University of Virginia Library

PRELUDE TO CANTO II OF SIR FLORIS.

WHAT is there in this life of ours,
Wherein are few of fairest flowers,
But hold within their hearts some sting,
So wholly fair as love-liking?
And what so fit to be the theme
Of poets' lays, in their first dream
And flush of golden minstrelsy,
When not a thing the eye can see
Or thought can deem but is transformed
By magic phantasy and warmed
To lyric sweetness by the glow
Of youth and songfulness? I trow
It hath been oft reproached to us,
Who in the weary world do thus
With heart and hand seek to express,
In human melodies, the stress
Of song and beauty that amid
The wild waste whirl of life lies hid,
That we too wholly sing of love
And set its sweets too much above
All other sources of delight
And on its radiance jewel-bright
Too fondly dwell; wherefore there pass,
Unmirrored in our verses' glass,
Too many fitter themes of song
And therewithal is done much wrong
And much neglect to many a thing
Of higher worship. We who sing,
We hold there is none other theme
Than this of love; for we do deem
That it all others doth include
And holdeth all in servitude;
Since there is nought that everywhit
Is void of some poor love in it.
E'en in the loathly brood of ills,
That with such sore embroilments fills
Our sordid lives, there is some fair,
In envy, hatred and despair,
Some far faint trace of loves laid waste
And from their proper sphere displaced,
To work ill fortune, as all things
Most high and holy, that one brings
To other than their right fair use,
Grow rank and rotten with abuse
And from a blessing grow a curse,
The better thing to be the worse,
Misused. And if a man enquire
Of aught wherefrom, within the tire
Of this round earth, there may be got
Some glow of pleasance, is it not
Of Love begot and born of him?
The soft star-shimmer on the rim
Of heaven and all the bright array
Of sun and moon, of night and day,
That holds the halls of heaven above,
Says not our Dante, “It is Love,
“Almighty Love, that moves the sun
“And stars?” The clear sweet songs that run
Athwart the trellis, when the spring
Brings backs delight to every thing,
Is it not Love makes linnets sing,
Makes brooklets trill and violets blow
And every natural thing below
The sky that is to be most fair
And pleasant? And this Love, whene'er
It seizes on one's heart and hand,
Will not unbind its silken band
Until the thing it wills is done
And its commandments every one
Wrought out with tongue and soul and song.
Wherefore, methinks, the way is long
I have to travel in my rhyme,
Or e'er I come into a clime
Where Love will let me go from him.
Nay, where, indeed, but in the dim
Domain of Death should one abide,
To 'scape his power, the sunny-eyed,
Meknoweth not. And now, indeed,
As I may hope for Love its meed,
There is on me commandment laid
Of that high Lord the heavens that made
And love-liking thereto, that I
Should sing of love and amity.
Wherefore there is no living soul
That I will stoop to his control,
To let me from this theme of mine,
How Floris of the wonder-wine
Of love drank deep and how he won
The fairest maid beneath the sun.
Ladies, have heed; this touches you,
This song I tune my strings unto,
For high sweet striving and delight
And true love between dame and knight.