steal down this marble sea-stair,
And my gondola comes:
And I hear the slow, rhythmical sweep of the oar
Drawing near and more near—and the noise of the prow,
And the sharp, sudden splash of her stoppage—and now
I step in; we are off o'er the street's heaving floor,
As my gondola glides—
Away past these palaces silent and dark,
Looming ghostly and grim o'er their bases, where clings
Rank sea-weed which gleams, flecked with light, as it swings
To the plash of the waves, where they reach the tide-mark
On the porphyry blocks—with a song full of dole,
A forlorn barcarole,
As my gondola glides.
122
II.
And the wind seems to sigh through that lattice rust-gnawn,A low dirge for the past: the sweet past when it played
In the pearl-braided hair of some beauty, who stayed
But one shrinking half-minute—her mantle close-drawn
O'er the swell of her bosom and cheeks passion-pale,
Ere her lover came by, and they kissed. ‘They are clay,
Those fire-hearted men with the regal pulse-play.’
‘They are dust!’ sighs the wind with its whisper of wail;
‘Those women snow-fair, flower-sweet, passion-pale!’
And the waves make reply with their song full of dole,
Their forlorn barcarole,
As my gondola glides.
III.
Dust—those lovers! But love ever lives, ever new,Still the same: so we shoot into bustle and light,
And lamps from the festal casinos stream bright
On the ripples; and here's the Rialto in view;
And black gondolas, spirit-like, cross or slide past,
And the gondoliers cry to each other: a song
Far away, from sweet voices in tune, dies along
The waters moon-silvered. So on to the vast
Shadowy span of an arch where the oar-echoes leap
Through chill gloom from the marble; then moonlight once more,
123
And sonorous bass-music of bells booming deep
From St. Mark's. Still those waves with their song full of dole,
Their forlorn barcarole,
As my gondola glides.
IV.
Here the night is voluptuous with odorous sighsFrom verandahs o'erstarred with dim jessamine flowers,
Their still scent deep-stirred by the tremulous showers
Of a nightingale's notes as his song swells and dies—
While my gondola glides.
V.
Dust—those lovers! who floated and dreamed long ago,Gazed, and languished, and loved, on these waters—where I
Float and dream and gaze up in the still summer sky,
Whence the great stars look down—as they did long ago:
Where the moon seems to dream with my dreaming—disc-hid
In a gossamer veil of white cirrus—then breaks
The dream-spell with a pensive half-smile, as she wakes
To new splendour. But lo! while I mused, we have slid
From the open, the stir, down a lonely lane-way,
Into hush and dark shadow! fresh smells of the sea
Come cool from beyond; a faint lamp mistily
124
And the waves still break in with their song full of dole,
Their forlorn barcarole,
As my gondola glides.
VI.
Then the silent lagune stretched away through the night,And the stars, and the fairy-like city behind,
Domes and spires rising spectral and dim: till the mind
Becomes tranced in a vague, subtle maze of delight;
And I float in a dream, lose the present—or seem
To have lived it before. Then a sense of deep bliss,
Just to breathe—to exist—in a night such as this;
Just to feel what I feel, drowns all else. But the gleam
Of the lights, as we turn to the city once more,
And the music, and clangour of bells booming slow,
And this consummate vision—St. Mark's! the star-glow
For background—crowns all. Then I step out on shore.
The Piazzetta! my life-dream accomplished at last,
(As my gondola goes)
I am here: here alone with the ghost of the past!
But the waves still break in with their song full of dole,
Their forlorn barcarole,
As my gondola goes;
And the pulse of the oar swept through silvery spray
Dies away in the gloom, dies away, dies away—
Dies away—dies away—!
125
A FRUIT PIECE.
I.
I have seen the gifts that brown Vertumnus broughtTo coy Pomona, from the hot noontide
Sheltering within her bower; when he sought
With all his wealth to win her for his bride.
The lusty god unawares came to her side,
And laughing as half-drowsed his love he caught,
Showered in her lap his pride
Of fruitage ripe from orchard boughs down-raught.
II.
Upon his head he steadied a huge bowl,Forged out of gold by Vulcan, ivory-rimmed,
Craftily carven with fantastic scroll
Of legends olden and devices quaint,
And sumptuously o'erbrimmed
With its heapéd load—bees humming round it stole
The hoarded sweets, and butterflies, half-faint
For very bliss, fed, with their gorgeous wings
Wide-waving to the sun with tremulous flutterings.
126
III.
Thence first he flung pink, delicate-fleshed strawberries;And store of cool-juiced cherries
That freshen the parched lips of hot July;
And currants red and white,
Flashing in silvery light
Like rubied carcanets in leafy canopy;
With Ethiop mulberries of giant size,
And musky amberous and red-blooded raspberries.
IV.
Then, as she smiled for wonder, he outpouredAll fruitful Autumn's hoard:
Lush golden apricots that, tasted, bring
Memories of cowslipped Spring;
Plump sun-split figs, shot with immingling shades—
Olive and dusky violet, cloying-sweet;
The burden of white-armed Sicilian maids
In their brown baskets, where no siroc's heat
Can blast the succulent strength of verdurous leaves,
Five-cleft, and waving in the cool sea-wind
With changing shadows flung on walls and eaves
And bloomy, satin-skinned,
And luscious-melting plums, purple and green,
Bursting with ripeness, dropping at a touch
From their age-wrinkled boughs—as they had been
With their own treasures weighted overmuch.
127
V.
And still in her o'erflowing lap he pouredAll fruitful Autumn's hoard;
Flushed nectarines, honey-hearted, morsels meet
To recompense the earth-doomed Lord of song
For lost Olympian banquets; and with these,
Peaches he had watched, the sultry summer long,
Bask on hot garden walls, whereto their trees
Clung with their ripening load, sucking each sweet
Of the boon soil; peaches, their downy cheeks
Ablush with glowing crimson—luxuries
Of fragrant richness, kept from prying beaks;
Peaches with summer in their nectarous juice,
And stored-up sunshine, and the soul of the rose
In their ambrosial pulp! In heaps profuse
He strewed anon the bower of her repose
With royal bunches of fresh-blooméd grapes,
Deep-purpled, luminous emerald, lustrous black,
Tasting of vintage where warm southern capes
Stretch with their vines to baked cliffs, hurling back
In creaming foam the surge of opal seas—
Full of old autumn's sunniest-hearted wine,
His secret-hoarded, deep deliciousness.
Lucid magnificent clusters huge as these
Young Bacchus crushed with infant hands divine—
Soft shapes of reddening vine-leaves, swayed by a breeze,
Down-wavering on wide lips and fingers' stress.
128
VI.
And next he showed her, swelling in their pride,Great pine-apples, with leafy diadems
Royally crowned, and clad in kingly mail
Of scaléd bronze; smelling of forests wide
Where magian cedars, from their opulent stems
Exuding balmy gums, lend the soft gale
Circean incense—borne for many a mile,
To lure tossed sailors to some charméd isle.
VII.
Then rolled forth melons, green or ruddy-fleshed,Cool from sunned garden corners—every rind
Split to display its dragon-toothéd seeds;
With each well-flavoured kind
Of fragrant apple, breezily rocked and riped,
Beneath the guard of uncouth Termini,
In orchards old amid the flowery meads.
The earliest rime had touched maturingly
The vintage of their hearts, and left them—striped
Carnation-wise, red-cheeked, or shining yellow—
Filled with fresh oxymel, frostily keen.
Them followed odorous pears, sere-hued and mellow,
Which seasoning hung, great-wombed, till they had seen
August's last sultriness beloved by bees,
Drinking the still delicious melancholy
Of the declining year even to the lees;
129
Love-cherished sorrows, and long-lost delights,
In seldom-opening cells of memory
Dimly to live again. What next invites?
Lo! clusters of brown filberts, snatched with glee
By truant children in the squirrel's haunt,
For their creamy kernels. On her lap fell last
The fruit hell-tasted of Proserpina—
Blood-stained pomegranates, plucked from boughs that flaunt
Their scarlet flowers, though summer heats be past.
This sumptuous vision on a day I saw.
130
A SKETCH FROM NATURE.
An Autumn day! Splendour of light and shade,
Come the familiar landscape so to bless
With visitings from the sky, that, glade by glade,
The old grows new in its rich changefulness.
How swell the breasts of those proud cumuli,
Aglow with permeant light; no mass the same
Even for an instant; each still hurried on
By the fresh breeze, and rent—letting the sky
Gleam through: domes—chasms—you know not how they came,
And even while you are gazing they are gone.
Come the familiar landscape so to bless
With visitings from the sky, that, glade by glade,
The old grows new in its rich changefulness.
How swell the breasts of those proud cumuli,
Aglow with permeant light; no mass the same
Even for an instant; each still hurried on
By the fresh breeze, and rent—letting the sky
Gleam through: domes—chasms—you know not how they came,
And even while you are gazing they are gone.
The sky!—the blue abyss of tremulous air,
Alive with hues of subtlest palpitance,
Through which you gaze for ever, yet can ne'er
Fathom its azure, barred with many a lance
Of delicate cirrus—child of upper heaven,
Born out of mist, film-like, yet strangely still—
High-poised above the passionate unrest
Of the low-clouds that gather, and are driven,
And ruined at the wind's capricious will—
Vanishing into air, crest after crest.
Alive with hues of subtlest palpitance,
Through which you gaze for ever, yet can ne'er
Fathom its azure, barred with many a lance
Of delicate cirrus—child of upper heaven,
Born out of mist, film-like, yet strangely still—
131
Of the low-clouds that gather, and are driven,
And ruined at the wind's capricious will—
Vanishing into air, crest after crest.
Magnificence of change! Upon the hill
Cloud-shadows soft with fitful sungleams play,
In tenderest sequence; while the fresh west wind thrills
The frame with joy of health. Beneath its sway
Yon field of ripening corn sways like a sea,
Hissing. The grove sings in the breezy stress—
Lithe beeches toss their boughs, and oak and elm
Whiten at every gust, as gloriously
They wave their deepened wealth of leafiness
In the mid-distance, a wide-wooded realm.
Cloud-shadows soft with fitful sungleams play,
In tenderest sequence; while the fresh west wind thrills
The frame with joy of health. Beneath its sway
Yon field of ripening corn sways like a sea,
Hissing. The grove sings in the breezy stress—
Lithe beeches toss their boughs, and oak and elm
Whiten at every gust, as gloriously
They wave their deepened wealth of leafiness
In the mid-distance, a wide-wooded realm.
Now a cloud drives away, and warm and bright
The sunshine smites this field. Yon cottages-eaves
Are loud with swallows gathering for their flight,
And now and then some restless spirit leaves
The crowd, to skim once more the well-known plain;
Far overhead are battling with the wind
A pair of curlews—screaming as they pass;
Around me insect-life goes on amain,
Blithe grasshoppers with music of their kind
Answer each other in the sunny grass.
The sunshine smites this field. Yon cottages-eaves
Are loud with swallows gathering for their flight,
And now and then some restless spirit leaves
The crowd, to skim once more the well-known plain;
Far overhead are battling with the wind
A pair of curlews—screaming as they pass;
Around me insect-life goes on amain,
Blithe grasshoppers with music of their kind
Answer each other in the sunny grass.
132
Magnificence of change! On such a day
Existence is a passion: not the joy
That fills the glad exuberance of May,
But deeper, tempered with a calm alloy
Of melancholy. When the ripening year
Draws to its full fruition; when all hues
Of earth are mellowest; when the changeful sky
Is loveliest in its changes: yet we hear
The winds begin their dirge for what we lose
When Autumn's purple fruitage is gone by.
Existence is a passion: not the joy
That fills the glad exuberance of May,
But deeper, tempered with a calm alloy
Of melancholy. When the ripening year
Draws to its full fruition; when all hues
Of earth are mellowest; when the changeful sky
Is loveliest in its changes: yet we hear
The winds begin their dirge for what we lose
When Autumn's purple fruitage is gone by.
135
IN SEPTEMBER.
Where lurk the merry elves of the Autumn now,
In this bright breezy month of equinox?
Among tanned bracken on the mountain's brow?
Or deep in the heather, tufted round white rocks
On a wild moor, where heath-bells wither slow,
Twined with late-blooming furze—a home of grouse?
By river alders? Or on stubbly plains?
Bound not their kingdom so:
They follow Beauty's train, of all her house
Gay pensioners, till not one leaf remains.
In this bright breezy month of equinox?
Among tanned bracken on the mountain's brow?
Or deep in the heather, tufted round white rocks
On a wild moor, where heath-bells wither slow,
Twined with late-blooming furze—a home of grouse?
By river alders? Or on stubbly plains?
Bound not their kingdom so:
They follow Beauty's train, of all her house
Gay pensioners, till not one leaf remains.
The splendour of the year is not yet dead;
After cold showers the sun shines hotly still,
To dry the grass and kiss the trembling head
Of each wind-shaken hairbell on the hill.
The spirit has room to ramble far and wide
Through all the breezy circles of the sky,
To shoot on silvery beams from southern clouds
Where sunlight loves to hide,
Or brood upon the vale's blue mystery,
Whence routed mists fly trooping, crowds on crowds.
After cold showers the sun shines hotly still,
To dry the grass and kiss the trembling head
Of each wind-shaken hairbell on the hill.
The spirit has room to ramble far and wide
Through all the breezy circles of the sky,
To shoot on silvery beams from southern clouds
Where sunlight loves to hide,
Or brood upon the vale's blue mystery,
Whence routed mists fly trooping, crowds on crowds.
136
Heaven hath its symphonies! What tones combine
To swell the cadenced chords of luminous grey
That change upon the abysmal hyaline,
Whose glimpses sweet throb to the azure play
Of an ethereal melody, tender as eyes
That shine through tears of unrequited love,
Pure as the petals of forget-me-nots!
Such unheard harmonies
The deaf ears of Beethoven smote from above
Through vision—filled with heaven his inky blots.
To swell the cadenced chords of luminous grey
That change upon the abysmal hyaline,
Whose glimpses sweet throb to the azure play
Of an ethereal melody, tender as eyes
That shine through tears of unrequited love,
Pure as the petals of forget-me-nots!
Such unheard harmonies
The deaf ears of Beethoven smote from above
Through vision—filled with heaven his inky blots.
As Ceres, when she sought her Proserpine,
Slow moved, majestically sad—a wreath
Of funeral flowers above those eyes divine—
The widowed year draws ripely to its death.
The moist air swoons in stilléd sultriness
Between the gales; save when a boding sigh
Shivers the crisp and many-hued tree-tops,
Or the low wind's caress
Wakes the sere whispers of fall'n leaves that lie,
Breathing a dying odour through the copse.
Slow moved, majestically sad—a wreath
Of funeral flowers above those eyes divine—
The widowed year draws ripely to its death.
The moist air swoons in stilléd sultriness
Between the gales; save when a boding sigh
Shivers the crisp and many-hued tree-tops,
Or the low wind's caress
Wakes the sere whispers of fall'n leaves that lie,
Breathing a dying odour through the copse.
A few pale flowers of Summer linger late
For languid butterflies, wind tost, that leave
Their garden asters, tempted to their fate
By the wild bees; stray blooms of woodbine grieve
On their close-twisted stems in brambly dells—
Haunt of the cottage-children's much delight
On sunny afternoons; by hedge and stream
Tremble the delicate bells
Of bindweed, bride-like, with its wreath of white
Moving things withering of new Springs to dream.
For languid butterflies, wind tost, that leave
Their garden asters, tempted to their fate
By the wild bees; stray blooms of woodbine grieve
On their close-twisted stems in brambly dells—
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On sunny afternoons; by hedge and stream
Tremble the delicate bells
Of bindweed, bride-like, with its wreath of white
Moving things withering of new Springs to dream.
Soon the last field is gleaned, safe harvested
The tardiest-ripening grain, and all the dale
Made glad with far-seen stacks; barn floors are spread
With golden sheaves, sport of the clanging flail;
In sunny orchards the mossed apple-trees
Bend with their ruddy load, and wasp-gnawn pears
Tumble at every gust; the berried lanes
Blush with their bright increase;
Brown acorns rustle down; and in their lairs
Deft-handed squirrels hoard their daintiest gains.
The tardiest-ripening grain, and all the dale
Made glad with far-seen stacks; barn floors are spread
With golden sheaves, sport of the clanging flail;
In sunny orchards the mossed apple-trees
Bend with their ruddy load, and wasp-gnawn pears
Tumble at every gust; the berried lanes
Blush with their bright increase;
Brown acorns rustle down; and in their lairs
Deft-handed squirrels hoard their daintiest gains.
So the month wanes, till the new-risen moon
Shines on chill torpor of white mist—stretched o'er
Low-lying pastures, like a weird lagune
In a dim land of ghosts; and evermore
Through the sad wood the wind sighs wailfully,
And great owls hoot from boughs left desolate,
When first the morn finds skeleton-leaves made fair
With frosted tracery;
And then must all things frail yield to their fate—
October strikes the chord of their despair!
Shines on chill torpor of white mist—stretched o'er
Low-lying pastures, like a weird lagune
In a dim land of ghosts; and evermore
Through the sad wood the wind sighs wailfully,
And great owls hoot from boughs left desolate,
When first the morn finds skeleton-leaves made fair
With frosted tracery;
And then must all things frail yield to their fate—
October strikes the chord of their despair!
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ROMAUNT OF THE MYRTLE.
I.
Never was song stranger than mine—All of a falcon that flew through the brine,
All of a falcon that flew o'er the sea
To the dim Islands of Twilight; where be
Groves of pale myrtle—where wander and wait,
Hovering and hoping, before heaven's gate,
The ghosts of sad lovers!
There wait and wander, frail meteors of fire,
Spirits, death-snatched in their morn of desire,
Their April of passion—when lips, at his kiss,
Freeze, ere the heart be made perfect thro' bliss
To pass the glad portals.
There came the falcon that flew o'er the sea—
To the wan white bosom of Eulalie.
II.
Never was song stranger than mine—All of a dove that flew back through the brine,
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With a pale myrtle-spray from the wan Eulalie,
To Mainz in the Rhineland!
In Mainz was high-feasting, and Berthold was there;
And Frauenlob chanted the praise of the fair,
And eyes grew more bright, cheeks more beauteous, and wine
Foamed fresh to their lips, in great flagons ashine;
And the king's heart was merry, the courtiers were clad
In robes of rejoicing; but Berthold was sad
For the loss of his falcon.
To him came the dove that flew back o'er the sea,
With that pale sweet token from Eulalie.
III.
Never was song sweeter than mine—All of this dove that flew back through the brine,
To Berthold—mute-brooding, and wroth at their glee—
With the flower of love-longing from wan Eulalie,
Sweet, sweet with her sighing!
Sweet with her sighing, and pale with her kiss—
What glimpse of forgotten deep byeways of bliss
Grew clear to his vision—what fragrance of dreams,
What nightingale music by weird-flowing streams
Made mystic each sense—what wild glamour bid start
The passionate fountains long-failed in his heart,
Till he fainted for yearning!
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His ghittern—the music died harshly; and all
Was tumult. Men rose, women shrieked, and 'twas said
By knots of scared whisperers: ‘Berthold is dead!
In Mainz in the Rhineland.’
But Berthold was speeding far, far o'er the sea,
To the warm breast of his own Eulalie!
141
CHORALE.
Where shall Freedom's banner wave?
Where shall be the glorious grave
Of the world-redeeming brave?
Where shall be the glorious grave
Of the world-redeeming brave?
Not in fanes that once were holy,
Cities proud, or hamlets lowly;
Not in plots 'mid sheltering trees,
Pleasant haunts of lovers' ease.
Cities proud, or hamlets lowly;
Not in plots 'mid sheltering trees,
Pleasant haunts of lovers' ease.
But where lightnings flash and glare,
Burning poison from the air;
And the eagle laughs aloud
In the glooming thunder-cloud;
Where the free winds come and go,
Where sweet waters rise and flow,
On mountain-peaks where first the day
Sets his feet that make no stay;
Burning poison from the air;
And the eagle laughs aloud
In the glooming thunder-cloud;
Where the free winds come and go,
Where sweet waters rise and flow,
On mountain-peaks where first the day
Sets his feet that make no stay;
There, clear-shining like a star,
O'er the clouds beheld from far,—
On her fortress, once the grave
Of the world-redeeming brave,
There shall Freedom's banner wave!
O'er the clouds beheld from far,—
On her fortress, once the grave
Of the world-redeeming brave,
There shall Freedom's banner wave!
142
ANASTASIS.
How sweet the mother-touch of Nature's hand
Comes cool upon the feverish brow of thought,
When with dimm'd eyes and sluggard brain we stand,
Athirst for some lost blessedness, unsought
Long years—down-trodden in the onward rush
That sunders us from our child-hearted selves;
And with how glad amaze
We lave grown limbs where deathless founts outgush
In the fresh fields of youth, and genial elves
Lull us with mellower music of old days!
Comes cool upon the feverish brow of thought,
When with dimm'd eyes and sluggard brain we stand,
Athirst for some lost blessedness, unsought
Long years—down-trodden in the onward rush
That sunders us from our child-hearted selves;
And with how glad amaze
We lave grown limbs where deathless founts outgush
In the fresh fields of youth, and genial elves
Lull us with mellower music of old days!
New heavens, new earth; yet with what quiet sense
Of home long-lost; an afternoon, mayhap,
We wander forth in sullen impotence,
Dead, from dead labour—seeking but one scrap
Of Beauty's bread of life—more sick for all
The grimy squalor of suburban things;
When from some lucid womb
Of thronéd cloud that holds the heavens in thrall,
Glorious o'er dusty trees, an angel springs,
Strong-wing'd, to snatch us from the dismal tomb.
Of home long-lost; an afternoon, mayhap,
We wander forth in sullen impotence,
Dead, from dead labour—seeking but one scrap
Of Beauty's bread of life—more sick for all
The grimy squalor of suburban things;
When from some lucid womb
Of thronéd cloud that holds the heavens in thrall,
Glorious o'er dusty trees, an angel springs,
Strong-wing'd, to snatch us from the dismal tomb.
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And we arise new-born, as now I do,
Crown'd with yon majesty of silver snows,
Gathered and gleaming from the abyss of blue.
The cloudland with its infinite repose
Follows me moving, tempted on and on
By rural glimpses—restful peeps—that yield
Glad harvest for sage eye:
Now 'tis a lane of hedgerow elms, anon
Stray'd sheep at browse about a pleasant field,
Or sun-smit poplars quivering in the sky.
Crown'd with yon majesty of silver snows,
Gathered and gleaming from the abyss of blue.
The cloudland with its infinite repose
Follows me moving, tempted on and on
By rural glimpses—restful peeps—that yield
Glad harvest for sage eye:
Now 'tis a lane of hedgerow elms, anon
Stray'd sheep at browse about a pleasant field,
Or sun-smit poplars quivering in the sky.
Subtly the changeful music of my mood
Deepens to riper perfectness, and fills
Earth and wide air with heaven. Lingering I brood
By the shrunk river's bed. Each moment thrills
With mystery of content, which gently blends
All in one trance—burnt stubbles bare of sheaves—
Clear shallows, with their cress
And glancing minnows—osiered river-beds
Shimmering in breeze and shine; even yellowing leaves,
Low whisper with suggested happiness.
Deepens to riper perfectness, and fills
Earth and wide air with heaven. Lingering I brood
By the shrunk river's bed. Each moment thrills
With mystery of content, which gently blends
All in one trance—burnt stubbles bare of sheaves—
Clear shallows, with their cress
And glancing minnows—osiered river-beds
Shimmering in breeze and shine; even yellowing leaves,
Low whisper with suggested happiness.
Through all his ways boon Autumn seems to smile—
O for the virgin lips of Perdita,
To name the flowers that on this fairy isle
Cluster and crowd! Here chaste Angelica
Queens it, in leaves superb and tufted crown,
O'er Michael's daises; and the rustling wind
Stirs, like a rising thought,
Pure bindweed bells tangled o'er brambles brown,
With sad long-purples (by Ophelia twined)
Mirror'd among the lush forget-me-not.
O for the virgin lips of Perdita,
To name the flowers that on this fairy isle
Cluster and crowd! Here chaste Angelica
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O'er Michael's daises; and the rustling wind
Stirs, like a rising thought,
Pure bindweed bells tangled o'er brambles brown,
With sad long-purples (by Ophelia twined)
Mirror'd among the lush forget-me-not.
Once more the supreme splendour of the year:
I have invoked thee, Beauty, and my face
Shines from thine orisons: no burdock drear
Shall be my rosary in such holy place;
But coral loading of the mountain ash;
Or haws in bright profusion. Sauntering and slow
I move with homeward feet,
Glad with the village children as they splash
The sand pools. Shall I find the evening-glow
Warm on the starry jasmines of our street?
I have invoked thee, Beauty, and my face
Shines from thine orisons: no burdock drear
Shall be my rosary in such holy place;
But coral loading of the mountain ash;
Or haws in bright profusion. Sauntering and slow
I move with homeward feet,
Glad with the village children as they splash
The sand pools. Shall I find the evening-glow
Warm on the starry jasmines of our street?
145
THE WASTE OF NATURE.
“A fine woman! A fair woman! A sweet woman!—The pity of it,
Iago!—O, Iago, the pity of it, Iago!”
The wild wind dolefully
Howls o'er the wintry plain,
And shrieks o'er the desolate sea,
Like a soul in pain.
The old house shudders and groans,
As the torrents of sleety rain
Bluster and moan in the chimney
And rattle the drenchéd pane.
Howls o'er the wintry plain,
And shrieks o'er the desolate sea,
Like a soul in pain.
The old house shudders and groans,
As the torrents of sleety rain
Bluster and moan in the chimney
And rattle the drenchéd pane.
I sit by a dying fire,
Watching the embers red;
And the midnight is ghostly around me,
And the house abed.
And as gust after gust shrieks seaward,
Far off on the waves to die,
I seem to hear in the pauses drear,
The time throb audibly by.
Watching the embers red;
And the midnight is ghostly around me,
And the house abed.
And as gust after gust shrieks seaward,
Far off on the waves to die,
I seem to hear in the pauses drear,
The time throb audibly by.
146
Why dost thou ache, poor heart?
Eyes, why will ye not close?
Must these burning lids gape ever apart,
Though I crave repose?
I feel the wings of the ages
Sweep over me in their course,
And the wheels of the universe crush me
With irresistible force.
Eyes, why will ye not close?
Must these burning lids gape ever apart,
Though I crave repose?
I feel the wings of the ages
Sweep over me in their course,
And the wheels of the universe crush me
With irresistible force.
Is this Thy work, God of Mercy?
Thy world a yawning abyss!
Didst Thou make man in Thine image—
Make woman—for this?
That each should be bait for the other,
As devils haul us ashore,
Twice-tempted to double damnation?
Or why did we learn this fiend-lore?
Thy world a yawning abyss!
Didst Thou make man in Thine image—
Make woman—for this?
That each should be bait for the other,
As devils haul us ashore,
Twice-tempted to double damnation?
Or why did we learn this fiend-lore?
O dreadful world, where one foolish fault—
One paltry mistake—
Will make such mischief as God Himself
Can never unmake!
Must a woman be lost forever
Because she is blithe and fair?
My curse upon love and beauty!
My curse on the gifts that snare!
One paltry mistake—
Will make such mischief as God Himself
Can never unmake!
Must a woman be lost forever
Because she is blithe and fair?
My curse upon love and beauty!
My curse on the gifts that snare!
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What needs the curse? It has fallen—
Naught else has power to damn
To a deeper depth such a blasted
Lost wretch as I am.
Yes:—for this my thanks to the devil—
One deeper plunge I can try:
Tempt others down to perdition,
And curse my Maker, and die.
Naught else has power to damn
To a deeper depth such a blasted
Lost wretch as I am.
Yes:—for this my thanks to the devil—
One deeper plunge I can try:
Tempt others down to perdition,
And curse my Maker, and die.
148
THE CHRIST-CHILD.
The Christ-child came to my bed one night,
He came in tempest and thunder;
His presence woke me in sweet affright,
I trembled for joy and wonder;
He bore sedately his Christmas-tree,
It shone like a silver willow,
His grave child's eyes looked wistfully,
As he laid a branch on my pillow.
He came in tempest and thunder;
His presence woke me in sweet affright,
I trembled for joy and wonder;
He bore sedately his Christmas-tree,
It shone like a silver willow,
His grave child's eyes looked wistfully,
As he laid a branch on my pillow.
And when he had left me alone, alone,
And all the house lay sleeping,
I planted it in a nook of my own,
And watered it with my weeping.
And there it strikes its roots in the earth,
And opens its leaves to heaven;
And when its blossoms have happy birth
I shall know my sins forgiven.
And all the house lay sleeping,
I planted it in a nook of my own,
And watered it with my weeping.
And there it strikes its roots in the earth,
And opens its leaves to heaven;
And when its blossoms have happy birth
I shall know my sins forgiven.
149
ODE TO DYSPEPSIA.
I.
Accursed Hag! Hell-conceived, fury-born,Twin sister of the fiend Despair, avaunt!
Hence with thy harpy talons, which have torn
Too long my vitals! Down to thy damnéd haunt
Of caverned horror and heart-eating woe!
Leave me, and plunge below
To that black pit, with all thy ghoulish crew
Of loathsome-visaged shapes;
Nightmares that come with pallid features blue
To rack me with soul-shattering escapes
From grisly phantoms. Vampires, flapping wings
Obscene about my bed;
Dread, formless, and abominable Things
That rise from gory pools, till o'er my head
The shuddering night is full of fiery eyes
And threatening fingers pointing scorn! Ye dead,
Haunt me not thus! Come not in fearful guise
Gibbering from bloody shrouds, or, long-engraved.
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What coffin-planks have saved
From the worm's banquet. 'Twill not bear the light,
That mass of swollen corruption—green decay
Makes hideous every member! Get thee hence,
Foul incubus! Take thy loathed weight away
From off my breast! O sickening horror—! Whence
Comes any help? I wake, and it is day!
Thank heaven that night is done! But with the morn
Come fiendish voices whispering suicide—
Madness—damnation; with malignant scorn
My anguish they deride.
II.
Joy, for my chains are breaking! Get thee gone,Fell sorceress! Hellward roll thy scorpion train,
Too long its hateful coils have round me lain;
But now thy reign is done.
Day breaks in gladness, and night comes to steep
Mine eyelids in her drowsiest honey-dew,
And folded by the downy wings of sleep,
Pillowed secure on her maternal breast,
In happy dreams and healing slumber deep
I sink to balmy rest.
151
THE SEXTON'S DAUGHTER.
O bitter, bitter was the blast,
And bitter was the sky,
And in the churchyard thick and fast
The rain fell drearily.
And bitter was the sky,
And in the churchyard thick and fast
The rain fell drearily.
The rent clouds scudded by the moon
And smothered up the stars;
The bent gate creaked a dismal tune
As the wind raved through the bars.
And smothered up the stars;
The bent gate creaked a dismal tune
As the wind raved through the bars.
The gravestones glimmered clammy and cold
In the chill grass, row on row,
And oozings cold sank through the mould,
Till they froze the dead below.
In the chill grass, row on row,
And oozings cold sank through the mould,
Till they froze the dead below.
From the grey porch came half represt
An infant's famished cry,
Where a young mother, babe on breast,
Had laid her down to die.
An infant's famished cry,
Where a young mother, babe on breast,
Had laid her down to die.
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There in the morning, stiff and cold,
Clasping her child she lay.
The sexton stumbled, I've been told,
Upon his daughter's clay.
Clasping her child she lay.
The sexton stumbled, I've been told,
Upon his daughter's clay.
153
HOW IT STRIKES THE CULTURE PHILOSOPHER.
'Tis written:—‘If thine eye offend,
Pluck it out!’
Nay hold, my friend!
Stop a moment—is it wise
Recklessly to tear out our eyes,
Lest they sometime may offend us?
Looks the danger so tremendous,
When we strive to walk by sight,
That we should, trembling, quench our light
And grope along, our path to find,
Blind and leaders of the blind?
Stop a moment—is it wise
Recklessly to tear out our eyes,
Lest they sometime may offend us?
Looks the danger so tremendous,
When we strive to walk by sight,
That we should, trembling, quench our light
And grope along, our path to find,
Blind and leaders of the blind?
Still his cry is:—‘Out, vile jelly!’
Men will go crawling on their belly,
Eyeless,—doing ill what dogs do well,
Finding their way by dint of smell!
‘This way our Master's footsteps went.’
What! do you never lose the scent?
'Tis so befouled, one might suppose
The eyes should supplement the nose.
Men will go crawling on their belly,
Eyeless,—doing ill what dogs do well,
Finding their way by dint of smell!
‘This way our Master's footsteps went.’
What! do you never lose the scent?
'Tis so befouled, one might suppose
The eyes should supplement the nose.
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And you cripples—halt and maimed!
Do you never feel ashamed
Of limping in such sorry plight?
If a limb were lost in fight,
Of the stump one might be proud;
But to glory in avowed
Self-mutilation, pardon me,
Looks like downright insanity.
Prepare to run the race of life,
And use the amputating knife
On your own limbs! Well, heaven preserve us!
You christian stoics make one nervous.
I can't maltreat my flesh and blood,
As if 'twere only so much mud,
I must strive onward all complete—
Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and hands and feet.
It seems to me I need them all;
If for whole men your heaven's too small,
I can't get in—I'm satisfied,
Till it's enlarged, to—stand outside.
Do you never feel ashamed
Of limping in such sorry plight?
If a limb were lost in fight,
Of the stump one might be proud;
But to glory in avowed
Self-mutilation, pardon me,
Looks like downright insanity.
Prepare to run the race of life,
And use the amputating knife
On your own limbs! Well, heaven preserve us!
You christian stoics make one nervous.
I can't maltreat my flesh and blood,
As if 'twere only so much mud,
I must strive onward all complete—
Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and hands and feet.
It seems to me I need them all;
If for whole men your heaven's too small,
I can't get in—I'm satisfied,
Till it's enlarged, to—stand outside.
(Strange, while I scarce can stir a peg
They make such running on one leg!)
They make such running on one leg!)
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