University of Virginia Library

VOL. I

SINE ME, LIBER.....

NARRATIVE POEMS.

THE ROMAUNT OF SIR FLORIS.

In this sweet world and fair to see,
There is full many a mystery,
That toil and misery have wrought
To banish from the sight and thought
Of striving men in this our air
Of pain and doubt, and many a fair
Sweet wonder that doth live and move
Within the channel of Christ's love.
And of these, truly, aforetime
Was made full many a tender rhyme
And lay of wonder and delight;
And by full many a noble knight
And minstrel was the story told,
With the sweet simple faith of old,
Of how the questing was fulfill'd
Of that Sangreal that was will'd
By the dear God to Galahad,
And how by many a one was had
Rare venture in the holy Quest,
Albeit very few were blest
With comfort in the sight of it;
And by that menestrel, to wit,
(Oh sweetest of all bards to me
And worthiest to Master be
Of all that sing of Christ His knight
And Questing of the Grail!) that hight
Of Eschenbach, the tale was writ
Of Percivale, that now doth sit
Within the bosom of the Lord,
And how he strove with spear and sword
Full many a year for Christ His grace.
And with delight of those old lays,
There long has murmur'd in my brain
A song that often and again
Has cried to me for utterance;
And now—before the sad years chance
To bear all thought of holiness
From men with mirk of pain and stress
Of toil—it wearies me to tell
Of all that unto Floris fell,
And all his toil and all his bliss
And grace in winning to Christ's kiss.
Wherefore, I pray you, hearkeneth,
The while with scant and feeble breath
I tell to you a quaint old tale,
Wherein is neither sin nor bale,
But some sweet peace and sanctity:
And there not only wonders be,
But therewithal a breath of love
Is woven round it and above,
That lovers in the Summer-prime
May clasp warm hands o'er this my rhyme,
As finding there some golden sense
Of Love's delicious recompense:
For what withouten love is life?
And if therein is any strife,
Or therewithal offences be,
I pray you pardon it to me:
Wherefore, Christ hearten you, I say,
Et Dieu vous doint felicité.

I.THE FIRST COMING OF THE DOVE.

HARD by the confluence of Rhone
A castle of old times alone
Upon a high grey hill did stand
And look'd across the pleasant land;
And of the castle castellain
And lord of all the wide domain
Of golden field and purple wood
And vineyards, where the vine-rows stood
In many a trellis, Floris was;
A good knight and a valorous
And in all courtesies approved,
That unto valiantise behoved.
Full young he was and fair of face
And among ladies had much grace,
And favour of all men likewise:
For on such stout and valiant guise
His years of manhood had he spent
In knightly quest and tournament,
There was no knight in all the land
Whose name in more renown did stand,
And the foe quaked to look upon
The white plume of his morion,
When through the grinding shock of spears
Sir Floris' war-cry pierced their ears
And over all the din was blown
The silver of his clarion.
So was much ease prepared for him
And safety from the need and grim
Hard battle against gibe and sneer
That must full oft be foughten here—
For evil fortune and the lack
Of strength to thrust the envious back—
By many a noble soul and true;
And had he chosen to ensue
The well-worn path that many tread
For worship, all his life were spread
Before him, level with delight.
But if in shock of arms and fight
Of squadrons he disdainèd not
To win renown, the silken lot
Of those that pass their days in ease
And dalliance on the flower'd leas
Of life was hateful to his soul;
And so—when once the battle's roll
And thunder was from off the lands
Turn'd back and from the war-worn hands
The weapons fell—he could not bring
His heart to brook the wearying
Of peace and indolent disport
Of ease. Wherefore he left the court—
So secretly that no one knew
Awhile his absence-and withdrew
A season to his own demesne,
And there in solitude was fain
To yearn for some fair chance to hap
And win his living from the lap
Of drowsy idlesse with some quest,
That should from that unlovely rest
Redeem him to the old delight
Of plucking—in the bold despite
Of danger—from the brows of Fate
Some laurel. Nor had he to wait
The cooling of his knightly fire;
There was vouchsafed to his desire,
Ere long, a very parlous quest,
That should unto the utterest
Assay his knightly worth and test
The temper of his soul full well
And sore. And on this wise it fell.
It chanced one night,—most nigh the time
When throgh the mist-wreaths and the rime
The hours begin to draw toward
The enchanted birthnight of the Lord,—
That in the midnight, on his bed,
He heard in dreams a voice that said
“Arise, Sir Floris, get thee forth,
An thou wouldst prove thee knight of worth!”
Gross slumbers of the middle night
So held and clipp'd the valiant knight,
He might him not to speak address
For slumber and for heaviness.
Again it rang out loud and clear,
So that he might not choose but hear,
And in his heart he quaked for fear;
But still he lay and answer'd not,
Such hold had sleep upon him got.
A third time through the chamber past
The voice, as 'twere a trumpet's blast:
“Arise, Sir Floris, harness thee,
For love of Christ that died on tree!”
He started up from sleep for fear
And groped to find a sword or spear,
Thinking some enemy was near;
But of no creature was he ware.
He saw the moon hang in the air—
As 'twere a cup of lucent pearl—
And in the distance heard the swirl
Of waters through the silence run;
But other sight or sound was none.
The moonbeams lay across the night,
In one great stream of silver-white,
And folded round the Christ that stood
At bedhead, carven in black wood;
And Floris, looking on the way
Of light that through the chamber lay,
Was ware of a strange blossoming—
As of some birth of holy thing—
That in the bar of silver stirr'd;
And as he gazed, a snow-white bird
Grew slowly into perfect shape,
As if some virtue did escape
From that strange silver prisonhouse
Into the city perilous
Of life, and for its safety's sake,
The likeness of a fowl did take.
The light seem'd loth to let it go
Into this world of sin and woe
(So pure and holy) and put out
Long arms of white the dove about,
As if to net it safely in:
But, as the holy bird did win
Its way and through the meshes rent,
The rays of light together blent
And fell into a cross of white,
Whereon the silver dove did light
Above the image benedight.
Sir Floris wonder'd at the sight,
And looking on the cross, himseem'd
That from the Christ a glory gleam'd
And lay in gold toward the door;
And something bade him go before.
He rose and girt himself upon
With helmet and with habergeon,
And in his hand his sword full bright
He bore, that Fleurdeluceaunt hight.
The dove flew out into the air,
And Floris follow'd through the bare
Dumb ways and chambers to the gate,
Whose open leaves for them did wait,
And as into the night they past,
Together were behind them cast.
The night was dumb, the moon did glower
Upon them, like a pale sick flower
That in the early chill of spring
Mocks at the summer's blossoming,
And over every hill and stowe
The ways were white and sad with snow.
So pass'd he, with the silver dove
That went before him and above,
Within the sheeny moonés light—
Wherewith her outspread plumes were dight,
So that it seem'd each wing became
And grew into a silver flame—
Until the hollow'd snow was track'd
Into a woodway, where there lack'd
The moonlight and the mountain-side
With drooping ash and linden vied
To keep the hollow place from sight
Or glimmer of the pearly light.
The dove flew in, and following,
Sir Floris heard a muffled ring
Of silver in the mountain's womb,
As if dead music there had tomb.
Here she with folded wings did beat
Upon the rock that stayed his feet;
Whereat it open'd, and they went,
By dint of some strange wonderment,
Into a place of flowers, all sprent
With jewels of the blossom-time;
And all the air was sweet with rhyme:
There reign'd an endless summer-prime.
Tall green was there of leaféd trees,
And in the blossom'd walks the breeze
Was music, such as winds and plays
About the May-sweet woodland ways,
When spring is fresh and hope is clear;
And in the place, where leaves are sere
On earth, there lay great heaps of gold,
Ywrought by wizardry untold
To semblance of the Autumn's waste,
Through which the sweet wind play'd and chased
Its frolic breaths with perfume laden.
In grass stood many a white maiden
That lily in the outworld hight;
And roses all the herbage dight.
Bright plaited beds of jewel-flowers
Were thick-set in the garden bowers,
And many a row of sunflowers stood
Along the marges of the wood,
And to the sapphire heaven turn'd,
As if toward the sun they burn'd.
About the blossoms, round and over,
Strange golden-crested birds did hover,
That flash'd and sparkled like a flight
Of wingèd starlets in the night;
And as they went, their pinions beat
The air of that serene retreat
To rush and sweep of magic song,
And through the trees was sweet and strong
The trill of lark and nightingale.
There was not any note of wail,
In song of birds or sweep of wind,
Such as in woodlands calls to mind
The last year's winter and the next,
Wherewith the listener's soul is vext
And thinks how short the spring will be
And how the flower-times change and flee
Toward the dreary month of snows.
The full glad passion of the rose
Was joyous in the garden air,
And every sight and sound was fair
With unalloy'd contentedness.
There could not enter any stress
Of labour or of worldly woe;
But ever through the place did flow
A silver sound of singing winds,
A breath of jasmine and woodbinds,
As if all joy were gather'd there
And prison'd in the golden air.
And as Sir Floris wonderèd
At those sweet flow'rets white and red
And at the stream's sweet song, that set
The garden-breezes all afret
With breaking waves of melody,
And at the bird's sweet minstrelsy,—
There came to him a damozel
(How fair she was no man can tell),
And said, “Fair knight, now wit thou well
That thou hast gotten great renown,
In that sad world where trees are brown
And ways are white in winter-time,
And hast in many a maker's rhyme
Been celebrate for gentilesse
And valiant doings in the press
Of armèd knights and battle-play,
In tournament and in mellay;
And over all the land is known
How, many a time, thy horn has blown
To succour maidens in distress,
And oftentimes have had redress
The needy by thy stroke of sword.
So that to him, that is the lord
Of this fair place, the fame has won
Of all that thou hast dared and done
In perfectness of chivalry;
And he, who uses well to see
Great deeds of arms and shock of spears,
Has seen no one in all these years
That may be chosen for thy peer;
And therefore has he brought thee here,
To try thee if thou canst endure
Battle and venture, forte et dure
Beyond the wont of men on earth;
Wherein if thou canst prove thy worth,
He will advance thee to his grace
And set thee surely in high place
Among his knights.” “Fair damozel,”
Said Floris, “liketh me full well
The quest, by what you say of it:
But now, I pray you, let me wit
Who is this lord, whose hest you bear,
That is so high and debonair?
And what adventure must I prove
Before that I can win his love?”
And she, “His name I may not tell;
Hereafter shalt thou know it well;
But thou shalt see him presently.”
Then did she join her bended palms,
And falling down upon her knee
Among the knitted herbs and haulms,
Did softly sing a full sweet rhyme;
And in a little space of time
Was visible among the treen—
Against a trellised work of green
That at the garden's farthest end
Athwart the leaves did twine and wend—
A man, that walk'd among the flowers
As slftly as the evening hours
Walk in the summer-haunted treen.
Full tall and stately was his mien,
And down his back the long hair lay,
Red-gold as is the early day.
Whereon a crown of light was set:
Whoever saw might ne'er forget
The sweetness of his majesty.
But in no wise might Floris see
Or win to look upon his face;
For, as he went, he turn'd aside
His visage, as it were to hide
The light of its unearthly grace
From mortal eyes. Then Floris said,
“I pray thee of thy kindlihead,
Fair maid, that I may come to look
On this lord's visage.” But she shook
Her head, and “Patience!” did she say.
“Thou must in fear and much affray,
For this fair place and for the fame
Of him that master of the same
And sovereign is, be purged and tried
And many a venture must abide,
Ere thou mayst look upon his face
And win the guerdon of his grace.
And now the time is come to prove
Battle and hardship for his love.
Adieu, sir knight: be bold and true!”
Whereat she sped beyond his view,
And eke that figure vanishèd;
But Floris, lifting up his head,
Was ware of a strange hand that bare
A cross and stood in middle air
And on the white plume of his crest
Did for a moment lie and rest.
Therewith great ease was given him,
And healing freedom from all dim
Sad doubt of fortune and of fate
In that great strife, that did await
His proving: and the strength of men
In him was as the strength of ten
Redoubled. Then he saw, beside
His feet, a flower-bed fair and wide
Of roses mingled red and white,
Full sweet of smell and fair of sight,
That in a trellised red-gold grate
Did hold a high and holy state
And spread around such wealth of balm,
Their scent seem'd one great golden psalm
Of perfume to the praise of God.
Then Floris knelt upon the sod
Of that fair place and unto prayer
Betaking him, was quickly ware
How up the silver-spangled grail—
That through the green did twine and trail
Of that bright garden's goodliness—
Some gruesome thing tow'rd him did press,
As 'twere the roses to despoil.
So sprang he lightly from the soil
And from its scabbard iron-blue
His falchion Fleurdeluceaunt drew
And kiss'd its fair hilt cruciform;
Wherewith his heart wax'd bold and warm
With courage past the wont of men.
Now was a loathly thing, I ween,
Made visible to him—that might
Well take the boldest with affright.
For up the sward to him did run
A beast yet never saw the sun;
As 'twere a dog with double head,
Whose hinder parts were fashionèd
Into the likeness of a worm.
Full black and grisly was his form
And blazing red his eyes and tongue
With raging choler, such as stung
His lusting heart to rob and tear
The flowers that in the garden were.
But as he came anigh the place
Wherein those roses all did grace
The greensward, to his troubled sight
Was visible that valiant knight,
That in whole armour of blue steel
Before the flowery shrine did kneel,
To save the emblems of Love's joy
From his most foul and rude annoy.
Wherefore at him with open mouth
The monster ran, as 'twere its drouth
And ravening lust to wreak and slake
Upon him. Then did Floris take
His sword, and with so stout a blow
Upon the beast's twin neck did throw
The edge, that with the dolorous stroke
The thread of its foul life he broke
In twain, and from the sunder'd veins
The black blood strew'd with loathly stains
The tender grass and herbs therein;
And as among the flowers-stalks thin
The hideous purple gore was sprent,
From forth the stain (O wonderment
And grace of Mary merciful!)
There open'd out the petals full
And lovesome of that snowy bloom
That is in all earth's sin and gloom
The fairest of all flowers to see,
The lily of white chastity.
Right glad was Floris of the sight
And of the scent that from the white
Gold-hearted bells to him was lent;
And as he o'er the blossom bent
To breathe its fragrance, suddenly
There came a sound across the lea,
That was as if a lion roar'd;
And truly o'er the flowered sward
There ran to him a tawny beast,
Red-maned, that never stay'd nor ceased
To roar, until the knight could feel
His hot breath through the grated steel
That barr'd his vizor, and his claws
Sought grimly for some joint or pause
In the hard mail, where he might set
His tusks and through the rent veins let
His life-blood out upon the land.
But Floris, lifting up his brand,
Him with such doughty strokes oppress'd
Upon his red and haughty crest,
That soon he made him loose his hold;
And in a while, no longer bold
And arrogant, he would have fled,
But that Sir Floris on his head
With the sharp edge smote such a blow,
The red blood from the rift did flow,
And with the blood the life did pass:
Wherefore from out the bloodied grass
There was uplift the rose of love,
With scent and blossom fair enough,
I trow, to guerdon many a toil
And many a battle in the coil
Of earthly woes. But there was yet
No time for Floris to forget
His trouble in the red flower's sight:
He must again in deathly fight
Be join'd for the security
Of that fair garden's purity.
For swiftly in the lion's place
A raging leopard came, the grace
Of those sweet roses to despoil;
And as he came, the very soil
Quaked underneath him, such a might
To wreak his cholerick despite
'Gainst him that was the sovereign
Of that fair place, and such disdain
Did rage in him, that he could see
No thing for anger. So was he
Against the roses well nigh come,
Nay, was in act to spoil their bloom,
When through his heart the deadly blade
Slid cold; and turning round, he made
At Floris with a vengeful roar,
And with his claws his thigh he tore
A hand's-breadth in his agony.
Then down upon the grass fell he
And died; and in the tender sward,
Whereon his felon blood was pour'd,
The sign of humbleness was set,
The flower that men call violet.
Full faint was Floris with the loss
Of blood, that from the wound across
His thigh did run in many a rill,
And would have fain awhile been still
Without reproof. But no repose
Must he expect (nor one of those
That in God's battle fight on earth)
Nor pleasance of delight and mirth,
But many a dint and many a blow
Unceasing, till God will his woe
Be ended and the goal be won.
And so, as there he sat, anon,
Whilst wearily he look'd along
The fair wide path, he saw the strong
Slow travel of a hideous snake,
That with much toil its way did make
Toward the roses where he stood.
So faint he was with failing blood
He might not summon any strength
To smite its black and gruesome length
At vantage, crawling, but must wait
Until, with slow and tortuous gait,
It won to him. So weak he was,
He could not choose but let it pass
Toward the trellis; and eftsoon,
By him that lay in some half swoon,
Across the grass it slid and twined,
About the grating that confined
The flowers, its black and hideous length
And breathed on them with all the strength
Of hate its envying soul could know
To gather in a breath, and so
To spoil their fresh and goodly bloom:
Whereat the blossoms with the gloom
Of its black coils, that shut the light
From over them, and with affright
And sickness of its loathsome breath,
Came very nigh to take their death.
For with such potent spells the air
Its venom darken'd of despair
And malice, that the lovely red
And white of their bright goodlihead
Was to a sickly pallor turn'd,
As if some loathly fever burn'd
Within their hearts: and in a while
No kiss of breeze or golden smile
Of sun had won them back to life,
So spent were they with the fell strife
Of that curs'd beast,—had not a sweep
Of wings awaken'd from the sleep
Of pain Sir Floris and the scream
Of a great bird, whose plumes did seem
To brush his forehead, roused his sense
From the constraint of indolence.
Then sprang he up in strength renew'd;
And when he saw the serpent lewd
And hideous, that in his embrace
Did strangle all the life and grace
From out the flowers, he made at him
And with a grip so fierce and grim
Oppress'd his scaly swollen neck,
That with the dolour and the check
Of blood within his venom'd veins,
The snake must needs relax the chains
In which he held the rosery;
And in the act so mightily
He leapt at Floris, that he wound
His arms and body closely round
With scaly rings, and so uneath
Did grip the knight, that little breath
Seem'd in his body to be left;
But, summoning all strength, he reft
The horrid fetters from his breast
And flung the worm with utterest
His might full length against the ground.
There whiles it lay in seeming swound;
And Floris, thinking it was dead,
Would have lain down his weary head
Upon the grass, to take some ease
Awhile. Then from among the trees
There came that fowl, that had awoke
Him with its passing pinions' stroke,
And with so hard a buffet drove
Him down to earth, he could nor move
Nor speak awhile, but lay as dead:
And that foul bird, with eyes of red
And vulture claws, did strive the while
At every joint and crack of mail
To wound him with its noisome beak.
At last a place it found where weak
The armour was, and with such spite
Into Sir Floris' flesh did bite,
That for the fierceness of the pain
He started up from sleep again
And with so fierce and stout a blow
The vulture strake, the steel did go
Athwart the pinions and the crest,
And riving down the armour'd breast,
Did hew the gruesome snake in twain,
In whom the life began again
To flutter. So the loathly two
With that stroke died; and with the dew
Of their foul blood, the lovely green
Of the fair sward did such a spleen
And hate of its despiteous hue
Conceive, that quickly sprang to view
A twine of snow-white clematis,
The sign of sweet content that is;
And where the bird in death was cold,
There grew the glad bright marigold,
That in its gay and golden dress
Was ever symbol of largesse,
Since all along the meads there run
Its mimic mirrors of the sun,
Withouten any speck or flaw.
But none of this Sir Floris saw,
Nor how the roses lightly wore
The freshness of their bloom once more;
So weary was he and so worn
With strife, and therewithal so torn
With claws and beak of that fierce bird,
He lay aswoon and saw nor heard
Or sight or sound. Now must I tell
A wondrous thing that here befell,
Through grace of God and Christ His Son:
For, while he lay aswoon, came one
In white and shining robes array'd,
And touch'd him on the lips and said,
“Arise, Sir Floris, whole of wound,
And fill thy quest!” And so was gone.
And Floris started up from ground
And was all whole in flesh and bone
And full of heart the end to dare
Of that hard venture. Then the air
Was of a sudden darken'd o'er
With some foul thing, that semblance wore
Of a half bird and a half worm,
Join'd in one foul and loathly form;
And with the rattle of the scales
Upon its wings—that (as huge flails
Upon the golden garnered wheat
With ceaseless rhythmic pulse do beat)
Did lash and wound the golden air—
The songs of breezes deaden'd were,
And all was dumb for much dismay:
And with its sight the lift grew gray.
And as it wheel'd on open wings,
With many blows and buffetings
It strove to daunt that valiant knight
And him enforce for sheer affright
To yield to it and let it fill
Its hungry maw at its foul will
With those fair flowers. But Floris stood
Undaunted, and with many a good
Stout stroke of point did wound the beast,
Wherewith it bled and much increased
Its ravenous rage. Then, suddenly,
He felt sharp claws about his knee,
And looking down, no little wroth,
He saw a huge and monstrous sloth,
Which with such might did grip his thighs
And clipt his arms on such hard wise,
That he could scarce with bended shield
Resist him and uneath could wield
His trusty sword; and as he strove
That monster from his grip to move,
The dragon with so fell a swoop
Against him from on high did stoop,
That down upon the ground he fell,
And in the falling did repel
The sloth from off him. Then the twain
With such foul rage at him again
Did press and buffet, that the life
Out of his breast with that fierce strife
Was well nigh chased: but, by good hap,
It chanced he fell into the lap
Of those fair blooms of various kind
That did his victory call to mind
Against the cruel beaten foes;
And falling heavily from blows
Of beak and talons, he with such
A grinding weight did press and crush
The blossoms in the harsh and rude
Encounter, they must needs exude
From out their chalices the sweet
And precious essences that meet
To make the perfume of a flower,
And on his face and hands did shower
Their gracious balms. So sweet they were
And of a potency so rare
For salving every earthly pain,
The life began in every vein
With their pure touch to run and glow;
And soon the weary weight and woe
That lay on Floris was dispell'd.
Then, with new strength, from him he fell'd
That hideous sloth; and being free
An instant from his tyranny
And harsh oppression, to his feet
He sprang once more and to defeat
The wingèd worm himself address'd,
That tore and ravish'd at his crest
With ceaseless fury; but it drew
Beyond his reaching, when it knew
Its comrade worsted, and was fain
To wait till it revived again.
But Floris, with a doubled hand,
Smote at the beast with his good brand
So fell a stroke, the sharp death slid
Through bone and sinew and forbid
Returning life to enter in
That loathly dwelling, foul with sin
And sloth;—and so the thing was dead.
And from the blood its slit veins bled
There came to life the blossoms sweet
And gold-eyed of the Marguerite,
Incoronate with petals white.
But that foul serpent with the sight
Of that good blow so sorely grieved
And fill'd with rage to be bereaved
Of its grim comrade was, it threw
All fear aside and fiercely flew
At Floris, with the armèd sting
Of its writhed tail all quivering
In act to strike, and with so strong
A swoop the dart did thrust and throng
Through dent and ring of riven mail,
The deadly point it did prevail
To bury deep in Floris' breast.
Whereat such rage the knight possess'd
That all the dolour he forgot
(Though very fierce it was, God wot,
And sad) and throwing down his blade,
With such a mighty force he laid
To drag that scorpion from his side,
The serpent's tail in twain he wried
And in such hideous wounds it rent,
That from the body coil'd and bent
With anguish it must needs divide.
Wherewith the cleft did open wide,
And such a flood therefrom did flow
Of blood upon the herbs below
That needs it seem'd the flowers must die;
And with the pain so fierce a cry
Of agony the dragon gave,
There is no heart of man so brave
And firm but he must quake at it.
And now the doom of death was writ
In heaven for that unholy beast;
And in a little while it ceased
To cry, and down upon the ground
It fell and died; and all around
The firm earth quaked. And as it died,
The blood—that wither'd far and wide
The herbs and 'mid the stalks did boil
For rage—was dried into the soil;
Wherefore there sprang from out the stain
The holy purple of vervain,
The plant that purgeth earth's desire.
Now may Sir Floris well aspire
To have that peace he needeth so
And easance after toil and woe:
For there is none to fight with him
Of all those beasts so fell and grim;
Nor any sign of further foe
Within the garden is, I trow,
To let him from his victory;
And all around the place was free
From fear; the breezes were a-tune
Again with birdsongs, and the boon
Of scent within the flowers once more
Was golden, nor the heavens wore
The hue of horror and dismay:
And so he may be blithe and gay
And have sweet pleasance. But alas!
No thought of this for Floris was.
Within his veins the venom 'gan
To curdle and the red blood ran
With frozen slowness, as the sting
Of pain went ever gathering
Fresh fierceness through him. Very nigh
It seem'd to him he was to die.
He felt the chills of the last hour
Creep through him and the deathsweats pour
Adown his brow: such agony
Along his every vein did flee,
He could no longer up endure,
Nor hope for any aid or cure;
But down upon the earth he sank
Aswoon, with faded lips that drank
The dews of death, and with a prayer
Half mutter'd in his last despair,
The sense forsook him. So he lay
Aswoon, poor knight, and (well-a-way!)
Most like to die. But there was thought
In heaven for him that thus had fought;
For that fair garden's sake. The love
Of the dear God that dwells above
Was mindful of him, though he knew
It not. And so to him there drew
A tender dream,—as there he lay
Smitten to death with that fierce fray,—
And fill'd his thought; and it did seem
To him, by virtue of the dream,
That over him an angel stood,
And with a sweet compassion view'd
His piteous state, and whiles did strew
Soft balms upon him, strange and new
Unto his sense,—so comforting
And sweet of scent, they seem'd to bring
To him the airs of Paradise;
And with their touch the horrent ice
Of death, that bound his every sense,
Was melted wholly; and the tense
And cruel anguish, that untied
The threads of living, did subside;
And gradually peace came back
Into his spirit, and the rack
Of pain and agony from him
Was lifted. So upon the rim
Of the sad soul a little life
Began to hover, as at strife
With Death, reluctant to forego
His late assurèd prey; and so
The breath came back by slow degrees
To the spent soul, and in great ease
Awhile he lay, and whiles he dream'd
He was in heaven, and it seem'd
He heard the golden harpings stir
The air to glory and the choir
Of seraphim, that stand around
The throne, with one sweet pulse of sound
Coörder'd, lift descant of praise
To Him that is the Lord of Days
And Ancient. Then he seem'd to hear
A voice that murmur'd in his ear—
As 'twere a ring of broken chords
Angelic, mingled with sweet words
(So silver-clear it was)—and bade
Him open eyes: and then one laid
Soft hand upon his lids and drew
The darkness from them. So the blue
Of heaven again was visible
To him, as 'twere some great sweet bell
Of magic flowerage in some prime
Of summer in old fairy-time:
And drinking slowly use of light
And sense of life and its delight
Back into eyes and brain, he turn'd
His gaze from where the heaven burn'd
With full sweet summer, and was ware
Of a fair champion standing there,
Past mortal beauty. All in white
And spotless mail was he bedight,
So clear that there is nothing fair
And goodly but was mirror'd there,
And yet no evil thing nor sad
Was there. Upon his helm he had
A fair gold cross, and on his shield
The semblance of a lamb did wield
A fair gold cross. Upon his crest
The snows of a fair plume did rest
And wave; and eke his pennoncel
Was white as is the new-blown bell
Of that frail flower that loves the wind,
And round his dexter arm was twined
A snow of silk. Full glorious
The splendour of his harness was,
And wonder-lovely to behold:
But as white silver and red gold
Are pale beside the diamond,
So was his visage far beyond
His arms in glory and delight
Of beauty. There was such a might
Of stainless virtue and of all
Perfection pictured, and withal
So wondrous tender in aspèct
He was, it seem'd as if the Elect
Of Christ on earth in him did live;
That, with glad eyes, men might arrive,
Beholding him, to know the love
And gentilesse of God and prove
In him the sweetness of that grace
Which shinèd ever in Christ's face
On earth. And so in very deed
It seem'd to Floris that the need
Of earth was over, and his soul
Was won thereto where life is whole—
Withouten any stress or dole—
At last in joyance, and his eyes
Did view, in robes of Paradise,
That tender angel of the Lord,
That into men's sore bosoms pour'd
Sweet balms and comfort, being set
To temper justice and the fret
Of life with love most pitiful.
And whilst he thus did gaze his full
Upon the radiance of that wight,
The soft and undefiled delight,
That in his visage held full sway,
So purged all Floris' awe away
And eke such boldness to him gave
That he was fain of him to crave
His name. Then, “I am Galahad,
Christ's knight,” he said. Whereat full glad
Was Floris, and all reverently
Unto the earth he bent his knee
Before the knight, and (an he list)
Would fain the broider'd hem have kiss'd
Of his white robe; but Galahad
Did raise him quickly up and bade
Him henceforth kneel to God alone,
That on the height of Heaven's throne
Is for man's soul the only one
Of worship, save sweet Christ, His Son,
And Mary mother pitiful;
And henceforth were no kings that rule
So blest as Floris now should be,
Since that with such high constancy
And noble faith he had withstood
The shock of that unholy brood
And in fair fight had vanquish'd them.
Wherefore for crown and diadem
Of triumph, on the greensward freed
From those foul beasts that there did bleed
Their life away beneath his blade,
In goodly order were array'd
For him those pleasant blooms and fair,
That not alone so debonair
And blithe of aspect were, but eke
Had virtues—more than one might speak
In wearing of a summer's day—
For purging fleshly lusts away
And cleansing from his heart—who wore
Their beauty fairly—all the sore
Sad doubts and weariness of earth,
That so with an immortal mirth
And constant faith his soul was glad,
And evermore sweet peace he had
In love of God and eke of Christ,
The which against all ills sufficed
Of mortal life. And as he spoke,
From the slight stems those flowers he broke
That 'midst the herbage did entreat
The eye with blossom very sweet
And gracious; and (O wonderment!)
Being in his hand conjoin'd, they blent
Their essences in such rare wise,
It seem'd from each sweet bell did rise
A sweeter perfume, and more bright
Their semblance grew, as 'twere some might
Of amity was moved in them—
Being so join'd into one stem—
To heighten each one's loveliness
With all its fellows did possess
Of blithe and sweet. And therewithal,
When from the grass those flow'rets all
Were gather'd, to Sir Floris came
That noblest knight, and in Christ's name,
With fairest look and friendliest speech,
Him of his kindness did beseech
That he from him those blooms would take
And breathe their fragrance. Scarce awake
From swoon was Floris yet; and so
He took them with dull hands and slow,
And did address himself to scent
Their breath, as one half indolent
With sleep; but when the gracious smell
Was won to him, that from each bell
Did float and hovering was blent
Into some wondrous ravishment,
There overcame him such a sense
Of gladsome ease and recompense
Of all his labours, that the dull
Gross drowsiness, that did annul
The soul within the man, forsook
Him wholly; and withal he took
Such gladness, that in every vein
The life seem'd blithely born again;
And through his frame so fresh a flood
Of ardour pour'd, it seem'd the blood—
That in men's pulses sluggishly
Doth throb and flutter—was made free
From earthly baseness and was turn'd
To heavenly ichor. For there burn'd
Within him such a fire of hope,
He felt his soul no more did grope
Within the dreary dusk of earth,
But on the wings of a new birth
Toward the highest heaven did soar.
Nor was there for him any more
A thought of weariness or woe;
But from the earth he rose and so
Was ready for all venturing
And all the quest of holy thing
God might appoint him. Then that knight,
That was apparell'd all in white,—
Most brightly smiling at the new
Glad ardour that did straight ensue
In Floris with those blossoms' scent
And at the holy joy that brent
Upon the dial of his face,—
Within his arms did him embrace
And kiss'd him very lovingly.
Then in this wise to him spake he,
With grave sweet speech. “Beyond the brine,
Where in the Orient first the sign
Of dawn upon the sky is set,—
In that sweet clime where men forget
The winter and the summer lies
So lovingly upon the skies,
That of a truth the very night
Is lucent and the cruel spite
Of darkness never wholly hides
The flowers, but aye some light abides,
Wherefore men call it morning-land,—
A fair and stately house doth stand,
Wherein, by help of God His grace,
Unto my lot it fell to place
That holy token of the Lord,
Which He to mortals did afford
Awhile on earth to look upon
For consolation; but anon,
Moved to slow anger by their sin
And stubborn wickedness, within
His mystery He did withdraw
The blessèd thing: but yet the law
Of that sad doom He temperèd—
Of His great grace and kindlihead—
With mercy. For it was ordain'd
That if one kept himself unstain'd
And pure from every lust and sin,
A virgin, he should surely win
And come to taste of that sweet food
Of the Redeemer's flesh and blood.
And unto me such grace was given
That of all champions who have striven
I have been chosen from the rest
For winning of the Holy Quest;
Since that, as in the Writ we read,
God of the humblest may indeed
Be pleased to make His instrument,
Even unto me that joy was sent,
Surpassing all that of old time
Is told for us in minstrels' rhyme
Of Heaven's mercy: and God wot,
Were passèd o'er Sir Lancelot
And sweet Sir Tristram, that again
The world shall never of those twain
Behold the like, such debonair
And perfect gentle knights they were.
Wherefore to God it seemèd fit
That a fair dwelling over it
Should for its safe keeping be built:
And that no breath of sin or guilt
Might there approach, there was enroll'd
A band of knights, in whom the gold
Of virtue had been smelted out
And purified from sin and doubt
By toil and venture perilous.
And in that high and holy house
In goodly fellowship they dwell,
Until to God it seemeth well—
For long good service done—to call
One of the brethren from the thrall
Of earthly life and with His blest
In Paradise to give him rest.
Wherefore, when one is call'd away,
It is ordain'd that from the grey
Of the sad world another knight—
To fill his place who, benedight,
Has won the guerdon of his strife—
Be chosen out, to cast off life
And with much labour and much pain
Be purified from earthly stain
And tried with woe. If he endure
And from the furnace come out pure
Of sin and lusting, he shall stand
For the dead brother in the band
Angelical and shall be set
With those that, pure of earthly fret,
Do guard the shrine miraculous.
In such a wise enrollèd was
Sir Percivale; and Lohengrin
By like adventuring did win
Among the holy knights to sit;
And many more of whom ye wit.
And lately it the Lord hath pleased
That yet another should be eased
Of his long service and preferr'd
Among the angels to be heard
And scent the breath of heaven's rosen.
And in his stead hast thou been chosen
In much hard strife to be assay'd
And for Christ's service fitting made.
Wherefore this venture has been given
To thee, in which thou now hast striven
So wonder-well, that thou mightst win
To purge thyself of earthly sin.
And having in good sooth prevail'd
Against all dangers that assail'd
Thee and this garden's purity,
There is great bliss ordain'd for thee;
For that thy name shall be enroll'd
Among those knights in ward that hold
The blessed Grail; and thou with me
Beyond the billows of the sea
Shalt come to where that house is fair
Withouten any pain or care,
And shalt awhile taste heaven's bliss
And on thy mouth shalt have the kiss
Of Christ the Lord, that doth assoil
All weariness of earthly toil
And giveth to all sorrows peace
Undying.” So the strain did cease
Of his sweet speaking, and awhile
The very sweetness of his smile
Did hinder Floris from reply:
And eke the thought of bliss so nigh
His lips and all the ravishment
Of promise that he did prevent
In his imagining and lack
Of words for utterance held back
His tongue from speaking anything.
But Galahad for answering
Stay'd not, but, with a doubled grace
Of sweet assurance in his face,
Began to say, in very deed,
That presently there was great need
They should withouten more delay
Toward the dawning take their way,
For many a mile the voyage was
And for great distance tedious.
Then Floris said to him, “Fair knight,
That in whole armour of pure white
Dost serve God in all chastity,
I prithee, lightly show to me
How we may gain that distant land
That by the rising sun is scann'd,—
Since here no manner boat is had?”
Whereat no word spake Galahad,
But with his hand the sign he made,
That makes all evil things afraid
And compasses all good about
With armour against sin and doubt;
And straightway with the holy sign
A white cross in the air did shine
A second, as for answering;
And then the stream's soft murmuring
Grew louder to the sweep of waves
Along the reed-crests and the glaives
Of rushes, and its silver thread
Into a river's mightihead
Was stretch'd; and on the stream did float
The silver wonder of a boat,
Gold-keel'd and fair with silken sails,
Such boat as, in old Eastern tales,
The genii bring at the command
Of some enchanter's magic wand.
And on the prow of cymophane—
Translucent as the pearly wane
Of that fair star that rules the night,
With an internal glory bright—
The milk-white holy bird did sit
And spread soft pinions over it,
That flutter'd for desire of flight.
Therein stepp'd Galahad, Christ's knight;
And after him did Floris come
At beckoning, wholly dazed and dumb
With wonders of that wondrous time.
And as into the stern did climb
The valiant knight, the soft sweet wind
That 'mid the blossom'd trees was twined,
Ceased from its disport in the flowers
And leafage of those magic bowers,
And with such strong yet gentle stress
Within the silken sails did press
Toward the dawning, that the keel
Slid through the waters blue as steel
As swiftly as the morning sun
Shears through the mists when night is done
And day is golden in the sky.
And as it through the lymph did fly
Of that enchanted rivulet,
The golden keel to song did fret
The thronging currents, and the break
Of waves on murmurous waves did make
Rare music in the diamond deeps,
Such music as the West wind sweeps
From out the harps of Fairyland,
When elves are met on some sweet strand
Of Broceliaund or Lyonesse,
For revel and for wantonness.
On all sides round them as they went
The dim grey woods were sad and spent
With weariness of winter-time,
And in the fields the rugged rime
Held all things in the sleep of death,
Stern white and void of living breath;
And with the weary weight of snow
The laden boughs were bent and low.
But in their sails a breath there blew
Of April zephyrs, and there drew
Unto their course a summer cloud
With scents of flowers and birdsongs strow'd;
And echoings of July woods—
When in the green the bluebell broods—
Were thick and sweet about their way,
And ever round the boat's prow lay
The scent of grass-swaths newly mown;
And wildflowers in gold grain and brown
Waved in the sweet dream-haunted air.
So went they,—while the night was bare
Of sound or breath to break the sleep
Of winter,—through the woodlands deep,
And past the well-remember'd plains
And towns and meadows, where the lanes
And streets were hush'd with winter-time,—
And saw no creature on the rime,
Save some stray sheep shut out from fold
Or wolf, that from his forest hold
Was by hard hunger forced to seek
Scant prey upon the moorlands bleak.
So ever without cease they sped
Above that swift sweet river's bed;
And truly, as the golden morn
From out the russet mists was born
And all things 'gan to wake from sleep,
They heard the silver rush and sweep
Of waves upon a pebbled shore;
And gliding past the marish frore,
They came to where the river's tide
Was fleck'd with foam, and near and wide
The main, as far as eye could see,
Slept in a sweet serenity.
Far out to seaward fled their boat,
Across the wild white flowers that float
And blossom on the azure leas;
And swiftly as the culver flees
Among the trees with shadow twined,
They left the frozen fields behind
And saw the spangled foam divide
The firmament on every side.
The golden calm of summer seas
Was there, and eke the July breeze
That waves upon the silver foam,
When in the azure heaven's dome
The sign of summer-prime is set:
And still no winds opposed they met,
Nor break of billows in their way;
But through the dancing ripples' play
The shallop sped toward the dawn,
As by some starry influence drawn,
Over the ridges of the main
Unstirr'd and clear. And still the rain
Of blossoms fell about the stem,
And still sweet odours breathed on them
Of rose and jasmine, and the song
Of birds about the sail was strong.
So over silver seas they went,
And heaven, wide-eyed for wonderment,
Hung o'er them open blue the while,
As though all nature were asmile
To see the goodly way they made:
And ever round the sharp keel play'd
The fretted lacework of the foam,
And through the jewell'd deeps did roam
Great golden fish, and corals red
Waved in the dim sweet goodlihead
Of that clear blue; and through the wave
The shells of many a rich cave
Were visible, wherein the sea
Held in a sweet security
Treasures of pearl and lovely gold,
That eye of man might ne'er behold
Until the main should leave its bed;
And over all the deeps was shed
A glancing play of emerald light,
So that the unembarrass'd sight
Pierced through the cool sweet mystery
Of folded billows, and the eye
Was free in shadows jewel-clear.
Nor was there anything of fear
For them in lapse of hyaline
Or silver breakers of the brine;
Nor in the crystals of the air
Was anything but blithe and fair,
Sweet winds and glitter of fair birds,
Whose song was sweeter than sweet words
Between the pauses of a kiss,
When lovers meet in equal bliss.
So many a day they sail'd and long,
Lull'd by the breezes' flower-sweet song
And pipe of jewel-birds that went
Above them, fair to ravishment;
Until, one morn, athwart the lift
Of blue was visible a rift
Of purple mountain; and a spire
Of amethyst rose ever higher
Into the sapphire firmament.
And drawing nigh, they saw where blent
Its silver currents with the blue
Of that bright ocean, blithe to view,
A fair clear river that outpour'd
Its waters 'twixt soft green of sward
And slope of flower-besprinkled banks,
Where rushes stood in arching ranks,
Tipt with a jewel of fair flower
As blue as is the morning hour,
When in the golden prime of May
The sweet dawn blends into the day.
The swift keel slid between the rows
Of ripples,—as a steed that knows
The road of some familiar place,—
And past the bubbled foamy race
Of eddies, through the sapphire cleft
Of that bright pass, and quickly left
The billows of the sea behind,
As on that goodly stream the wind
Did urge it far into the land.
Surely was never kingdom spann'd
On earth by river such as this,
Where ever some enchanted bliss
Ran in the ripples, and the stream
With liquid gold and pearl did seem
To glitter. There is nought more fair
Beneath the regions of the air
Than this same river; nor in all
Birdnotes is aught more musical
Than the delight of its clear flow
Across the pebbles, soft and low.
And in the banks were wondrous things,
All lovely creatures that bear wings;
And every precious thing of green,
And flower of gold and jewell'd sheen,
Was there in such a perfect shape,
Its essence must full needs escape
The grasp of my poor minstrelsy.
The very grass was fair to see
Beyond the fairest flower of earth;
For with the gold of some new birth
It burnt, and was aflame with bright
Sweet gladness. Very flames of light
The flowers seem'd, zaffiran and blue
And crystal-clear with wonder-dew.
It seem'd their scent so heavenly was,
That into music it must pass
And soar into a perfumed song.
And as the boat was borne along
The golden ripples, in its speed
Dividing many a woven weed,
That with its many-colour'd mesh
Of trailing leaves and flowers did stretch
And wave upon the waters bright,—
Sir Floris, with what prayers he might,
That gracious Galahad besought
That from his lips he might be taught
What was that river and that realm,
That all earth's sweets did hide and whelm
In one etern forgetfulness,
And made all joys that men possess
Seem poor and naught with the delight
Of its exceeding lovely might.
And without pausing, Galahad
To him made answer fair and glad.
“Fair knight, this land through which we pass,
About the city of Sarras
Doth lie; and all the golden plain
Beyond thy vision, for demesne—
By grace and favour of high Heaven—
Unto the Holy Town was given,
Where lies in hold the blessed Grail.—
Before from Paradise did fail
Adam and Eva for their sin,
These happy fields and glades within
The golden gates of Eden were,
Wherein was nothing but was fair:
And this same river of those four
Was one, that of old times did pour
Blithe waters over all the plain,
When life was young and free from stain,
And angels walk'd upon the earth.
And (for their flow) came never dearth
Of kindly fruits nor any drought
Of summer-time the place about;
Nor for the warmth of their clear flood
Might winter nip the flowery bud
Of the perpetual spring, that rain'd
Fresh blossoms there; nor ever waned
The balms of summer in the air,
But evermore the place was fair
With all May-sweets and summer-spells.
And still,—although the cloister'd dells
Of the lost garden no more stand
Upon the peace of the fair land,—
Around its precincts, as of old,
A silver stream with sands of gold
Flows ever, which no foot of man,
Or eye, without Christ's leave, can span;
Of all the four the only one
That still with murmurous waves doth run
In the old channel. Very fair
Its marges are with all things rare;
And over all the land is strown
Thick bdellium and the onyx-stone.”
And many another wondrous thing
Unto Sir Floris, listening,
Spake Galahad of that fair land,
That eye of man hath never scann'd,
Save he have won to Christ His grace.
And as he spoke, came on apace
The tender day and gilded all
The ripples; and the golden ball
Of the sweet sun rose high in heaven;
And unto every thing was given
New ravishment and new delight
Of very waking. Fairer sight
Saw mortal never (nor indeed
So fair within our earthly need
Is compass'd) than the morning hour
That open'd into full sweet flower
With many a rosy flush and rain
Of golden sunlight over plain
And mead, and many a tender shade
Kiss'd into warmth—that in green glade
Lay waiting for the frolic light—
And changed to fleecy gold the white
Of dawn-clouds over hill and wold.
It was so gracious to behold
The day in that sweet Paradise,
There is no man with mortal eyes
Could drink its beauty wholly in,
For dust of care and mirk of sin
That hide much loveliness from men.
And Floris ever and again
Was dumb with awe of much delight
And wonderment; as with swift flight
The boat sped through the flowers that shone
With blazon'd gold and blue upon
That magic river of a dream,
He sat and stored the influence
Of the lush balms within his sense,
And watch'd the ripples all agleam
With jewels, and the constant smile
Of the sweet sunlight. And the while
The songs of birds co-ordinate
And zephyrs with a peace so great
And sweet upon his soul did seize,
And whiles his spirit had such ease
In that sweet speech of Galahad,
He needs forgot that aught of sad
Or dreary in this life is set,
Or weariness of earthly fret;
And did, without a backward glance,
Yield up himself into the trance
Of that new joy. So sped they on
Toward the orient: and anon,—
Whenas the noon was borne along
The midmost heaven, to the song
Triumphal of the joyous choir
Of birds and breezes, ever higher
Soaring in one sweet antiphon,—
There rose in the sweet sky—upon
The fair broad hem of woven gold,
That marged with many a fleecy fold
The sapphire-chaliced firmament—
A glitter of tall spires, that brent
With an unearthly radiance;
And many a jewel-colour'd lance
Of belfry pierced the golden air
On the horizon; and there bare
The wind to them a strain of song
Ineffable, the stream along—
Faint for great distance—that for joy
And triumph over earth's annoy
With such a rapturous sweetness smote
On Floris, he could neither note
The kingdom's varied loveliness
Nor the sweet antiphonal stress
Of winds and birds and rivulet,
But it alone could hear, nor let
Himself from striving up to it;
For with its melody was knit
About his soul an influence
So strong, it seem'd his every sense
Must press toward it. Nay, at last,
For ecstasy he would have cast
Himself headlong into the stream,
That therewithal, as he did deem,
He might the swiftlier win toward
That wondrous singing and the ward
Of that bright town miraculous.
But Galahad the good knight was
Mindful of him, and by his arm
Withholding him therefrom, did charm
His soul with such sweet words, that he
Must for a while contented be
To wait the progress of the boat,
That very speedily did float,
God wot, across the ripples' race,
To where the turrets of the place
Were clear. And so they came at last
To where the running river pass'd
From the long lapse of pleasant wood
And meadow with enchantments strew'd
Of flowers and sun-gold, and were ware
Of the bright town that all the air
With towers and pinnacles did fill,
Set on the slope of a soft hill,
That in the sun wore one clear hue
Of purple blending into blue,
Most like a great sweet amethyst.
And now the gunwale softly kiss'd
The golden shore; and thick with gem
And coral, round the entering stem
Was wrinkled up the glittering sand.
Then Galahad upon the strand
Stepp'd lightly out; and as his feet
Upon the grainèd gold did meet
Of the rich shingle, there was borne
To them the noise of a blown horn,
That was as if a warder blew
To challenge from some tower of view
Within the amber-gated town;
Wherefrom to them it floated down
And fill'd the air with echoings
So sweet, there is no bird that sings
Could find such music in his throat
Melodious. And as the note
Of welcome swell'd and waned around
The hollows of the hills,—unwound
From his mail'd breast Sir Galahad
A silver horn he thereon had
In its white baldrick, and therein
Breathing, its hollow bell did win
Unto so sweet an answering blast,
It seem'd to Floris that at last
He heard the trumps angelical.
Then at the silver clarion's call
The beryl gates were open'd wide
Of the fair town; and on the side
Of the soft hill there was to them
Made visible—upon the hem
Of woven grass with lilies strew'd
And asphodels—a multitude
Of holy knights, that down the sward
In a bright painted pageant pour'd,
With many a waving pennoncel
Of gold and azure; and the swell
Of clarions, co-ordinate
To mystic harmonies, did wait,
With cadences most grave and sweet,
Upon the rhythm of their feet.
So goodly were they of aspèct
And in such pictured raiment deck'd
Of say and samite, there is none,
Minstrel or bard, beneath the sun,
That could have sung of their array
As it befits to sing it,—nay,
Not even he who many a day
In Fäerie enchanted lay
And learnt full many a year and long
The cadences of elfin song,
True Thomas; nor that couthliest wight
In gramarye, that Merlin hight.
Full bright their arms and lucent were
And of a sheen so wonder-fair,
The sun seem'd of a nobler kind
To glitter, when his splendours shined
Upon the silver-mirror'd mail.
And at the sight of them did fail
Sir Floris' courage, that till now
Had never seen thing high enow
To give him pause; for there did come
So strange a fear on him, that dumb
And cold he grew, and haply might
Have swoon'd indeed for sheer affright
Of wonder and great reverence
That lay upon his every sense.
Forsooth, awhile the blood did leave
Its courses and great awe did weave
Strange terrors in him; and with pain
And fear despiteous, he was fain
To hide his visage from the might
Of that much brightness. Then that knight,
Sir Galahad, laid hands on him,
And quickly freed him from the grim
Sad grasp of that unreal fear,
And bade him that of right good cheer
He should become, for knighthood's sake,
And for his honour comfort take
And new stout heart; for shame it was
And pity, one so valorous
And bold in arms should faint and fail,
Where he most surely should prevail,
'Midst those that now his comrades were
And fellow-knights; and with much fair
Discourse did win him from affright,
So that at last he dared the sight
Of those fair knights and saw they gazed
Right courteously on him and praised
His hard-won victory. So he took
New heart, and with assurèd look
Leapt out upon the jewell'd sand:
And as the twain were come to land,
From those knights all so sweet a sound
Of songful greeting did resound,
The blue of heaven could never tire
Of answer; and from many a lyre
And cithern the alternate joy
Of harpings join'd in sweet alloy
Its silver with that golden song.
So Floris was among that throng
Of knights received, with many a kiss
And glad embracement: nor, ywis,
Fail'd Galahad that he should name
Each knight that to the greeting came.
To him was Titurel made known,
And Percivale, to whom was shown—
With Bors—such grace of God most high,
By reason of much purity,
That they alone with Galahad
Upon the earthly questing had
The blessed vision of the Grail:
Nor Lohengrin to him did fail;
And many another noble knight
Of fabled prowess and approved
In gentilesse and all Christ loved,
Did there rejoice him with his sight.
So, for the meed of his good fight,
Into the wonder-town they bare
Sir Floris,—wherein many a rare
Delight to him appointed was.
Bright was the place and glorious
With glory of the abiding love
Of God and Christ, that is above
All splendours marvellous and fair;
And luminous its ramparts were
With pearls and rubies constellate
And diamonds into such state
And harmony as, save in heaven,
Unto no place or thing is given
To wear or look on: such a blaze
Of joy was there, without amaze;
For all was easanceful and sweet
With Christ His grace. The very feet
That fell upon the jewell'd stones
Compell'd them to such silver tones
Of music, and the ruffled air
Was stirr'd to harmonies so fair,
And for mere passage through the place,
Was won to such a subtle grace
Of perfume, that therein to be
And move was one long ecstasy:
And there the dole of earth and stress
Of hope unfill'd and weariness
Was purged, and life was one delight
Of perfect function, by the might
Unfailing of the doubtless soul;
And every act and thought was whole
In striféless àccord. If one spoke,
The hinder'd voice no longer broke
Into harsh sadness, spent and wried
With weary effort, but did glide
Into an unconstrain'd consent
Of harmony and ravishment
Unstressful; and the every geste
Was with like subtle grace possess'd,
And every faculty was cast
In symmetry, whát time one pass'd
The portals of the place and heard
The echoes of his feet that stirr'd
The holy quiet. So the spell
Of the charm'd place on Floris fell
Transfiguringly, as the wide
Gold-trellised leaves on either side
Swung back for him: there came a change
Upon his senses and a strange
Sweet ease of life, as if the soul,
Way-worn and rusted with the dole
And fret of earth, were softly riven
From him, and in its stead were given
To him a new and perfect one,
In a whole body as the sun
Lucent and worthy for the seat
Of the fair spirit. Up the street,
Gold-paven and with chrysolite
And jacinth marged, they brought the knight,
Past many a goodly hostelry
And many a dwelling fair to see,
Unto a portal sculptured all
With handiwork angelical,
In stories of the love of Christ,
And all the times it hath sufficed
To win sad living to much ease;—
And passing on with harmonies
Of choral song, they came unto
A vaulted courtyard, stretching through
A cloister'd vista to fair halls
Of alabaster, where the walls
With many a colour'd crystal shone
Of jewell'd casement; and thereon
The questing of the Holy Grail,
In many a wonder-lovely tale,
Was with bright gold and wonderment
Of colour'd jewel-fretwork blent
To harmony, depicturèd.
And there, in truth, Sir Floris read,—
Beside much other venturing
And many another goodly thing
Achieved in service of the Lord,—
The fight that he with his good sword
Had in the wonder-garden fought.
Nor, therewithal, was missing aught
Of all that did that night befall
To him: but there upon the wall
Was in bright colours pictured forth
The tale of all his knightly worth
And service. Little strange it is
If much he wonder'd was at this
And could for wonder scarce believe
His eyes, that any should achieve
So vast a work and of such grace
And splendour in so scant a space
Of time. But Lohengrin besought
Him very fairly that of nought
He saw he should be wonderèd,
Nor any venture have in dread;
Since that to that high Lord, that there
Did reign, all wonders easy were
And wonderless; nor of His grace
Was anything in all that place
That might avail for any fear
Or doubt, but rather to give cheer
And love and confidence was fit,
So sweet a peace did dwell in it
Of amity and holiness.
Then with slow feet they did address
Their further steps,—by a long aisle
Of cloister'd pearl, wherethrough the smile
Of sunlight filter'd lingeringly
And lay in one sweet soften'd sea
Of gold upon the silver mail,—
Toward the temple of the Grail.
And in a vestibule, that was
Thereto adjacent, did they pause
And in fair garments clad the knight,
With silver radiant and white.
And then into an armoury
They led him, very fair to see
With noble weapons, all arow
Against the wainscot. There a snow
Of plumes upon his crest they bound,
And from the swords that hung around
A goodly blade was given him,
That, to the sound of many a hymn
And many a golden litany,
Had in the glorious armoury
Of highest heaven forgèd been:
So trenchant was it and so keen,—
Being in celestial fires assay'd
And in strange dews of heaven made
Attemper'd,—there might none withstand
The thunderstroke of that good brand,
Except his bosom armour'd were
With equal virtue. Then the fair
Graven presentment of a dove
With eyes of gold was set above
His helm,—most like the fowl that brought
Him to the garden where he wrought
Such deeds of arms; and on the field
Cœrulean of his virgin shield
There was a like resemblant set,
That men might know him, when they met
In sharp sword-play or battle-throng.
Then, with a ripple of soft song,
The golden doors were backward roll'd,
That in sweet mystery did fold
The holy place; and Floris came
Into a hall, where with a flame
Of jewell'd light the air was gilt;
And therewithin the walls were built
Of that clear sapphire jewelry
That can in nowise elsewhere be
Save for the pavement of the sky
And for the throne of God most high.
And under foot the floor was bright
With one clear topaz, as the light
Of the sweet sun in hue. Above
There was y-sprad a flower-bell roof
Of that sweet colour of deep blue
One in the spring may chance to view,
When in the golden-threaded moss
The deep wood-dells are odorous
With violets and the cluster'd bells
Of bee-loved hyacinths, or else
The deep clear colours pers and inde
Of wild-flowers in the gold corn twined
With many a tassel of bright blue,
When summer in the skies is new.—
And in the bell were golden lights,
Most like the tender eye-delights
Of the gold kingcups in the green,
That in quaint wise were set between
The fretted azure of the dome.
And therethorough did meteors roam,
As 'twere in truth the very heaven,
And the sweet symbols of the seven
Great angels that do rule the skies
Were therein jewell'd. In such wise
The varied lights were mixt and blent
With those that heavenward were sent
From walls and pavement,—all the air
Was with that lightsomeness most fair
And tender fill'd, that in the May
Is weft about the sweet young day,
When whiles it seems the sky is dight
With one great primrose of soft light,
Most pure and tender. On the ground
There stood fair statues all around,
Deep-set in woven flowers and green
Of lavish leafage, stretch'd between
Tall carven pillars of that bright
Jewel that chrysoberyl hight,
And many another precious stone.
Nor there were images alone
Of holy things, as one might deem;
But eke full many a lovely dream
Of tender love and constancy
Was in clear gold and ivory
With loving hand made manifest.
For there was nothing there confess'd
Of sin or wantonness in love,—
As ancient doctors teach, that prove
All pleasant things that are to be
Unloved of God. And verily
Sir Floris wonder'd there to see
The histories that makers tell
Of Parisate and Floridelle,
The tale of Tristan and Ysolde,
Of Lancelot and Guenevere,
And many another tale of old,
That men on earth do dully lere
That we should count accurst and ill:
But there depictured were they still,
In very piteous fashion told;
And on the wall in words of gold
Was writ this legend, “Quiconque aime
Complait a Dieu en pechié mesme.”
And while Sir Floris stood and gazed
Upon the statues,—much amazed
At all that he did hear and see
Within the temple,—suddenly
There was a fluted singing heard,
As of some wonder-lovely bird.
And then one took him by the hand
And led him where a gold screen spann'd
The topaz paved work of the floor.
Then was he ware of a high door,
That with much wonderwork of gold
And unknown metals was enscroll'd
In many a trellis of fair flowers
And fronds enough fair for the bowers
Of Paradise; and in the leaves
There sat a bird, that was as sheaves
Of ripen'd corn in hue, and sang—
That therewithal the temple rang—
Of unknown glories of the May,
Therein where life is one long day
Of spring and never change is there,
Nor any sadness in the air.
And as he sang, the golden gate
Swung open slowly, and the great
Sweet hollow of a pure white pearl
Lay clear behind that golden merle,
Into a chamber fashionèd.
There was an altar built and spread
With tapestry of silver white,
Woven with lilies; and thereon
Was set a chalice, out of one
Great emerald moulded,—with samite,
The colour of the heart's best blood,
Enshrouded; and thereover stood
A great white cross and fill'd the air
With living radiance, as it were
A sculptured work of very light.
Then with the wonder of the sight
Was Floris fill'd; and for great awe
And reverence of all he saw
Within the pearl, straightway he fell
Upon his knees. But Titurel
With counsel very fair and wise
Required of him that he should rise
From off the ground and without fear
Unto the altar should draw near
And for an offering thereon
Should lay those blossoms he had won
In parlous fight and much duresse,
That of their blended goodliness
And eke their perfume's ravishment,
There might a sacrifice be sent,
To God and Christ acceptable.
And now a wondrous thing befell,
(God grant us all the like to see);
For as Sir Floris reverently
Upon the silver cloth did lay
The holy flowers (that, sooth to say,
Were bright of bloom and sweet of scent,
Unfaded, as when first they sprent
The greensward) and withdrawing thence
A little space, in reverence
The issue did await,—there came
A hand all shapen out of flame,
And from the emerald of the cup
The crimson samite lifted up;
And as this thing was done, there fell—
As 'twere from out the midmost bell—
A light that through the emerald sped
And mingled with the holy bread;
And with the light, came one that pass'd
Thought-swift athwart the air and cast
Himself into the cup,—as 'twere
The angel of a child,—most fair
And awful. Wherewithal thereout
There went a fire the place about,
And fill'd the temple with its breath,
Wherein was neither hurt nor death;
But of its contact there were given
To Floris very balms of heaven
For consecration; and to eat
There was vouchsafed him food so sweet
And goodly such as no man knows.
Then from the chaliced gem there rose
The semblance of a face, that was
With such a splendour glorious
And awful—and withal as mild
And tender as a little child—
There is no bard can sing of it
As it befitteth, save he sit
(And hardly then) among the choirs,
That to the throb of golden lyres
Do praise God ever night and day
With music such as no man may.—
There is but one of woman born
By whom such aspect can be worn
Of perfect love and perfect awe
Commingled. And when Floris saw
The glory of the eyes and knew
The holy love, that like a dew
From out their radiant deeps was shed
Upon his soul,—for very dread
Of ravishment he could not gaze
Upon their light, but with amaze
And wonderment of joy was fain
Down to the earth to bend again
His eyes: but ere he ceased to see
The vision, of a surety
It was made known to him (although
He wist not how he came to know)
That heavenly face none other was
Than that same Lord's who erst did pass
Before his vision in the green
Of the fair garden, all beseen
With glittering hair. Then as he knelt,
Unseeing, suddenly he felt
Upon his mouth a burning kiss,
That with such sharp unearthly bliss
His soul did kindle into flame
Of ravishment, the wayworn frame
Could not for frailty sustain
The rapturous ecstatic pain
Of that strange joyance, nor the spright
Embodied 'gainst the fierce delight
Endure of that unearthly boon;
And so for bliss he fell aswoon,
And heard therein a great sweet voice,
That bade him fear not, but rejoice,
For Christ the Lord his lips had kiss'd;
And therewithal the Eucharist
Was borne into his mouth, with sound
Of harps angelic all around
Soft-smitten; nor therefore did break
His charmèd sleep. Then did one speak
To him as in the trance he lay,
And with a murmurous voice did say,
That for the service of that Lord,
To whom was sacred now his sword,
It was ordain'd that for a space
He should return unto his place
Upon the earth, and in all things
That life on earth to mortals brings,
Should for his Master's honour strive,
Until the order'd time arrive
When God should set him free from soil
And weariness of earthly toil.
And there was given him a sign
When it should please the Lord Divine
To make His will beneficent
Patent to him,—there should be sent,
Twice more before the period set
For his release from earthly fret,
To him the self-same silver dove,
The holy symbol of the love
Of Christ and of His chivalry.
And it was told him that when he
Of the white messenger had wit,
He should leave all and follow it:
For when it should of him be seen
Anew, as it of late had been,
He should be ware that God had need
Of him elsewhere, in very deed,
Upon the earth, and will'd essay
His service yet within the way
Of living: but what time he heard
The thrice-said summons and the bird
Miraculous unto him came
A third time, in the holy name,—
He should, in following, be freed
From toil and labour and the need
And weariness of day and night,
And from the knowledge and the sight
Of men be ravish'd, to abide
In that fair town beatified
And serve the Grail, till it seem'd fit
Unto the Lord that he should sit
Among the blest in Paradise
And praise Him ever. In this wise
It seem'd to Floris that one spoke
To him with soft sweet speech, that broke
His slumber not, as he did lie
In that long swoon; and suddenly,
The murmur of the speech forsook
His hearing wholly; nor with look
Or ears awhile was anything
Apparent to him, that could bring
The wonders of the holy town
Back to his senses; but the brown
And fleecy-plumaged wings of sleep
Inclosed him wholly. In a deep
And senseless dream awhile he lay,
Until it seem'd to him the gray
Of night that compass'd him about
Was by a radiance from without
Enlumined and the fluted song
Of the gold merle again was strong
Upon his hearing. Then the dim
Gray webs of slumber were from him
Unfolded slowly, and there burst
A golden light on him. At first
The drowsy cumber on his eyes
Allow'd him not to recognize
The place wherein he was, nor know
Wherefrom the amber-colour'd glow
Of light was borne: but speedily
He was aware that he did lie
Upon his bed, and through the fold
Of silken tapestries the gold
Of the young sun upon his face
Was shed; and past the window-space,
Without the casement, could he see,—
Snow-pure against brown stem and tree,—
The charmèd flowerage of that thorn
That ever on the Christmas morn
Is—for a memory and delight
Of the Lord's birth—with blossoms white
Transfigurate. And on a spray
There sat a mavis brown and grey,
That sang as if his heart were shed
Into his minstrelsy and fled
On wings of music heavenward,
A sacrifice of song outpour'd
To God most high. Awhile it seem'd
To Floris he had surely dream'd
The coming of the dove to him
And all his strife against the grim
Fierce beasts, and all the after-bliss
And wonderment, and Christ His kiss.
But looking closelier, he was ware
At bed-head of his helm that bare
A silver dove with eyes of gold,
That on the crest did sit and fold
White wings above it; and he knew
The holy semblant on the blue
Of his fair shield, and eke the blade
Celestial, by his harness laid
Naked at bedfoot. So the doubt
Was from his spirit blotted out;
And he was surely certified
That verily he did abide
That wondrous venture and had known
Awhile the glories that alone,
For those that many a toil have dared
In Christ His service, are prepared
Within the city of the Grail,
Wherein is neither pain nor wail,
But ever holiness and peace
And ravishment without surcease,
In very perfectness of rest.
So hath Sir Floris found his quest;
And so the tale is told and done
Of how, before life's rest was won,
The first time unto Floris came
The holy dove, in Lord Christ's name.

POSTLUDE.

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.

THE BUILDING OF THE DREAM.

I.DESIRE.

THERE dwelt a squire in Poitou of old times,
Under the fragrant limes
That fringed a city very fair and wide,
Set on a green hill-side;
And all about the city with its slow
Interminable flow,
Faint mem'ries murm'ring of a bygone day,
A river went, that lay
Upon the woven greensward of the fields,
In pools like silver shields
Of fallen giants flung upon the grass,
And round the walls did pass
And kiss'd the grey old ramparts of the place
With the enchanted grace
Of its fair crystal shallows, in the morn
Flush'd silver as the thorn
Of a May-dawning and when day was done,
Rose-ruddy with the sun,
That fill'd the arteries of the land with gold.
Fair was the place and old
Beyond the memory of man, with roofs
Tall-peak'd and hung with woofs
Of dainty stone-work, jewell'd with the grace
Of casements, in the face
Of the white gables inlaid, in all hues
Of lovely reds and blues.
At every corner of the winding ways
A carven saint did gaze,
With mild sweet eyes, upon the quiet town,
From niche and shrine of brown;
And many an angel, graven for a charm
To save the folk from harm
Of evil sprites, stood sentinel above
High pinnacle and roof.
The place seem'd sanctified by quietude,
With some quaint peace imbued;
And down its streets the sloping sunlight leant
On roof and battlement,
Like a God's blessing, loath to pass away,
Lingering beyond the day.
But seldom came the pomp and blazonry
Of clamorous war anigh
The calm sweet stead; but there folk came to spend
The days of their life's end
In strifeless quiet, in the tender haze
Of the old knightly days,
That bathed the place in legend and romance.
Haply, bytimes, a lance
Would glitter in the sun, as down the street
The mailed knights rode to meet
The armies of the king of all the land,
And with loud-clanging brand
And noise of many a clarion and a horn,
The bannerets were borne
Before them by their men-at-arms: but yet
The walls were unbeset
By very war and men look'd lazily
Across the plains, to see
The far-off dust-clouds, speck'd with points of light,
That told of coming fight
In the dim distance, where the fighting-men
Trail'd, through some distant glen
Or round the crown of some high-crested hill,
Halberd and spear and bill,
And to the walls the echoed sound would come
Of some great army's hum
And clank of harness, mix'd with trumpet-clang.
And now and then there rang
At the shut gates a silver clarion's call,
And the raised bridge would fall
To give some knight night's harbourage, who went
To a great tournament
Or act of arms in some far distant town
Beyond the purpled brown
Of the great hills. But else the quiet place
Slept in a lazy grace
Of old romance and felt the stress and need
Little in very deed
Of the great world, that compass'd it about
With many a woe and doubt
Unknown to it. Yea, for the quietness
And peace that did possess
The town, had many a learned clerk, that sought
Deep in the mines of thought,
Made to himself a home within the walls;
Among the ancient halls
Wrought many a limner, famous in the land,
And many an one with hand
Well skill'd to sweep the lute-strings to delight,
And crafty men that write
Fair books and fill the marge with painted things,
Gold shapes of queens and kings,
Fair virgins sitting in bird-haunted bowers,
And every weed that flowers
From spring through summer to the waning year,—
Here without let or fear
These all did dwell and wrought at arts of peace.
And there, too, dwelt at ease
This squire of Poitou. Ebhart was his name;
One not unknown to fame
In the old days, when he was wont to rear
Banner and banner'd spear
Before great knights and rend the thickest press
Of foemen with the stress
Of his hot youth. Of old, in very deed,
There once had been much rede
Of his fair prowess and the deeds of arms
He wrought with his stout arms
Upon the enemies of land and king;
And of a truth, no thing
Was wanting to the squire but yet one field
Of fight, ere on his shield
The glorious blazon of a knight should shine,
Before the golden sign
Of chivalry should glance at either heel
And the ennobling steel
Fall softly on his shoulder. But that day
Was long since past away
Out of his thought, and all the old desire
Had faded from the squire
Of golden spurs and every knightly thing.
For, as the years did bring
The winterward of life and age began
To creep upon the man,
Came weariness of strife and wish for rest
And thought that peace was best
For those whose youth had left them and the first
Fresh heat of blood, that burst
All bounds and barriers of rugged Fate.
Wherefore he did abate
His warlike toil, and after many a day
He had himself away
From the grim strife and clangour of the time
Wholly withdrawn, in prime
Of later manhood, and in arts of peace
Thenceforward without cease
His mind had vantaged. And in chief, such quests,
As the old alchymists
And nigromancers sought, himself he set
To follow and forget
The ills of living, seeking in old tomes,
Heap'd up within the glooms
Of scholars' shelves for many a dusty year,
To find the words that clear
The secret of the mysteries of life
And all the problems rife
In changeful being, that for aye anew
Unto the sage do sue
For due solution. Many a year he wrought
At these dim quests, and sought—
Chiefest of all the hidden things that lie
And mock men's fantasy
In the recesses of forbidden arts—
The mystic lore that parts
The soul of man from grinding cares of earth
And with a new bright birth
More blessèd than the angels maketh him;
And had upon the brim
Of the strange knowledge trembled many a time,
Yet back into the slime
Of the old state fell ever, missing aye
The thing he did essay
By some hair's-breadth of crystal pitiless,
That against all his stress
Avail'd to stop his passing heavenward.
So, many a year he pour'd
His strength into the sieve of that strange task,
As in a Danaïd's cask,
And failing ever, ever hoped anew,
And ever did ensue
Upon the well-worn path he loved so well;
Until, one day, it fell
That, studying in an ancient book—fair writ
With chymic inks that bit
Into the pictured vellum of the page
So deeply that with age
The words fail'd scarcely, bound with many a hasp
And quaintly-graven clasp
Of gold and tarnish'd silver,—by some chance
Of favouring Fate, his glance,
That had been wandering dull and listlessly
Amid a prosy sea
Of ancient saws and schoolmen's verbiage,
Lit on a close-writ page,
Whose very aspect made his heart to leap
With some strange stirring. Deep
And long he search'd the scroll, till on a space
Left wide betwixt the grace
Of woven flowers and goldwork, that the rim
Of the fair script did limn
With such bright broidery of lovely hues
As ancient folk did use
To beautify their pleasant books withal,
He read a rescript, all
In twisted Greek, contracted to such maze
Of crabbèd Proclus-ways,
That with much labour hardly could he win
To find the sense within
The gnarl'd, rude characters. But well repaid
For all the toil he laid
To the deciphering, in truth, he was;
For so it came to pass
That as the meaning, veil'd at first and dim,
Grew visible to him
More and more certainly, the squire was ware
That in the scroll a rare
And precious secret of the craft lay hid,
Cunningly set amid
A maze of devious words, that, save to one
Long-learn'd and grey-hair'd grown
In all the occult arts, must lead the wit
Wandering astray from it
Among void fancies. But the squire had spent
Long years in study, bent
Over such books, and so was skill'd in all
Devices wherewithal
The ancient masters sought their pearls to hide
From such profane as tried
To fathom their strange mysteries, and keep
Their wisdom dim and deep
For those alone that of the craftship were;
And so, with toil and care,
After much labour from the scroll he learn'd
The thing for which he yearn'd
So many fruitless years; the charm that frees
The soul from miseries
And joys of life: for it therein was told
That, if with virgin gold
Won with his sweat and beaten into shoon,
Beneath the waxing moon,
With his own hands, a man should shoe his horse
And braced for a great course,
Should fearless ride into the setting sun,—
Before seven days were done,
He of a truth should come unto a place,
Where, with unearthly grace
And ravishment, the dreams of his dead youth,
In all their lovely sooth
Beyond imagining, should be upbuilt
Before his eyes, and gilt
With all the gold and pearls and flówers that be
Within man's fantasy;
And there it should be given him to dwell
For ever, 'neath the spell
Of that unchanging magic of his thought,
Wherein no thing unsought
For lack of his imagining should fail,
Nor any note of wail
Nor hum of weary toil should enter there,
But in the restful air
Life should be painless under dream-blue skies,
Lit with the radiant eyes
Of that fair queen, whom all in dreams do love,
Set in the realms above
Our reach, as Dante loved his Beatrice.—
And lovelier things than this,
Ay, and more wondrous, were recounted there
Of how that place was fair
And bright beyond man's thought of earthly bliss.
So, little strange it is
If Ebhart, reading of the things set down
Upon the vellum, brown
With age, of that old book, grew wonder-glad
And for a little had
Scarce senses to receive the words he read
And all the goodlihead
Of promise, that the faithful scroll had held
So many a year enspell'd
From all but him the master and adept.
Hot tears of joy he wept
To think there was to him, of all his kind,
Alone such bliss assign'd;
And presently began his thoughts to set
Awork how he should get
This thing he yearn'd for: for the man was poor
And hardly could procure
Fit sustenance. In study had he spent
His substance, being bent
On his strange hopes past thought of worldly gain.
But, as he rack'd his brain,
Awhile all fruitlessly, for means whereby
He should make shift to buy
The needed metal, that came nigh to be
The price of a squire's fee,
He suddenly bethought him that there yet,
Uncharged by any debt,
Remain'd to him one little piece of land,
Fruitful enough and spann'd
By the swift Loire; a little vine-set field
Whose fertile soil did yield
A dole of daily substance, scant enough
For all save those that plough
The fields of knowledge; earnt as the reward
Of his young blood outpour'd
On many a foughten field of sunny France;
Which, being sold, perchance
Might, with some curious arms he once had gain'd,
Whilom when Fortune deign'd
To favour him against his foe in fight,
Fulfil the sum aright
He needed to possess the thing he sought.
But if (O woful thought!)
His substance being wasted in this wise,
His glorious enterprise
Should fail, for all his hopes and efforts? Why,
What could he do but die?
And to a fighter, death was terrorless.
While, if the Fates should bless
His long desire with the fulfill'd delight,
Would not his soul be quite
Absolved from life and its ignoble need,
Seeing that he should feed
On the fair food of an unearthly bliss
And with his love's best kiss
And in her sight from all the weary dearth
And stressfulness of earth
Be purified? So either hap might chance,
Ill or deliverance,
And in no wise should he have need again
Of that unlovely bane
Of our dull lives, that is our curse and stay,
Without which is no way
To live nor with it to live happily.
Wherefore his land sold he
And all his arms, except one suit of mail,
Wrought out with many a scale
And ring of steel, and his good sword and spear
And all the warlike gear
He had erst ridden to the battle in,
With age and use full thin
And rusty grown, but still of temper keen
And faithful, having been
A right good armourer's work of middle Spain;
And with the double gain
He bought a lump of virgin gold as large
As a Moor's battle-targe,
Wherewith to work the magic that he learnt
Within the scroll. There burnt
Within his breast so uncontroll'd a fire
And urgence of desire
To fill the measure of his high intent,
That scarce the day was spent,
Whereon he bought the gold, and in the sky
The moon was white and high,
Ere to the roof-top of his house he crept,
And there, whilst all folk slept,
In the full ripple of the flooding light,
Did work the livelong night,
To fashion out the ore with his own hands
Into smooth beaten bands
Of wroughten gold, moulding them circle-wise
Into such shape and guise
As for the seven days' journey should be meet
To guard his horse's feet
Against the highway's stones. The work did grow
Beneath his hands full slow
And tediously; for many a year was past
Since he had labour'd last
At such smith's craft; but yet the earnest will
Redeem'd the want of skill,
And with much toil at last the squire did make
The stubborn gold to take
Shoe-shape. All night he wrought beneath the moon,
And with the dawn the shoon
Fourfold were finish'd, round beyond impeach,
Pierced with four holes in each;
Nor, for the fitting, unto each did fail
The needful golden nail,
To clasp the circlet through the holes fourfold.
And so it chanced the gold
Was wholly spent, to the last glittering grain,
Nor did a speck remain
Of the thick ore, when the last nail was wrought;
Wherefore Squire Ebhart thought
The omen fair and braced his heart with it.
Then, as the night did flit
Across the hilltops in the van of morn
And the pale lights were born,
That in the dawn do herald the young day,
Streaking the cheerless grey
Of heaven with their rose and opal woof,—
Descending from the roof,
Before the daybreak, hastily he clad
The harness, that he had
Yet left to him, upon his sturdy breast
And in his morion's crest
Set the strait plume he had been wont to wear
In the old days, once fair
And flaunting scarlet, but now faded sore.
Then did he strike the four
Worn shoes of iron from his horse's feet,
And in their stead the meet
Gold circlets set and beat them firmly on.
And now the steed must don
His harness and caparisons of war,
Such as of old he bore,
Chanfrein and poitrail with its rusty spike,
Rerebrace and all the like.
And so,—the twain addrest in everything
For knightly venturing
Needful and meet,—the man bestrode his horse;
And on the appointed course
The old squire sallied forth with his old steed,
As over hill and mead
The young day came with slow and timorous feet,
And the chill air grew sweet
With the clear dews and the pure early scent
Of the waked flow'rets, blent
For incense to the daybreak from the earth;
And in the tender birth
Of morning all things joy'd, and tunes were strong
Of larks' and linnets' song.
So, riding through the dim white streets, as yet
Unstirr'd by all the fret
And hum of daily labour, waking all
The echoes with the fall
Of his steed's hoofs upon the hilly way,
He came to where there lay
Before the gate the guardians of the town,
Upon the grass thrown down
To watch the portal, cross'd with many a bar
And bolt of steel. Ajar
The wide leaves stood, whilst sleep possess'd the folk
So wholly, that the stroke
Of the squire's horse-hoofs stirr'd their slumbering
But as an echoing
Of sound in dreams, nor all his calling roused
Them anywise, so drowsed
With sleep they were.—And so he thought to make
His outward way, nor break
The warders' wide-mouth'd rest; but as he strove
The ancient gate to move
On its dull flanges, clogg'd with all the rust
Of many a year, and thrust
The half-closed, ponderous leaves apart enough
To give him way, the gruff
Harsh creaking of the hinge that swung for him,—
Breaking upon the dim
Sleep-troubled senses of the folk that lay
Adream beside the way,—
With some faint mimic sound of buckler-clang
And foemen's trumpets, rang
Within the dull dazed channels of their brain,
Snapping the slumberous chain
Wherewith the dream-god held their heavy sense
In leaden-limb'd suspense;
So that they started up from sleep and saw
The squire, that in the raw
Chill morning dimness pass'd athwart the gate;
And wondering thereat,
Caught up bright arms and cried to him to stay.
But he, upon his way
Slackening not, faced round upon his seat,
That so their eyes might meet
A visage that they knew; and they, for friend
Recalling him, did wend
Back to their ward, with many a mutter'd oath,
Born of their thwarted sloth,
'Gainst him that so untimely broke their sleep.
But Ebhart down the steep
Of the fair hill rode, all unheeding them,
Whilst on the pearlèd hem
Of the far sky the dim day brighten'd up
Into the azure cup
Of the sweet heaven, that lay on field and hill,
All rippleless, until
Its blue deeps broke upon the purple verge
Into a snowy surge
Of swan-breast cloudlets, laced with palest gold;
And then the shadows roll'd
Their mantles round them, and the lingering night
Fled from the coming light.
And so uprose the golden-armour'd sun
And smote the ridges dun
Of the deep-bosom'd hills and kindled all
Their furrows tenebral
Into a wonderwork of luminous spires,
Hung with the fretted fires
Of dawning, and each crest in the pure light
Grew to a chrysolite
Of aspiration. On each upland lawn
Down fell the dewy dawn
And waked the flowers from their green-folded sleep,
And o'er each verdant steep
Of sloping greensward swept the sun-chased mist,
Ruby and amethyst
With pitiless sweet splendour. Every wood
With the sweet minstrel brood
Grew carolful, with, here and there, at first
A note, and then a burst
Of single song, soon swelling to a sea
Of choral ecstasy
And thanks for the young day and the delight
Of victory o'er the might
Of darkness; and each living thing that dwells
Within the cool wood-dells
Or in the meadows, to the awakening
Of that sweet day of Spring
Did homage. So rode Ebhart onward, through
The cool sweet tender blue
Of the fresh springtide dawning, glad at heart,
Following the rays that part
The morning sky to westward. By the edge,
Purple with flower'd sedge,
Of the clear stream, whose tinkling currents went
Toward the occident,
The stout squire fared, through many a thymy field
With the fresh heaven ceil'd,—
Crush'd with his horsehoofs many a tender flower,
That in the sweet dawn hour
Open'd its gold and azure eyes from dreams
Of the near June's sunbeams,
And saw the kine regardant on the grass,
That aye, as he did pass
Across the greensward on his destrere true,
Wet to the hocks with dew,
Turn'd their slow heads to gaze upon the twain
Awhile, then back again
Bent down their muzzles with a lazy grace
To the rich pasture-place,
Thickset with flowers and juicy herbs. And then,—
About the hour when men
Are wont to go to labour and the light
Across the fields grows white
And large with full mid-morn,—the clear stream pass'd
The green sweet fields and fast
Among the emerald cloisters of a wood
Its farther course pursued,
Streaking the moss with brown and silver threads
And sprinkling the pale beds
Of primroses and windflowers, white and blue,
With its life-giving dew.
And in the ways the light grew dim again;
But through the leaves, like rain
Of gold, the sunshine broke and fell in showers
Upon the upturn'd flowers,
Whilst all the birds made carol to the May,
Answering the brooklet's lay
With choral thanks for all the cool sweet rills
It brought them from the hills.
And Ebhart, following the river's way,
Rode onward through the day
Along the fair green lapses of the wood,
With many a network strew'd
Of frolic sunbeams; and as he did fare,
Full often was he ware
Of peeping hares and velvet-coated deer
That fled as he drew near,
And couchant fawns, upon the bracken set
For morning sleep, as yet
Unknowing fright, that with great fearless eyes
Did gaze on him, childwise,
Questioning in themselves what this might be,
Clanking in panoply
Of rust-red mail along the ferny maze
Of the cool woodland ways.
The rabbits scamper'd from his horse's feet,
As o'er some wood-lawn, sweet
With hyacinths, he pass'd, or down some glen,
Purple with cyclamen;
And now and then, as through the wood he went,
On his strange hopes intent,
There met him some tann'd woodman, stout and bluff,
That with a word of gruff
Early day-greeting did accost the squire.
But else of his desire
No foreign harshness broke the pleasant spell,
Nor on his senses fell
A human sight or sound; but all was sweet
And silent, as is meet
For him that dreams in the fair midmost Spring,
Amid the birds that sing
And the fresh flowers that gladden the old world
With their pure eyes, impearl'd
In many a whorl of virginal faint green.
Slow wound the way between
The columns of the trees; and now and then
Some slope of shallowing glen
Ceased suddenly upon an open space,
Where many a fern did lace
The greensward and the heather put forth buds
And the red sad-eyed studs
Of pimpernels did diaper the grass.
Anon the squire did pass
Betwixt lush hedge-rows, riding on again
Along some country lane,
Tangled with briers and the early rose
And the white weed that blows
With fragrant flower-flakes in the flush of May,—
Whereon the shadows lay
Of the new-leaféd trees, that over it
A sun-fleck'd roof did knit
To ward it from the heat. Now, as he went
Adown some steep descent
Or toil'd along some bridle-path, high hung
Betwixt thin woods that clung
Close to the brow of some tall cliff-spur's steep,
His downward glance would sweep
Across gold plains and cities thick with men
And many a hollow glen,
Sweet with the blossom'd vines in many a row,
Toss'd seas of apple-snow
And dropping gold of fire-flowers. Then again,
As on the open plain
The pair paced on and felt the sun once more,
The fragrant breezes bore
To him the distant hum of men and life,
And the clear sounds were rife
In the far distance of the village bells;
And on the mossy fells,
In the blue sky-marge, lay within his sight
Some little town of white,
With roofs rose-gilded by the flooding sun;
For the noon had begun
To hover over hills and charm the air
Into the peace most fair
And stirless of the midday. On the wold
Slumber'd with wings of gold
The hours, and all things rested. Not a breath
Told of the late-left death
Of the sad winter; but the world was glad,
As if for aye it had
The fair possession of the lovely May.
And then again the way
Wound down into the wood, and from the dells
Gush'd up the perfumed swells
Of breath from violets bedded in the moss,
And many a hare would cross
The sunn'd green pathway with a sunbeam's speed;
And still the valiant steed
Paced on, unslackening. So went horse and man,
Until the sun began
To draw toward the setting and the West
Grew glorious on the crest
Of the dumb hills. And now the day did fold
Its mantle of deep gold
And purple for its death upon the hills,
And all the pomp, that fills
The tragedy of sunset with the glow
Of a king's death, did strow
The radiant heaven. So down sank the sun,
And so the day was done;
And in the occident the silver horn
Of the pale moon was borne
Up in the gold-tinct watchet of the skies,
And one by one, the eyes
Of the unsleeping stars were visible
In the clear purple bell
Of that great blossom that we mortals name
God's heaven, and there came
The hush of sleep upon the lovely land.
The Dream-god went and fann'd
The air with flower-breathed breezes, and one knew,
In the clear sweep of dew,
The backward wind, that had been wandering o'er
The pleasant fresh-flower'd shore,
And now upon the breast of the dead day
Came back to die away
Into the stillness. Still the west was flush'd,
Until the day-birds, hush'd
By the prone night, gave place to those that hold
The even with the gold
Of their clear grieving song. The nightingale
Began to tell the tale
Of her great poet's sorrow, that is aye
New-born and may not die,
Being too lovely and too sad withal,—
For sorrow may not fall
Into the deeps of comfortable death,
As may the Summer's breath
And the fierce gladness of the July-tide,—
And to his plighted bride
The night-thrush piped, amid the plaited leaves,
And every thing that grieves
Melodiously for the dead day was fain
To fill the air again
With silver sadness. So the night fell down,
And in her mantle brown
All weary things addrest themselves to sleep,
And over all, the deep
Sweet silence brooded. Then the man was tired,
And eke his steed required
Some natural ministrance of rest and food.
So in the middle wood
The squire dismounted and with ears attent,
Sought for some stream that went
Between the trees; and speedily the plash
Of ripples, that did dash
And gurgle over pebbles, with a note
Of welcome nearness smote
Upon his hearing; and without delay
He came where o'er the grey
Of the moon-coloured mosses, trickled through
The grass-roots and the rue
A crystal rill, that to the wavering moon
Sang up its changeless tune
In the pale night. Thither the squire did bring
His horse; then, by the spring
Kneeling, drank deep and long, and looking round,
Spied fallen on the ground
Great store of berries from a neighbouring tree.
So from the boughs did he
Gather the fruit, and finding it was meet
For human food, did eat
A handful of sweet berries, red and brown,—
And satisfied, lay down
By his tired horse, that had already laid
Himself beneath the shade
Of a great elm, upon the cushion'd moss,
Crushing the flowers across
The twisted grass-stalks in the mossy sward,
For many a fragrant yard,
Beneath his weight; for all the earth was strewn
So thick, beneath the moon,
With all the Spring-tide heritage and dower
Of lovely weed and flower,
One might not tread there but the feet must crush
Many a sweet flower-flush
And broidery on the green earth's bridal gown.
So fell the midnight down;
And still Squire Ebhart, by his sleeping horse,
Mused of the next day's course,
And for the changeless thought of coming bliss,
Forgot to woo the kiss
Of the fair sleep that is all tired men's due.
But, at the last, the dew
Of slumber fell upon his heavy lids,
And the fair God, that bids
The dreamer to the far enchanted land,
Laid on his brows a hand
Of woven moonbeams; till the thoughts took flight
Into the brooding night,
And with a smiling face, the sleeper lay
And dreamt of many a day
Long lost behind the glimmering veils of time,
And in a golden clime
Went wandering through the dreamlands of his youth,
Under the sweet skies' ruth,
Link'd to his lady. So Squire Ebhart slept,
What time the slow night swept
Along the silver woodways and the hours
Folded their wings on flowers,
For peace of moonlight, till the moon 'gan fade
For break of day, that laid
Its cold grey hands upon the purple dusk
And from the hodden husk
Of the small hours drew forth the rosy bud
Of morning, all a-flood
With glittering dews: the golden dawn 'gan wake,
With many a rosy flake
And pearl of sungleams flung across the eaves;
And through the screen of leaves,
That overlay the place where Ebhart slept,
The frolic sunlight crept,
By help of some stray chinks within the woof
Of the green luminous roof,
And kissing all his face, as there supine
He lay, in frolic vine
And grass embow'red, warn'd him that day was come;
And then the awakening hum
Of the fresh wood and the bright tuneful clang
Of quiring birds, that sang
The reveillade of morning, with the gold
Of the broad sun-glow, told
His drowsy sense that it was morn again
And he too long had lain
In faineant slumber. Then did he arise
And from his heavy eyes
Brushing with drowsy hands the dust of sleep,
Awhile watch'd the light creep
Along the crests; then suddenly bethought
Him of the thing he sought
And how, if he would come to his desire,
Before the sun rose higher,
At once upon his forward way he must
Be fain. And so he thrust
His sleep from off him and with gladsome heart
Addrest him to depart
Upon his second day of journeying.
So, stooping to the spring
That well'd up through the thyme-roots clear and cool,
He wash'd away the dull
Gross heaviness of night that lay on him
And standing on the brim
Of the brown rippled pool, he call'd his steed,
That in the neighbouring weed
Did graze; and at his call the faithful beast
Was fain to leave his feast
And to his side came splashing through the fount,
In haste. Then did he mount
Into the saddle without more delay,
And to find out the way
He should travérse, a second he did pause
Half doubtfully, because
The man with sleep was somewhat dazed nor knew
At first what path led due
Toward the setting and the golden west;
Then to the realms of rest,
That lie beyond the day, his face he set,
And spurr'd his horse. Not yet
The dew was sun-dried from the pearlèd grass,
As steed and man did pass
Along the windings of the forest ways,
Nor the faint scented haze,
That hovers in the vanward of the morn,
Over the flowers, had worn
Its shimmering webs away, for the sun-glare,
Into the thin blue air
That waves unseen between the noontide rays;—
For, seven long Spring days,
From earliest morning to the couchant sun,
Must Ebhart ride, nor shun
The long day's labour,—turning not aside
For aught that he espied
Of fair or tempting,—if he would possess
The yearn'd-for loveliness
Of his high dreams. So seven long days he rode
Along green pass and road,
From morning-glitter to the even-gloam,
Under the blue sky-dome,
Following his dream through many changing lands;
Now o'er the white sea-sands,
With horsehoofs splashing through the foamy spray
That broke across the way,—
Now passing through the till'd fair fields of men,
Hearkening to lark and wren
And all the fowls whose kindly use it is
Folk with the promised bliss
Of their sweet song, to hearten at their toil,—
Now riding where the soil
Blew thick and sweet with roses red and white,
And with the fair delight
Of minstrelsy the scented air was weft;
And whiles within the cleft
Of many a bare rock and savage hill,
Whose rifts rich gems did fill
To overflowing and along whose veins
The red gold blazed, like stains
Of sunlight fix'd by some magician's skill.
Through many a mountain rill,
Swollen to torrents by the young year's rains,
And over blossom'd plains
Of heathy moorland, undefiled by feet
Of toiling men and sweet
With blowing breezes from the distant sea,—
Through deeps of greenery
And dim dumb churches of the giant pines,
Ranged in sad stately lines,
Waiting the coming of the Gods to be
To hail with hymns,—rode he
Unwearying alway; whilst the golden shoes
Each day some part did lose
Of their soft metal on the pointed stones;
For all along the cones
Of many a mountain range he toil'd, whereo'er
No foot had pass'd before,
Save that of goat or deer,—through many a reach
Of grey and shingly beach
And many a flinty pass; nor might aside
Turn from the highway's wide
Rough band of white, that wound out far away
Into the dying day,
To seek the tender greensward of the meads
That lay beside him. Needs
Must he endure the utmost of the toil,
The bitterest of the coil
Of struggles and of hardships, that abode
Upon his wishward road.

II.ATTAINMENT.

III.FALLING AWAY.

So the song hover'd over Ebhart's sleep,
By many a silver sweep
And many a golden sigh of horns and flutes
And broidery of lutes
Within the failing cadences sustain'd:
And, as he slept, the stain'd
Worn harness and accoutrements from him
Were borne, and every limb
Was purified from all the dust of toil
And all that journey's soil,
In essences of all the balms that be
In Ind or Araby
For purging all life's weary stains and sad.
Then on the man was clad
Fair raiment, thrice in Tyrian purples dyed,
Gold-fringed and beautified
With broidery of pearl-work silver-laced;
And on his breast they placed
A golden owch, rare-wrought and coral-chain'd.
And as the singing waned,
The magic slumber slid away from him;
And therewithal the dim
Sad doubts and weariness of earth forwent
His soul and there was lent
To every limb a perfectness of ease,
As in the golden seas
Of some charmed ocean he had bathed and cast
His age off. So he past
With that fair queen athwart the dreamy land,
Wandering, hand in hand,
Through many courts and jewel-vaulted halls,
Wherein the trellis'd walls
Show'd through the sunflecks,—carved and limnèd o'er
With all the lovely lore
Of Faërie and all the glitterance
Of Orient romance;
And in one chamber,—thick with jasmine stars
Woven betwixt the bars
Of gold that latticed all the sides from floor
To roof-tree, vaulted o'er
With one clear bell of sapphire silver-ray'd,—
Them side by side they laid
On beds of sandal wood and cramozin;
Then did fair maids bring in
A banquet, set and sweet in golden shells,
Mingled with great flower-bells
And cups of jasper and corneliand.
There peacocks did expand
Their jewell'd fans, fresh from the fairy looms;
Herons with argent plumes,
Untorn by falcon, lay on silver beds;
And opal-blazon'd heads
Of dove and culver glitter'd out through green
Of bedding moss. Between
Gold lilies lay the silver-feather'd swan,
Reclined in death upon
Lush leaves of vine and flowers of oranges;
And every bird that is
For pleasant food ordain'd, in vine leaves wet
With crystal dew, was set
Before the twain, each in its several room.
And from the jewell'd gloom
Of ocean-deeps there came its lovely things,
Gold fish with silver wings,
Great diamond-sided carp with opal eyes,
Dolphin that ever dies
A rainbow glory and an eye-delight;
Sword-fish, and shell-fish bright
With ruby armour, mullets gold and grey,
And all the rest that play
Among the hyacinthine cool sea-deeps—
Where many a coral creeps
'Mid pearls and weeds of every lovely hue—
Until themselves endue
The radiance of the pearl and coral things
And the clear colourings
Of feather'd sea-flowers thick about their life:
These all and more were rife,
Outlaid—for food of men to godship grown—
In many a precious stone
Wroughten with silver to the mimic cup
Of that fair flower that up
From the still lake holdeth its argent star,
That men call nenuphar.
There did the beehives yield their amber dew,
Glittering pale golden through
The frail white fretwork of the honeycomb;
And in their velvet bloom
Shone gold and purple fruits of the year's prime,
That in the Autumn-time
Of some far wondrous land had hung and glow'd,
What while the winter rode
On his pale horse across the stricken earth;
And the clear soul of mirth
And love was there in chalices of wine,
Such as no earthly vine
Has ever dreamt of in its dreams of June;
And all the place was strewn
With jewels full of juices wonder-sweet,
That seem'd for kings more meet
To wear upon their brows, than to suffice,
Even in Paradise,
Unto men's hunger. Over all there fell
A shower of asphodel
And almond-blossoms, and the air did rain
With roses. So the twain
Lay at the banquet upon lavish flowers,
Whilst through the gradual hours
Bright sights and sounds did charm the time's advance
For them. One while, a dance
Of wood-nymphs glitter'd circlewise across
The windflower-sprinkled moss,
That paved the halls; or from the fountain's deep
Of silver sands would sweep
A flight of green-hair'd naiads, dripping gold
And pearls from every fold
Of their wet hair and weed-ytangled dress;
And then, perchance, the stress
Of silver clarions and the sweet sad thrill
Of the struck harps would fill
The air, preluding to a cavalcade
Of lovely shapes array'd
In cramozin and azure, —dames and knights
And all the eye-delights
Of the old pageantries of queens and kings;
And to the cadenced strings
And reeds swell'd up the clash of shields and spears
And the fair tranceful fears
Of the bright battle and the hot tourney:
The clang of the sword-play
Rang out from targe and morion, and the ring
Of lance-points shivering.
The banners and the tabards ebb'd and flow'd,
The jewell'd crownals glow'd
In tireless changeful splendour; and the haze
Of the far-column'd ways
Glittered with glancing mail and blazonries
Of all bright hues one sees
In the fair pictures of the olden time.
And oft with many a rhyme
The minstrels fill'd the pauses, in quaint lays
And songs of bygone days
Hymning the praise of many a champion
Of time past. So slid on
The dream along the halls of phantasy,
Folding him blissfully
Within a rapturous calm; but, more than this,
That crownèd lady's kiss,
The woven magic of her tresses' gleam
And her soft eye's sunbeam,
Fetter'd the dreamer in a silken trance
Of masterful romance.
Now, as the meal was done with many a song
And luting from the throng
Of pearl-limb'd girls, —the curtains of the dark
About the golden ark
Of the day-heaven were drawn; and the clear night
Came with its own delight
Of lambent stars and heavy night-flowers' scent, —
Whenas the firmament
Hangs o'er the earth like some great orange-grove
Wherethrough the fire-flies rove
In some far land of Orient, —to enspell
The senses; and the bell
Of the slant sky grew hung with fretted lights.
For never fail the night's
Enchantments in the land of dreams (as say
Some makers) nor the day
With its sheer splendours satisfies the sense;
But the easeful suspense
Of the stilled midnight is as welcome there
As morning, being fair
And full of lovely spells of peace and rest,
Graven on the palimpsest
Of day with star-runes; nor without the night
Could one have love's delight
In perfect fulness. So the night was spread
Above the golden bed
Of those two lovers, whilst the harefoot hours
Fled through the rosy bowers
Of that fair dream-stead, on the moonlight's wings;
And all the lovely things,
That fill the interspace betwixt sundown
And the new-risen crown
Of morning throned upon the Orient crests,
Hover'd about the breasts
Of that fair lady, as she lay asleep,
Folded in peace as deep
As the blue heaven with the gold stars fleck'd.
And when the morning check'd
His coursers for the sweep into the sky
And from the bravery
Of newborn day the glamours of the night
Folded their wings for flight
Where through the dusk the sun had made a gap,
Those lovers from the lap
Of their sweet slumbers rose and hand in hand,
Look'd over the fair land
And saw the eternal spring grow young again
Over each hill and plain
Of that enchanted paradise of sweets:
And the delight, that beats
To amorous tunes within the spring-flower blood,
Swelled up to overflood
Their quick'ning spirits with a radiant mist
Of philtres; and they kiss'd
Again with double rapture. In mid-green,
Under tall stately treen,
In noble woods they wander'd, where the birds
Hail'd them with golden words,
Clearer and lovelier than earthly song;
And all the pure-eyed throng
Of wood-flowers held sweet converse for their ease.
The blue anemones
Murmur'd quaint tender fairy-tales of spring
And of the blossoming
Of elfin souls in every pale sweet bud;
The fragile bells that stud
The moss with cups of sapphire, when the year
Brings round the Midsummer,
Sang mystic songs for them of summer nights
And all their deep delights
Of throbbing stars and singing nightingales;
And heather-bells told tales
Of elfins dancing on the thymy sward,
What while the white moon pour'd
Full hands of pearl upon the breezy moors.
And as along the floors
Of spangled moss they went, beneath the woofs
Of leaves, the tiny hoofs
Of deer smote softly on the woodland lawns,
And the lithe brown-eyed fawns
Laid velvet muzzles on their toying hands.
Now along golden sands
By sapphire deeps they walk'd, thick strewn with shells
Of each bright kind that dwells
In seas, and watch'd the gold fish dart and flash
Across the cool wave-plash
And the curl'd foam slide up and fall away
Into a silver spray,
As the great plangent waves broke, green and white,
In sheets of malachite.
Then would the queen take Ebhart by the hand
And from some jut of sand
Down diving through the gold and emerald waves,
Visit the coral caves
Of the sea-nymphs and all the palaces
Of crystal, under seas
Built for the Nereïds' pleasance, —wandering
Along the deeps that ring
With mermaids' song, and plucking living flowers
That in the mid-sea bowers
Wave for the mermen, gold and blue and white.
Or with a calm delight
The twain lay floating on the silver foam,
Watching the azure dome
Of heaven wide-ceil'd above the emerald leas,
And the light fragrant breeze
Wafting the silver cloud-plumes o'er the blue.
Haply, some bird that flew,
Wide-winging, tow'rd the golden-stranded East,
Sometime its travel ceased
At her command, and in her ivory breast
Nestling, awhile would rest
And murmur stories of the wondrous things
Each day of wing-work brings
To one that pulses tow'rd the rising sun.
And when the morn was done,
Mayhap, returning to the land, the queen
Within some heart of green
Would sit and hold the man within her arms,
Weaving with many charms,
For him to living shape and lovely sooth,
The memories of youth
And the quaint fancies of his wildest dreams,
Re-clad with golden beams
Of mystic splendour, ever fresh and new;
So that but now he knew
How very full his every thought had been
Of all the lovely sheen
And glamour of the land of phantasy.
Over the dappled lea
And the slant hillside, blossom-starr'd, would rise
Before his ravish'd eyes
Fair crystal castles and enchanted bowers,
Trellised with magic flowers,
That in their every calyx held a face
Of an unearthly grace.
Horn-notes came faint and far upon the breeze;
Between the moss-clad trees
Fair ladies pass'd, with greyhounds falcon-eyed
And pages at their side;
And knights rode forth a-questing. O'er the sward
Pageant on pageant pour'd
Of the quaint elves that hold the ancient woods
And the gnarl'd race that broods
Deep in the jewell'd chambers of the rock:
Or with her milk-white flock
Some dreamy shepherdess went sauntering by,
With flowerful hands and eye
Fix'd on the petals of some rose of gold.
And now the lilies told
The twain that day drew fast toward the dark.
Then did they both embark
In some fair shallop's pearl and ivory side,
And down the glancing tide
Of some full river, over-hung with trees,
Glided before the breeze
That fill'd the silken sails; 'twixt terraced walls,
Past rows of ancient halls
And towers far-glancing 'gainst the golden sky;
Where all the courts did lie
Ungated, and the dying sun sloped slow
Along the evening glow
Through range on range of golden palaces,
Glittering on lattices
Of blue and silver, tenantless and still.
A strange sad peace did fill
The lonely streets; and through the voiceless air,
Perchance, some breeze would bear
The silver sound of bells, whose music spread
In circles overhead,
Widening far out upon a stirless sea
Of silentness. Maybe,
Bytimes, the man would deem himself alone
In some fair meadow, strown
With bright-eyed flowers, or on some river's bank,
Where rank on plumèd rank
Sedges blew purple; when, as he did deem,
That sovereign of his dream
Had for a little faded from his side:
And at the first he sigh'd
To find her place left empty suddenly;
But soon he knew that she
Was ever with him, if invisible.
Whether some cowslip's bell
He idly broke or pull'd a violet up,
Straightway from out the cup
A sweet face look'd; two tender dewy eyes
Gazed deep in his, and sighs
Of ravishing sweet music fill'd his ears,
Until his soul with tears
Of joy brimm'd over: then two lips would seek
His own, as 'twere to speak
All things' love to him in a fragrant kiss;
And ravish'd with the bliss,
He would press closelier on the flower and find
It was his lady twined
Soft arms about him and laid lips to his
With such a flower-bell kiss,
Being both flower and bird and breeze and queen.
Or, —look'd he in the green
Of some fair crystal pool all fringed with sheaves
Of the nesh flower that weaves
Soft green and rosy-white of blooms around
Each lake that in the swound
Of the mid-June lies stirless, —there would grow
From out the deeps a snow
Of starry lily-petals, that, between
Their golden-gaufred green
Unfolding, show'd to him a tender face,
Crown'd with a dripping grace
Of gold-brown hair, that through the waves rose high,
Upon his lips to sigh
The soul of amorous longing. Being seen
Full, it was still the queen,
That in no wise could let man's love grow cold,
Being so manifold
And rich of heart, that as each flower she knew
To love, or as the dew
Wooeth the moonbeam's kisses: she could take
All shapes of love that wake
Under the skies: whether the nightingale
Telleth her amorous tale
Unto the argent-blossom'd thorn, the winds
About the pale woodbinds
Flutter with loveful longing, or the bees
Around the anemones
Fly with a bridal murmur; she could win
Her eyes to looks akin
And prison all their passion in her lays;
And in all other ways
Wherein on earth is love made manifest—
So that each loveliest
And peerless for the hour of love should seem—
That lady of a dream
Could twine the souls of mortals with delight.
Nor with the deathless light
Of love alone was Ebhart's being blest:
Around his footsteps press'd
An ever-changing sea of lovely things;
The radiant flowerings
Of all the poet-hopes a dreamer knows,
While yet the dewy rose
Of his fresh youth is wormless for the years;
The wraiths of the waste tears
And the pure phantoms of the dear dead past
Came back to him at last
In a new guise of shapes emparadised:
For nothing it sufficed
Unto the perfecting of his desire
Of old, that for the squire
The happy shapes alone of his strange dreams—
Woven all of sunbeams
And griefless flowers—should be fulfill'd for him:
He must possess the dim
Ethereal sadnesses that were so sweet,
Before the stern years' feet
Crush'd all the glory from the soul of pain;
And in his sight again
Must the impalpable essence new abide,
Sublimed and glorified
By the transfiguring splendour of his dream:
The much-loved dead must seem
To walk with him the blossom-trellis'd ways,
And the remember'd gaze
Of the dead friends he loved in days gone by
Meet him in every eye
Of flower-cups blinking on the mossy leas;
And in each fragrant breeze
Belovéd voices murmur him again
Old songs of love and pain
And hope undying. So the man did move
In one long dream of love,
And all his life was one great fairy-tale,
Wherein no thing did fail
Of the bright visions he had wont to see
In his fresh youth. —Ah me!
That joy should be so strong and pitiless
And mortal men no less
Inapt to brook its agony of sweets!
That the delight which beats
In the full veins should be the enemy
Of this frail flesh! That we
Should ever prove so uncreate to bear
The things that are most fair
In our idea, —should faint and die before
The dream of bliss is o'er!
Alas! we can bear sorrow and the stress
Of earth's dull weariness,
Day after day eating our bitter bread,
Silent, with tears unshed
And life still pulsing dumbly; but the kiss
Of the full rapturous bliss
We dream of withers us with its delight;
And back into the night
Of our despair needs must we faint and fall,
Finding dull custom's thrall
And the dumb pain of daily life less keen
And deadly than the sheen
Of the bright bliss to us unbearable!
So it to Ebhart fell
That he must be divorced from the delight
That with such godlike might
Of will he had prevail'd to win, — being strong
To dare and to prolong
His days in strife, cheer'd by some distant hope
Dim-radiant in the scope
Of the dull daily sky, — but not enough
Strong for the splendid love
Of that enchantress and the unearthly bliss
That in that oasis
Of dreams was his. Old was the man and weak,
And wearily the wreak
Of the hard years had worn the youth from him,
Deadening in heart and limb
The soul of fire that erst burnt fresh and high.
So, when the ecstasy,
Awhile by that infection of his quest
Kindled within his breast
Out of the embers of the ancient fire,
Grew cold, the feeble sire
In the full tide of bliss was like to drown.
The stressful glories strown
About his life did burn and weary him
Beyond his strength; his dim
And age-worn sense fail'd with the ecstasy;
And thus it came to be
That, in the gold and purple of the land,—
Midmost the arms that spann'd
Him round, the lips that on his lips still lay
And the deep orbs that aye
Flooded his spirit with their tireless light,—
Through all the dear delight
And glory of that life of flowers and dew,
Within the man there grew
A longing, half-unconsciously, to wear
Once more the weight of care
That deadens all the lives of mortal men,
A wish to feel again
The dull repose of the eventless days,
And from the stressful blaze
Of that too radiant dream once more to fade
Back to the level shade
Of thoughtless men's dull daily round of life,
Wherein there was no strife
Of earthly parts and forces to suffice
To joys of Paradise
Whose fire none scatheless save a god might know.
So day by day did grow
The longing, 'spite his wish, within his thought;
Albeit hard he fought
To conquer it, in all his looks it show'd;
And all that bright abode
Was grown to him like some fair hurtful fire
Of o'er-fulfill'd desire,
That eats the heart to madness. And one day,—
As on the breast he lay
Of that fair dame and in the radiant deep
Of her strange eyes did steep
His soul in burning languor,—it befell
That the unquellable
Desire burst up, no more to be represt,
Out of his weary breast
With a great bitter cry; and he was fain
To tell her of his pain
And of the mortal weakness, that in him
Stretch'd out—toward the rim
Of the sad world and the dull life-long bands—
Weary and weakling hands
Of backward longing, being all too frail
And world-worn to avail
For the hot passionate splendour of the things
Of his imaginings.
“The dreams of youth come back to me too late,
Sweetheart,” he said. “The gate
Of kindly death gapes wide for me; and I
Would fain go back to die
Among the towns and cities of my folk,
Under the wonted yoke
Of mortal custom; for I am but man,
Nor for all longing can
Shake off the leaden hand of age and use.
And now my limbs refuse
To bear the bliss of dreamland any more,
And all my soul is sore
With the long struggle. I had all forgot—
Whilst yet the flame was hot
Of the new-found delight—that I was old,
And that the creeping cold
Of death came very nigh upon my feet:
But now I feel it, sweet,
And may not tarry with thee any more,
That, with slow steps—before
The pale Archangel touch me—I again
May for awhile regain
The tents of men and die among my kin,
Repenting of my sin
And grasp for things beyond the reach or ken
Of miserable men.
Wherefore, I pray thee, kiss me yet once more—
For all my heart is sore
For parting from thee—and unspell my feet;
So haply I may greet
The dwellings of my kind before I die.”
So he with many a sigh
Spake to the queen and told her all his mind.
And she,—that had divined
And known his yearning many a day and long,
Yet ever did prolong
The time of parting with the man,—with slow
Sad loving speech said, “Go:
I may not bid thee stay with me, poor friend,
That to the common end
Of weary men draw'st nigh, and (being man)
Labourest beneath the ban
Of the all-conquering pain and may'st not bear
The bliss thyself didst rear
In thy high fancy. Go: I love thee still,—
Better, perchance,—and fill
Thy destiny; for Fate is over all,
And one may not recall
The ordinance of God that fashion'd us,
Albeit despiteous
And very sad it seem.” And kiss'd him thrice
Upon the brow, in guise
Of parting. Then the shape of her 'gan fade
Into the purple shade,
And all that dreamland melted into air.
And Ebhart,—standing there
Upon a desolate sweep of heathy plain,
Whereo'er the night did wane
And the June day came from the golden sills
Of heaven on the hills,—
Saw all the towers of gold and jasper fall
And knew beyond recall
His dream-built world with all its lovely might
Faded into the night;
And the hot tears brimm'd up his weary eyes.
Then close to him did rise
The carol of a lark; and it befell
That with the song the spell
Of grief was lighten'd, and some sadden'd peace
Came back to give him ease,
Upon that sunward hymning of the bird.
And looking round, he heard
A joyous neighing, and his true old steed
Came to him in his need
And rubb'd its head against his hand. So he
Mounted and o'er the lea
Rode, as the sun across the hills grew fair,—
And in the innocent air,
The flower-scents told of the fair midmost June,
And the sweet early tune
Of the waked birds sang of the faded Spring
And the new flowering
Of the fresh fields with all the Summer weaves
Of bloom,—and in the sheaves
Of yellowing corn, the sunlight lay like gold
Of consolation, told
By the dear God unto the earth rain-worn
And weary and betorn
With snow and tempest. So the old squire rode
Upon the homeward road,
Among the fields, where all the world was glad
And none that he was sad
Had time to note,—and with the dying day
Came to a town, that lay
Childwise within the bosom of the hills,
And in the peace that fills
The hour of sunset, slept beneath the sky,
In one great panoply
Of crimson glory. And indeed it seem'd
Most like the thing he dream'd
Of the celestial city, where alone
This flesh shall have outgrown
The feebleness of life. And so he came
Into the town, all lame
And worn with travel and his hopes down cast;
And there he found at last
A little weary rest among strange men,
And was at peace again.
And there a resting-space he did abide;
And in the Autumn-tide
A little while thereafterward he died.

SALVESTRA

THORGERDA.

Voices in the Air.

The Witch.

Voices in the Air.

The Witch.

Voices in the Air.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

A ROMANCE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. )

LAUTREC.

THE MASQUE OF SHADOWS.

LIGHT O' LOVE.

FLOWERS FROM SYRIAN GARDENS.

I.The Apples of Paradise.

II.The Scavenger of Baghdad.

III.The Blacksmith who could handle fire without hurt.

IV.The Golden Cup.

V.By the token of the Bean.

VI.The two Cakes of Bread.

VII.The Hermit's Heritage.

VIII.The Mad Lover.

(Quoth Aboulabbas the grammarian,
In all Chaldea is no wiser man,)
I once did journey with a company
To El Beríd in Mesopotamie,
And by the Convent of Heraclius
We lighted down midway, to hearten us
And in the shadow of the walls to shun
Somedele the midday fierceness of the sun.
And presently there came us out unto
A servant of the monastery, who
With us full instant was to enter there,
For that therein in keeping madmen were,
He said, “and of them one who speaketh store
Of wisdom, such as ye will wonder sore
To hear.” So we arose and entering,
Came, after seeing this and th' other thing,
Unto a cell where one apart from all
Sat with bare head and gazed upon the wall
Nor turned, to see who entered in, his eyes.
We gave him greeting, true-believer-wise,
And he our salutation rendered us
Again, but was nowise solicitous
To cast an eye on us, nor turned his head
To view us. Whereupon the servant said,
“Prithee, some verses unto him say ye;
For, when he heareth verse, then speaketh he.”
So I what best to mind recall I might,
In praise of God's Apostle, did recite;
And he toward us, hearing what I said,
Turning his face, with these his answer made:
God indeed knoweth I am sore afflicted: I suffer so, I may not tell the whole.
Two souls I have: one in this place is dwelling: Another country holds my second soul.
Meseems the absent one is like the present And suffers under the same weight of dole.
Then unto us, “Have I said well or not?”
Turning, he questioned us; and I, “God wot,
Thou hast said well and passing well,” replied.
Then he put out his hand and from his side
Took up a stone; whereat we fled from him,
Ourselves misdoubting of his antick whim,
Lest it belike at us he should have cast.
But therewithal to beating hard and fast
Upon his breast he fell and “Fear ye not,”
Said; “but draw nigh and hear from me somewhat
I have it now in mind to say to you:
Receive it ye from me.” Wherefore we drew
Again anigh him, putting off affright,
And he the ensuing verses did recite:
When they made their beasts of burden kneel, as day grew nigh and nigher, Then they mounted and the camels bore away my heart's desire.
When mine eyes perceived my loved one through the crannied prison-wall, Then I cried, with streaming eyelids and a heart for love afire,
“Turn, thou leader of the camels: let me bid my love farewell!” For her absence and estrangement, life and hope in me expire.
Still I kept my troth and failed not from her love. Ah, would I knew What she did with that our trothplight, if she kept her faith entire!
Then, “Know'st thou what she did?” To me he said;
And I, “Ay do I,” answered; “she is dead.”
Whereat I saw his face change, hearing me,
And to his feet he sprang and “Out on thee!”
He cried. “'Fore heaven, say, how knowest thou
That she is dead?” And I, “If she yet now
Did live, she had not left thee in this place
To pine for lack of her.” “By God, the case
That changeth, thou art right,” he answered, “sir;
And I care not to live on after her.”
Therewith his body shook and on his face
He fell and stirred not. Then unto the place
We ran and raised him softly from the ground
And shook and called him, but in vain, and found
Him dead. So over him with tears mourned we
And buried him in peace. Then, presently
Leaving the convent, unto El Bérid
I journeyed on and having done my need,
Back in due season to Baghdad did fare
And going in unto the Khalif there,
El Mutawekkil, he by chance the trace
Of late-shed tears espied upon my face
And questioned me of what the cause might be.
So unto him the piteous history
Of the poor madman all I did relate;
Whereat he sorrowed, for his piteous fate
To him was grievous. Then to me, “What whim
Moved thee to deal thus cruelly with him?
By Allah, did I think that of intent
Thou hadst done this,” he said, “I punishment
Would lay on thee!” And sent his court away
And mourned for the mad lover all that day.

THE LAST OF HERCULES.

THE purple splendours of the dying sun
Flamed on the sombre emerald of the hills
And all the streams ran crimson to the sea,
As with the ebbing life-blood of the day.
Snow-white the village nestled to the flanks
Of one tall cliff, that sloped its slow ascent
Toward the fading glories of the sky,
As if to catch the mantle of the light
Upon its crownéd head; and from the walls
The curving beach swept with its silver shells
To meet the long slow ripples of the sea;
Whilst, far and wide, the golden sky was cleft
With mountains and a purple trail of woods
Linked all the valleys with the gradual crests.
It was the vineyard-harvest. All the vines
Showed brown and naked and the clustered grapes
Lay on the osiers in great jewelled heaps,
Until the press should rob them, with the morn,
Of all the sunshine hoarded in their globes.
The folk were tired of festival and dance
And lay upon the herbage, weary-wise,
Watching the hazy glitter in the air,
As in the west the Delian's golden car
Paused in the purple portals of the night.
Here children clustered round a greybeard sire,
Who droned out legends of the bygone days,
With many a gloss born of the newer time.
There youths and maidens gathered in a ring
And wove rose-garlands for the morrow's wine
And sang in alternation to the harp.
One measured out a hearty rustic song,
A hymn to Bacchus of the country-side,
And all the folk caught fire and clapped their hands
And “Iö Bacche!” shouted, till the hills
And woodlands flung them back the jovial clang.
And then another took the harp and sang
A wise sad song of Love and Death and Fate
And of the linking harmonies of life;
And as he sang, his hand compelled the strings
To silver-sweet rebellions, that did wait,
With grave majestic rhythm, on the slow
Long-cadenced phrases of the stately song.
The lofty music wound about their hearts,
And as its sweetness lengthened on the air
And with a wailing cadence passed away,
A charm of sadness fell upon them all
And there was silence for a little space.
Then one, “Enough of songs. Let Lychnis tell
The story of her meeting in the wood
Two Springs agone;” and pointed to a girl,
Slight with the drooping grace of some fair weed,
Who sat a little from the rest apart
And with a dreamy languour in her eyes,
Plucked idly at the petals of a rose.
And she, half-startled at her conscious thought,
Blushed shrinkingly, as loath to open out
Some delicate flower-secret of her soul
And soil its sweetness with the general gaze;
Then, with a shy sweet laugh at her own fears,
Shook off her shame and told the tale they asked.
“It was in that blithe birth-time of the months,
When Dionusos bursts the winter's chains
And all things feel renewal of their youth
And flower toward the aspect of the sun,
I, tending goats upon the woodward slope,
Was ware of one stray kidling, that afar
Had wandered from the flock and gleefully,
Rejoicing in its foolish liberty,
Did frisk and gambol on the forest's edge.
The little thing was somewhat dear to me,
Being as white as wind-flowers newly-blown
And tame beyond the usance of its kind;
And so it pleased me not that it should stray
So far toward the tangles of the wood,
Where haply it might wander on and on,
Until it lost the instinct of return.
I mounted leisurely the slow ascent,
Thinking the kid would know me by my voice
And come for calling; but, as I drew near,
It gazed on me an instant with large eyes
And bent its head a moment to the brook,
That gurgled 'twixt the intertrellised trunks,
Then started off into the deepest wood,
Making the hidden echoes of the place
Ring with the silver tinkle of its bell.
I followed in the pathway of the sound,
Half fearful of the unknown things that lay
Within that solemn shadow of the trees;—
Not that I looked to light on aught more strange
Than some stray Dryad peeping from the brake
Or haply Fauns a-gambol in the fern,
That should flee from me, fearful as myself;—
But some vague awe had ever held me back
From searching out the secrets of the grove.
The forest wore its raiment of the Spring,
And all around was very fair to see
And filled me with a wondering delight.
In all the cool green glades, lush hyacinths
Did robe the earth in purple, golden-starred,—
Fit carpet for the wood-nymphs' flying feet,—
And violets scented all the woodland air.
The crocus raised its flower-flames of the Spring
And all the hollow places of the wood
And all the humid borders of the stream
Were marged and trellised with the liberal blooms.
The sweet and reverend silence of the place,
Unbroken save by some stray throstle's chirp
And babble of the brooklet o'er the stones,
Soon soothed my awe to gladness; and the fair
And exquisite new life that lay around,
The murmurous music in the blissful air
And subtle sweetness of the blended scents
O'erflowed my heart with some new ecstasy.
And as I went, still following the bell,
That led me to the deepest of the wood,
I saw, across a little cloistered glade,
That opened out abruptly in my front,
A sudden snow of lilies on a bank.
The breeze was heavy with their luscious breath;
And as it grew on me, my sense was seized
With such delight and with so sharp a wish
To gather some great cluster of the bells
And crush full fragrance from them with my lips,
That, making tow'rd them with unthinking haste,
I caught my sandal in a wild vine's trail,
That ran from bole to bole across the glade,
And fell face downward on the lily-bed.
The sudden shock forced from my parted lips
A cry of sheer amazement, as I tripped
And lay among the flowers all pantingly.
I plucked one handful of the tender bells,
That, crushed and drooping, all the sweetlier smelt,
And rose,— half-scared, half-laughing at my fears,—
To go. But, as I stood upon my feet,
I saw, outpeering from the neighbouring brake,
A loathly hideous visage, horned and grim,
That fastened on my face with hungry eyes,
Lurid and red and glaring with desire,
And two hooked hands that held the creepers back.
I stood a moment, rooted to the earth
With horror,— as a fowler in the marsh
That lights upon a sudden baleful snake
And cannot for awhile compel his feet
Backward or forward, till the evil beast
Creeps nearer and uncoils itself to strike;—
And then the thing set up a gibbering cry
And leapt, to seize me, out into the glade.
Half-beast, half-man, with gaunt and shaggy shanks,
Goat-hoofs and flanks a-bristle with red hair,—
It was a Satyr, one of those foul pests
That harbour in the inmost heart of green
And poison all the pleasance of the wood.
The imminence of terror lent me wings,
And turning back, I fled across the glade
To where the path sloped homeward. In the break
Another Satyr met me in mid-race,
E'en loathlier than the first one; and I, crazed
With terror, cowered backward on the sward
And hid my face between my trembling hands,
Expecting momently to feel the clutch
Of their foul claws upon my neck and loath
To look upon the face of such a death.
A second passed,— a life of years to me
For agony,— and still no horny hand
Did violate the tangles of my hair
Nor tear the crimson chlamys from my neck;
And listening,— hope half-awake again
For the delay,— to hear how this should be,
A tread that was no Satyr's smote my ears
And human footsteps rustled through the leaves;
Then, looking up, I saw the loathly pair
Had taken refuge at the glade's far end
And mopped and mowed with disappointed rage.
But by my side there stood a fair-haired man,
Goodly with noble limbs and locks of gold
And tall beyond the use of mortal kind.
Can I forget his beauty? Like a god
For noble stature,— ay, a god indeed
For eyes unfathomed as a mountain lake
And the fair stainless valour of his port.
Ah, how the weak words fail me to present
The glory of his majesty! Full oft,
When in the purple night I look upon
The splendour of the sadness of the stars
And weary waning silver of the moon,
There rises up before my longing eyes
The wise heroic sorrow of his face,
That fills the flower-cells of my memory.
He leant upon a club, and on his breast,
Mighty with breadth and sinews mountainous,
A tawny lion's skin, that lay across
His ample shoulders, met and was confined
Within two golden ouches, subtly wrought
Into the semblance of a lion's claws.
And as I looked on him with hare-like eyes,
Half-glad, half-doubtful with astonishment,
He laid his hand upon my upturned head
And “Fear not,” said he; “thou art safe with me;
See, yonder have they fled.” But, as he spoke,
There came a crashing and a rending noise,
As of a wild boar tearing through the brake,
Before the eager dogs; and suddenly
The glade was all alive with hornéd beasts,
That made toward us slowly from all sides,
As if to hem us in from all retreat.
Then that fair hero raised me from the grass
And set me up against a wide-girthed tree,
One hand about my waist, the other leant
Upon the knotted handle of his club,
And waited, with his back against the stem.
The foremost Satyr, seeing him so still,
Waxed bold and bolder for his comrades' host,
And with a sudden rush, thought to make shift
To clutch me by the hair; but, as he passed
Him of the lion's hide, the hero's hand
Slid swiftly to the hilt and drawing out
The broad brown blade, that glittered in the sun,
Struck with the sharp steel straight at the bent neck.
The keen death shore through all the knotted flesh
And bit into the columns of the throat
And the slit veins let out the felon life.
Then all that rabble rout, dismayed to see
Their fellow's fate, fled howling from the place
And disappeared among the thick-set trees.
But he, my saviour, turned his face to me
And said, “Fair maid, now is thy fear forgone;
Yet, haply, since the hollows of the wood
May hold some terror still for thee within
Their shadow, it behoveth me to bring
Thee on thy homeward way, toward the sea,
To where the wild wood ceases from the crests.”
And I to him, “O hero! must the Fates
Sever so hastily our crossing lives?
May I not look on my deliverer
One little hour? Wilt thou not stay awhile
And look upon the faces of my kin
And mingle but a day's time with our life?
Wilt thou disdain to hear our foolish thanks
And taste the last year's life-blood of our vines?”
He looked upon me, with a rare sweet smile
Rounding the perfect glory of his mouth,
Awhile in silence; then, “It may not be,
Sweet one,” he said; “I have long work to do
And may not tarry in the flowered ways: —
Work, for the waste earth wails to me for help;
Work, for men's hearts do fail them for despair
And all the air is faint with bitter wrong.”
The valleys echoed with his hollow words,
As the flute-sweetness mounted, gathering,
Into the mellow thunder of the end;
And from the rock-caves rang the answered speech
And died in wailing murmurs, “Bitter wrong!”
And failed with failing sweetness on the air.
The strange wild music filled my soul with thought,
Awhile too vague for speech to open out
The dim mysterious petals of its bud:
And then I raised my eyes and looked at his
And saw in the clear depths a godlike pain,
A glory of deep sadness, grave and sweet,
And knew some god had fallen on my days
And smitten their unthinking careless calm
Of twilight with the sun-ray of his gaze
And shown me all the fastnesses of life.
Ay, a god surely, and belike, yet more,
A man more god-like, nobler than a god;
For such, they say, do sometimes walk the earth,
Bridging the yawning chasms of the world,
That careless freedom of Olympian rule
And loveless rigour of the ruthless gods
Have opened, with the silver of their deeds,
Ay, and the splendid fulness of their lives.
He stood before me all unconsciously,
Holding the stretching landscape in his gaze,
With deep mild eyes that drank the future in
From where the crystals of the upper air
Waved on the cloudless sapphires of the sky.
And as I looked on him, my heart was sad
And weary for the thought of his great task
And the near parting from him: then, at last,
“O conqueror of all the wrongs to be!
O saviour of the piteous of the earth!
O hero,” cried I; “if the speech of men
And their poor words, that have so scant a power
To shape their yearning, may enframe thy name
And give its lofty sweetness to our ears,
I pray thee let me hear it, that I may
Embower it in the flower-nest of my heart
And sweeten all my memories with its scent.”
So I to him; and “I am he that bears
The burden of the travail of the world
And sadly compass the deliverance
Of mortal men,” he said, “from weary weight
And pain of toil against the harsh decrees
Relentless of immortals and the stress
Of ruthless Nature. I am Hercules,
That work the world-wrongs wearily to right
And have no hope of rest nor any joy
Until the swift Fates snatch me to the stars.”
Thus said he, as we went along the wood,
For now the way drew homeward and the trees
Thinned to the open summit of the hill.
And as he spake, he, striding on before,
Did clear the rocks and brambles from my way
And held me back the stubborn undergrowth,
That I might pass with robe inviolate.
And when too soon we came to where the trees
Showed sparsely 'gainst the blue nor hid from view
The village roofs that sparkled in the sun,
He stooped and kissed me twice between the eyes
And turned into the tangles of the wood.
So strode he tow'rd the sunset and I saw,
Deep-written in the furrows of his brow,
That men should look upon his face no more.
And as I went a-musing down the slope
Into the homeward path between the vines,
The dim unspoken echoes of his thought
Stirred in the secret places of my heart
And whispered to me of the soul of things,
The general doom of pleasure twinned with pain;
How sorrow pairs with gladness, joy with grief
And sweetest things have root in bitterest soil.
Grape-clusters burn to purple in the sun,
Forcing scant nurture from the painful earth,
Grow ripe to fall before the harvest-knife
And bleed beneath the unrelenting press,
To gladden men with essence of their pain.
The olive, dying, yields its golden oil
And violets, for the binding of our brows,
Die in the purple meshes of our hair
And in a waning sweetness breathe out life.
That man may build a house, the Dryad dies
And many a kid must bleed that we may eat.
Nor is it these alone whose gladness fails,
That men may taste the sweetness of the day.
Man lives by man and from his fellow's dole
Gathers too oft the blossoms of his joy.
How many slaves toil hardly in the sun
And eat their bread in bitterness and woe,
That he who rules may lie on rose-strewn lawns
And dream beside the babble of the brook
And crush a curious sweetness from the hours.
How many feel the cold steel at their hearts
Or wear the garb of dolour and despair,
To weave one laurel for the victor's brow!
This world of ours is edified with pain
And built on bitter pedestals of wrong.
E'en he who heals the fever of the time
And smites the cankers at the heart of life
Is not exempted from the general doom;
For, while he rights the world, he wrongs himself,
Seeing he has no gladness in his life.
What others do for gladness, he for grief;
And healing pain, he clasps it for himself.
Sad cypress is the cincture of his brow
And sorrow is the mistress of his soul.

USQUE AD PORTAS.

THE PACT OF THE TWIN GODS.

I.

NOW Life and Death had striven many a day
Which should have mastery
Over all things that be
Upon the earth and in the hollow deep;
And for their endless strife
The world was all perplexed
And all the ordered harmonies of Life
Ceased from the accustomed course of night and day,
Being so vexed
And worn with shock of battle and duresse.
For whiles on all things lay,
Living and dead, the sleep
Of Death, when he sometime had brief success;
And whiles the hollow breast
Of the cold grave gaped wide
And all the things which therewithin did bide
Came forth and knew
The passionate unrest
Of life once more,
When, in the course of war,
The frank fair God from the funereal wight
Did wrest
The palm of fight.
So that by turns there blew
The icy blasts of death and the sweet soft
Zephyrs of life
About the world and there was endless strife
Twixt God and God. The night,
Erst sacred unto death, was filled and rife
With birth and fluttering
Of newborn life;
And many a goodly thing,
Glad with the joy of being, bloomed aloft
Above the outraged portals of the grave.
Death could no longer save
The dead from stress and resonance of being
And the pale ghosts, a-fleeing
From out the tombs, uptorn
By the swift God, to seek
Some refuge in the crannies of the rock
Or in the hill-caves bleak,
Were caught up by the blast
Of Life imperious and born
Into new shapes of life and love and beauty
And the old rack
And whirl of earthly duty
Claimed them again in yet another shape,
Although the grave did gape
To take their tired souls back
To its cold breast
And in the dim and stirless peace of death
To give them their last rest.
And in his turn did Death usurp the day
And all the things Life had
Of power and symbol, 'neath the risen sun;
For he did glide,
With his cold breath
And frosted gaze,
Across the meadows wide
And the fair woodland ways,
And touching all the things that had begun
To open to the light
Their buds and petals glad
With the new morn, did slay
The spirit of joy within their bosoms bright.
Wherefore their hues did fail;
The corn-sheaves' glitterance faded into gray;
The woodbirds' delicate notes
Did faint for fear
And all sweet sounds, that rise,
Under the flower-blue skies,
From feathered throats,
For the young day to hear,
When the stern God swept darkling o'er the plain,
Were fain
To leave their life and wander, phantom-wise,
Ghosts of themselves, droning sad songs of death.
The heavens grew grey and drear;
The very sun turned pale;
The clouds put on a veil
And fled across the gray
Of the young blighted day,
Like ghosts of Titans driven o'er the white
Of the pale Infinite
By the doom-angel's breath.
Beneath the heaven's shroud,
Men knew not if they died
And had no joy in being, if allowed
To live; for still a wraith
Of death was over life
And a gold gleam of life did blazon death.
One great grave was the earth;
The grave was full of birth:
Even in the birth was rife
The ghastliness of dying
And the delight of mirth,
Of being and its gladness,
Blent with the ghosts' shrill sighing
And the death-sadness.
So was there endless strife,
By land and sea,
Twixt the Gods Death and Life;
And unto neither fell the mastery.

II.

III.

IV.

ANCHISES.

Methinks I hear the throb of wings
And feel the stir of an immortal breath
Thrilling the restful air. My prayer is heard:
A soft hand sweeps across my burning lips
And the fierce agony of ceaseless pain
Fades from my spirit. Thanks, sweet goddess, thanks!
Thou hast not all forgotten and I go
To drink oblivion from the sluggish flood.
Thanks, thanks! My soul slips swiftly from the world,
Freed from the trammels that did fetter it
To life. I smell the lilies of the dead
And hear dull Lethe gurgle through her weeds.

VOL. II

LONDON CITY POEMS.

I.A CITY APOLOGUE.

II.AN IDYLL OF THE PLAGUE.

(A. D. 1866.)

III.QUIA MULTUM AMAVIT. )

IV.A CHRISTMAS VIGIL.

“LET me but see the light of heaven again!”
And with chill fingers, from the window pane
I drew the curtain. All the glass was starred
With quaint frost-tracery, intercrossed and barred
With the cold mimic blossoms of the time,
The death in life of flowerage of the rime.
The day grew dark toward the Christmas Eve:
Without, each hanging gable-edge and eave
Was looped and curtained with the trellised snow
And all the sky was drear for winter woe.
The streets were still for weariness and all
The fields lay dead beneath a death-white pall;
Whilst o'er the fretted silver such as went
About the ways, in that drear wonderment,
Broke not the deathly silence with their tread.
It seemed a city of the risen dead,
Awsome with living ghosts, that stalked along
The pallid highways in a ghastly throng,
Flitting as noiselessly as shades. Within,
My grief seemed with the grief of Nature twin:
There was a drearier winter at my heart
Than bound the fields and meadows. There, no part
Of that bright ecstasy—wherewith the voice
Of angels bade the shrouded earth rejoice
For that upon the keen-aired Christmas morn
There was in Bethlehem of Juda born
One who should bring to bloom the bud of peace
And be Himself the blossom,—brought decrease
Of sadness; nor,—O sweet Lord Christ! Alas!
Has not thy memory withered like dry grass,
When summer-winds are pitiless!—the chime
(A hollow mockery of the loveless time)
Of bells, whose song was tuneless with the sense
Of its unmeaning, cheered the sad suspense
That weighed upon me. Long past every fear,
Because past hope for ever, one all-dear,
All precious to me, lay at odds with Death
And I already felt the icy breath
Of the dread angel stir the frost-stilled air,
As I did watch. The battle and the care
Were over and the dim cold hour was come,
When my sad heart, like the sad streets, was dumb
With its dead hopes, unknowing if the gloom
Were big with ecstasy or if some doom
Of unexperienced horror lay concealed
Within its awful bosom, where ensealed
Slept the mysterious Future. Very dear
To my most God-like sympathies, no mere
Convenient friend, with whom the only tie
Is mutual ease and use of amity,
Was he who lay a-dying. He had been
My comrade, when the hopes of Spring were green,
My help in autumn's dreary blank of gray,
In winter's night of doubt my cheer and stay.
Together we had trod the path of years,
Hoped hopes together, feared each other's fears,
Seen morning lighten in each other's eyes
And soul to soul had striven for the prize
Of perfect vision, that should help us read
In Nature's tangles the eternal creed.
We had so long been habited to share
Each other's pain and pleasure, joy and care,
To live and breathe each other's life and breath,
To think I could not share with him his death
Seemed cruel wonder; and to me, his soul
Felt the least portion of the common dole,
For that but death in life was left to me,
Condemned thenceforth in life alone to be,
Whilst to his lot fell life in death. And so
I sat and watched him, as the fire burnt low,
And wondered, in my numbing trance of pain,
How long before the morn should come again
And puzzled over trifles, whilst there lay
Within my heart one gloom of winter's gray
And paralysed all thought. My mind went back
Along the dim years' memory-misted track
And lost itself in woodbine-tangled lanes
And saw the silken poppies' crimson stains
Sprinkle the russet moorland. Or I stood
Within a maze of hawthorn-blossomed wood
And knew the bedded violets by their scent
And primroses, wide-eyed for wonderment,
That glittered in the tender tree-foot green,
Under the golden shadow of the treen.
And he, who lay a-dying, held once more
My hand and walked with me that flowered floor,
Filled the sweet air with wise and lovely words
Or songs as Spring-like as the pipe of birds;
Reasoned of fair and wondrous things and turned
All thoughts to beauty, as within him burned
The Spring's full glory; took the things of Earth
And made them bright with an immortal mirth.
So sat I, dreaming o'er dead youth again,
Half-conscious, half-forgetful of my pain,
Whilst, out of doors, the dream-mist of the snow
Fell through the Christmas twilight soft and low.
And as the evening darkened into night,
Toning to grey the snow's relentless white,
I heard his voice, that called me to his side,
So faint, another would have thought he sighed.
I leant me o'er the bed and took his hand,
Seeing by his face how very fast life's sand
Ran from the hour-glass. And he, as it were,
Renewing life awhile, to hold me there,
Raised himself up and lay upon my breast,
Silent awhile, whilst day died in the west;
And then, “The gates of death do gape for me,”
He said. “My feet from life are slipping free.
Dear friend, I linger but a second, then
Launch out upon the sea unplumbed of men.
I go into the darkness; yet you stay
And I go lonely on my lightless way.
I look into the mystery. Is it rest,
Long-yearned-for rest, tow'rd which the chill swift tide
Of ebbing life so ceaselessly doth glide?
O God, to whom I come, a bidden guest,
Let it be peace, I pray! No heaven of psalms,
No charm of bended heads and folded palms!
My life too long has been a psalm of woes;
I crave that Rest to which all Being flows.
O Buddha, sweet thy faith was aye to me,
That holds us loosed from life in death to be,
Absolved and safe from love and pain and dole,
Lost in the calm sea of the one great Soul.
O God, how fair this lovely Eastern dream,
Haply the truth, to my tired soul doth seem,—
To lose one's weary personality
In the unconsciousness of Deity!
I cannot think but Jesus meant the same,
Despite the sophisms that debase his name
And turn his sweet humanity to gall
With priests' and monks' inventions, as with all
Great souls and pure, who read the signs of God
And leave their dreams to coarser minds, that plod
Over their bright imaginings and tread
Into the dust each flower that shows its head.
Dear Christ! How men have blackened thy white faith
And blurred thy heaven with the shadow of death!
I enter on the path thy tender feet
Trod once,—not bitter to me nor yet sweet;
For I am weary and desire to rest,
And I am sorely with vague doubt opprest,
Lest other toils await me. Yet I hope
And fear not, though my feet in darkness grope;
For, whilst I hold thy hand, dear friend, I know
Christ's love can still in human bosoms glow
And love will round all troubles into peace,
Although the springs of light and being cease
To cheer us. I may say, with Rabelais,
As farewell word to living, ‘Je m'en vais
Querir le grand Peut-être.’ It is the end.
I carry into night thy love, O friend,
'Spite death, 'spite doubt and cold.” And spake no more.
And I, down looking if his soul still wore
That web of flesh it long had found so sore,
Saw that the appointed peace had made him dumb
And knew that the deliverer Death was come.

V.A DREAM OF FAITHS.

VI.A PORTRAIT.

VII.A DREAM-LIFE.

VIII.THE RED ROSE.

IX.CHRISTMAS BELLS.

BALLADS AND ROMANCES.

I.THE RIME OF REDEMPTION.

II.THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL.

III.INTO THE ENCHANTED LAND.

IV.SIR WINFRITH.

V.THE KING'S SLEEP.

VI.MADONNA DEI SOGNI.

VII.THE HOUSE OF SORROW.

VIII.IN ARMIDA'S GARDEN.

(Gluck's ‘Armide,’ Act ii. Scene 3.)

IX.THE WESTWARD SAILING.

X.SIR ERWIN'S QUESTING.

XI.THE BALLAD OF SHAMEFUL DEATH.

XII.THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

XIII.THE ROSES OF SOLOMON.

XIV.THE BALLAD OF MAY MARGARET.

XV.THE MARSH-KING'S DAUGHTER.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

SONNETS.

INTROIT.

THIS is the House of Dreams. Whoso is fain
To enter in this shadow-land of mine,
He must forget the utter Summer's shine
And all the daylight ways of hand and brain:
Here is the white moon ever on the wane
And here the air is sad with many a sign
Of haunting myst'ries; here the golden wine
Of June falls never nor the silver rain
Of hawthorns hueless with the joy of Spring;
But many a mirage of pale memories
Curtains the sunless aisles: upon the breeze
A music of waste sighs doth float and sing
And in the shadow of the sad-flowered trees,
The ghosts of men's desire walk wandering.

AD DANTEM.

TO thee, my master, thee, my shining one,
Whose solitary face, immovable,
Burning athwart the midmost glooms of Hell,
Calls up stern shadows of the things undone,—
To thee, immortal, shining like the sun
In the blue heart of Heaven's clearest bell,
Circled with radiances ineffable,—
These pale sad flowers I bring,—how hardly won
From this grey night of modern lovelessness,
How hardly and how wearily God knows!
These at thy feet I lay, whose hues confess
Thy mighty shade, so haply they may shine
With some pale reflex of that light divine
Which ripples round thine own supernal rose.

TROPIC FLOWER.

AS I went walking in the air one day—
Sadly enough—a thought laid hold on me
With flower-soft hands and would not set me free.
It was, meseemed, as if a rose of May
Blew suddenly against a wintry way
Of snow and barren boughs; for I could see
No cause why such a lovely light should be
In my dull soul, nor how my heart's dismay
Should have lent life to any pleasant thing.
But, with remembering, presently I knew
That this was but the scarlet flowering
Of some most bitter aloe-root that grew
In my sick soul an hundred years and drew
All my lost summers to its single Spring.

HAUNTED LIFE.

HOW shall I 'scape the presence of this death?
Sleeping, the Dream-God folds me in his wings;
And with the grey pale day comes Thought and brings
With him the sad enchantments of the breath
Of some dumb ghost-world that envelopeth
My narrow life with many-woven rings
Of imminent mystery. The viewless things
Are thick and tyrannous on me, a sheath
Of unseen mists, that prison up my hands.
The wraiths of things long dead and things undone,
Memories and forecasts, lives that yet shall be
Or might be compassed, with such strangling bands
They bind me, that this world beneath the sun
Fails from my grasp and life is death to me.

HESPERIA.

MY dream is of a city in the West,
Built with fair colours, still and sad as flowers
That wear the blazon of the autumn hours,
Set by the side of some wide wave's unrest;
And there the sun-filled calm is unimprest,
Save by a flutter as of silver showers,
Rain-rippled on dim Paradisal bowers,
And some far tune of bells chimed softliest.
About the still clear streets my love-thoughts go,
A many-coloured throng, some pale as pearl,
Some bright as the gold brow-locks of a girl:
And midst them, where the saddest memories teem,
My veiled hope wanders, musingly and slow,
And hears the sad sea murmur like a dream.

WINTER ROSES.

DORIC MODE.

SEEK, then, no more to sweep the unwilling strings
To tempest nor to harrow up the skies
With the void passion of Titanic sighs;
Thou shalt not scale the heaven on thunderous wings
Of resonant prayer. The terror of sweet things
Mounts up, sure-winged, to where the whirlwind dies,
Unechoed; and the eternal harmonies
Are stirred more surely, when the poet sings
Bird-softly, bent above the low-voiced lute.
Thunders lie low; the middle air is mute
To their reverberance; but, when there rings
Through heaven the cadence of the Dorian flute,
The great gods hearken from their sojournings
And life flowers forth with immemorial Springs.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

THERE lies a garden in the westward hills,
Compassed about with walls of mystery
And girt with an inviolable sea
Of silentness; and there no linnet trills:
But, in the witchery of peace that fills
The voiceless lawns, sleep unawakeningly
The sweet lost dreams, that there englamoured be
And may not pass those thrice-enchanted sills.
There have I laid my wounded love to sleep
And heal its dole among the unstirred dells;
And thence, methinks, when many a gradual sweep
Of years has purged life's passion in the wells
Of restfulness, my soul its flower shall reap,
Made whole and fair with many mystic spells.

SOVRAN SORROW.

DEATH came to me and took me by the hand,
What time the earth had girt her first with Spring
And all the meadows put on blossoming.
“Come forth,” said he, “and see my flowers expand:”
And forth we passed into the pleasant land.
And as we went, the small birds all did sing
And all the flowers praised Death in everything.
Then, as I looked, amazed, to see the brand
And sign of that his dreadful sovranty,
Behold, a crown of holiest sorrowing
Flamed on the angel's brow; and unto me,
Knee-bent for reverence, these words did ring
Most softly, “Lo! he ruleth all that be,
Seeing he sorrows more than anything.”

FRANCOIS RABELAIS.

MASTER, whose glad face lightens through the years,
Awful and fair with laughter against wrong,
We that have loved thee loyally and long,
Laid heart to thine with laughter and with tears,
Glorying to see thee with thy golden spears
Smite through, Apollo-like, the Python-throng
Of woes, and no less pitiful than strong,
Salve with thy smile the dolours and the fears,
Fain would we have thy presence once again,
In these our tragic times of doubt and stress,
To purge the air with ridicule; ay, fain
Would we behold, athwart the mist that seals
Our toil-gray skies, thy brow's strong sunniness,
The visage of a god that laughs and heals.

EVOCATION.

ROCOCO.

STRAIGHT and swift the swallows fly
To the sojourn of the sun;
All the golden year is done,
All the flower-time flitted by;
Through the boughs the witch-winds sigh:
But heart's summer is begun;
Life and love at last are one;
Love-lights glitter in the sky.
Summer-days were soon outrun,
With the setting of the sun;
Love's delight is never done.
Let the turn-coat roses die;
We are lovers, Love and I:
In Love's lips my roses lie.

LIFE UNLIVED.

HOW many months, how many a weary year
My soul had stood upon that brink of days,
Straining dim eyes into the treacherous haze
For signs of life's beginning. Far and near
The grey mist floated, like a shadow-mere,
Beyond hope's bounds; and in the lapsing ways,
Pale phantoms flitted, seeming to my gaze
The portents of the coming hope and fear.
“Surely,” I said, “life shall rise up at last,
Shall sweep me by with pageant and delight!”
But, as I spoke, the waste shook with a blast
Of cries and clamours of a mighty fight;
Then all was still. Upon me fell the night
And a voice whispered to me, “Life is past.”

BELPHOEBE.

SHE may not give thee love nor any hate:
Her life is calm and senseless as the flowers
That fall around her in such scented showers:
Snow-calm, she standeth in the present's gate,
Unmindful if the world is wound with fate
About her life, knowing not hope nor doubt
Nor any yearning for the things without.
Her days are folded in a flowerful state,
A charm of lily-snows and jasmine-sweets.
It irks her nothing if the pale god broods
Above the haunts of toil or sorrow beats
With leaden wing: she knoweth not the goods
Nor ills of men, standing where summer meets
With Spring upon the marges of the woods.

ON LECONTE DE LISLE'S PROSE TRANSLATION OF HOMER.

THERE is a legend of the northland fells,
Fabling that in the middle mountain-caves,
Soundless and dumb, a mighty music waves,
Frozen into silence by eternal spells,
Till some fair hero pierce the mist that dwells
Above the music's mystery-hearted graves.
Then shall the song soar with a noise of glaives
To-smitten and the trumpet's silver swells
Rehearse the glories of the ancient time.
So hast thou, poet from the tropic isles,—
Coming, breast-armoured with the gold sun's smiles,
Into our Northland,—set old Homer free
From all the tangling coil of modern rhyme
And loosed the sheer song on us like a sea.

AFTER LONG YEARS.

THE memories of summer are not dead,
The roses and the bird-songs and the sun:
Though autumn shadow all the skies with dun
And all the golden year be overspread
With shrouding snows, yet roses have been red,
Linnets have sung and June has gilt the day;
And Springtide, peering through the winter's grey,
Calls up pale phantasms of the glories fled,
Primroses budding through the scarce-thawed rime,
A memory and a foreshadowing.
So with these firstlings of my second Spring,
March-prophecies of summer-tided rhyme,
After long years I bring as offering
To the pale memories of that pleasant time.

FATAL ATTAINMENT.

HAPLY, my hope shall find me unawares,
Fall on me from a thunder-smitten sky,
As Spring-light changed to lightning-flash; and I,—
Bent to some gross dull web of clinging cares,
Having forgot the aim of all my prayers
But for that second,—see the thing on high
And knowing it for awful and so nigh,
Lose heart to grasp it or to mount the stairs
Of light let down to lift me heavenward.
So all my soul shall shrink into a sigh
Of impotence; and with its sense outpoured
Into one unrelenting ecstacy
Of yearning for the mirage golden-shored,
My life shall fold its frail faint wings and die.

JACOB AND THE ANGEL.

SHALL he not bless me? Will he never speak
Those words of proud concession, “Let me go:
For the day breaketh?” Wearily and slow
The shrouded hours troop past across the peak,
Eastering; and I, with hands grown all too weak
And strength that would have failed me long ago,
But for the set soul, strain to overthrow
The instant God.—Alas! 'tis I that speak—
Not Jacob—I that in this night of days
Do wrestle with the angel Art, till breath
And gladness fail me. Yet the stern soul stays
And will not loose him till he bless me; ay,
Even though the night defer my victory
Until the day break on the dawn of death.

SIBYL.

THIS is the glamour of the world antique:
The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air
And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.
The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek
The amber haunts of bees and on the peak
Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,
She stands, a dream from out the days gone by.
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak.
Her eyes are full of dreams and in her ears
There is the rustle of immortal wings;
And ever and anon the slow breeze bears
The mystic murmur of the songs she sings.
Entreat her not: she sees thee not nor hears
Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone Springs.

LONG DESIRE.

SURELY the world is sad with my sick hope.
There comes no stirring in the air for Spring,
No sweep of wings nor any blossoming
Of leaf-buds, red against the grey cloud-scope.
The mocking sunlight falls athwart the slope
Of the pale flowerless fields, as if to find
Some faint flower-trace, mayhap remained behind
Of the past happy time. And I, I grope
For aye amongst the ashes of old bliss,
Seeking some unpaled spark wherewith to light
The torch of Hope, that well-nigh faded is
Within my breast, if haply from the height
Of heaven should come, on wings of memories,
Some soft-plumed angel of the old delight.

ON THE BORDERS OF THE NIGHT.

FEMME FELLAH DE LANDELLE.

O THOU that hold'st the desert in thine eyes,
With that long look into the world of dreams,
As of deep yearning for the distant streams
Of some green oasis that haply lies
Beyond the torrid glow of Orient skies
In the blue distance! I have known thee long
In that dim dreamland, where the fluted song
Of nightingales is mixed with dulcet sighs
Of scented winds and balm of mystic flowers;
And in the white warm moonlight, all bestrewn
About the trellised woodways and the bowers
Vine-clustered, I have often known the tune
Of birds swell sweetlier and the hurrying hours
Halt, as thy face grew clear beneath the moon.

PROJECTED SHADOWS.

AH, memory! ah, ruthless memory!
Shall I not have one hour unfilled for thee?
Why wilt thou thus usurp the days to be,
Unsatisfied with all thy realms that lie
Behind the Present? Why o'ercloud the sky,
Glad with gold star-scripts of Futurity?
Hast thou not made the fleeting hours for me
Sunless enough, but thou must flicker by
The shrouding years and hovering on the verge
Of my horizon's blue, blot out the forms
Of all my pleasant creatures of delight,
Won with much wrestling from the haggard night,
And in their stead paint up a sky of storms
And the stern Fury sworded with the scourge?

AZALEAS.

BRIDE-NIGHT.

SWEET summer, if thy roses knew the song
The linnet sang in that dear dream of old,
Flooding the night with ripples of song-gold,
What while two lovers did their bliss prolong,
They would have garnered it from earthly wrong
Within their golden hearts, folded it up
Deep in the scented purple of their cup,
Against the harsh world's griefs and the sad throng
Of love-destroying cares; and holding so
Within their hearts that essence of all bliss,
They would have felt its magic pierce and glow
Athwart their veins, till, with the fire of this,
All hue had left them for that lovely woe,
As lovers pale upon a lingering kiss.

FLITTING HOPE.

FAIR angel, I have sought thee many a day,
Through many mingling ways of smiles and tears,
And watched thy shadow flutter through the years.
Ay, evermore, the outline cool and grey
Of thy soft pinions on the landscape lay,
Softening the mocking sunlight and the spears
Of the cold silver moon; and still, with ears
Eager and strained, I listened for the sway
Of thy wide wings across the trembling air.
Ah! never to my sight thy presence came,
Nor in the midnight nor the noonday's flame;
But on the ecstasy of my despair,
Worn down to silence, falls the shade the same,
A far faint angel with outfluttering hair.

LOVE'S EPITAPH.

BRING wreaths and crown the golden hours!
Pile up the scented snows of Spring!
If Love be dead of sorrow's sting,
Shall we make dark this day of ours,
This day of scents and silver showers
And lilts of linnets on the wing?
Sing out and let the shadow ring
And all the grave run o'er with flowers!
If Love, you say, indeed be dead,
We will not spare to turn the leaf :
Spring is as sweet as aye and red
And sweet as ever is the rose;
He was so fickle, Love! Who knows?
He might arise and mock our grief.

INDIAN ISLE.

I FOUND in dreams a dwelling of delight
And did possess it with my soul's desire:
An island, cinctured with the radiant fire
Of orient noons and girt about with white
Of wave-washed reefs, wherein there slumbered bright,
Ah! dream-bright bays. that brought the blue sky nigher
Down to my wish; and many a flower-sheathed spire
Of mystic splendid trees bare up that height
Of imminent azure, flowered above the earth.
There, for my spirit's ease, my hope I laid,
To dwell within that golden-hearted shade
And drink the splendour of the things that be,
Renewing ever with the new sun's birth
And rounded with the slumber of the sea.

SIREN.

A DREAM came to me in the winter night,
A dream of flowers and songs and summer skies,
Made beautiful with bloom of memories;
And as I fed my long-divorcèd sight
Upon that vision of a dead delight,
I saw therein a white sad face arise
And gold hair fluttered with a wind of sighs.
“Ah, mocking dream,” I said, “that dost incite
My hope, that sleeps at last, to rise again
And seek anew the ways where Life is strong—
Knowing it should but weary there in vain—
My hope that in the lily-fields full long
Of peaceful Death to dreamless rest is lain!”
And the dream ended like a broken song.

NIRWANA.

I WANDER in the halls of memory,
Death-dumb and rounded with a web of dreams;
And for long fervour of desire, meseems
My soul is parted from the things that be
And the glad forms of life. Upon a sea
Of fluctuant imaginings, that gleams
With phosphorescent moony-coloured beams
Of lurid fancy, all my days do flee,
Seeking for aye some pale and shadowy land
Of sweet and delicate sadness, wearying
To be poured out like wine into some spring
Of wishless being, welling through the sand
Of some sun-consecrated sojourning
Of souls come back into the Maker's hand.

SLEEPERS AND ONE THAT WATCHES.

ALTISIDORA.

IN the mid-wood I strayed; and as I went,
I saw a lady sitting all alone
Upon a bank with primroses o'ergrown,
With tear-stained eyes and tresses all to-rent.
“Sweetheart,” said I, “is all thy joy forspent
And all the stir of Spring unfelt for thee,
That thou dost linger here so wearily,
Flouting the flowers with sorrow and lament?”
And she, “Is Spring then blossomed on the lands?
Methought the world wore winter with my soul
And these pale flowers, dim-set in weft green bands,
Blew but as wraiths of the bright host that stands
Within the summer-gardens winter stole,
To mock my sorrow with his flowerful hands.”

LONELY THOUGHT.

THE thoughts grow up and blossom in my breast;
And some do mock the sun-gold and the blue
Of June-clear heavens, some the angry hue
Of stormful sundowns blazoned in the West;
And others (fairest these and deadliest)
Hive in their cups a scented poison-dew,
Some honey-sweet and bitter some as rue.
And all spring up and die, alike unblest.
But in the secret cloisters of my soul
A white flower sleeps upon a forest-pool,
Undying, and athwart the tree-shade cool
Sends up a blended breath of peace and dole:
And round the flower strange birds do flit and throng,
Sacring the silence with a low, clear song.

WESTERING HOPE.

THE dainty dream of dawn had swooned away
And all the golden chains of noon opprest
The pleasance of the woods. Upon the breast
Of Spring Life slumbered and the innocent day
Linked hands and garlands with the fair mid-May.
So for awhile, meseemed, the long unrest
Died down to sleep within me; peace outprest
Her wine of balms upon me; and I lay
Unmemoried, deep-bowered in a nest
Of dreams, whose perfumes misted up the way
Of Past and Future, till the soft day's wane
Piled towers of sunset on the blue hills' crest.
Then all my grief came back and once again
My soul stretched out sad hands toward the West.

SILENTIA LUNÆ.

IT seemed to me, this night of many nights,
What time the moon lay full on wood and lea,
That over all my life there spread one sea
Of pearl; and thereupon the mirrored lights
Of the soft stars shone out like petal-whites
Of gold-heart lilies, floating waveringly
Upon the clear moon-silences. Ah me!
Might it not be, my sweet, these many nights
Of old, that we have steeped our love by-past
In the white peace of night, that we have cast
Our twinned souls out with kisses and with tears
Upon the flooding moon,—that haply we
Should with joined hands yet rescue from the sea
Some sweetness of the irrevocable years?

IGNIS FATUUS.

MY soul is like some pale phantasmal light,
That flickers o'er a marsh of mystery
And with its baleful phosphorescency
Stretches long hands of blue into the night.
It may not give the fair world to men's sight
Nor rescue back the lovely things that be
Out of the shrouding gloom; but, from the sea
Of dreams, the shadowy armies infinite
Of the Invisibles flock forth to it
And many a wraith of worlds fantastical
Breaks into lurid lapses, stretching through
The interambient glooms, with many a hall
And cloister, grey with flitting ghosts and lit
With many a witch's torch of livid blue.

BEATRICE.

SWEET, I have sung of thee in many modes,
If haply singing I might ease my pain;
And still the unwearying Fates bring me again
Back by the flowery and the thorny roads
To the old goal-point: still my soul forebodes
The coming of the sad sweet dreams of old
And in my Occident the sunset's gold
Grows dim and sad above the lost abodes.
Dear, had I loved thee less or loved life more,
Had had more hope in men, in love less faith,
I should not now be seeking, as of yore,
For the faint sadness of dream-violets' breath;
I should not now be weaving, o'er and o'er,
These bitter melodies of Love and Death.

MAY MEMORIES.

OUTSTRETCHED HANDS.

IS there no sweetness save of ripened fruit?
Lies all men's gladness in fulfilled desire?
Is no flame blander than fruition's fire,
That with swift flowerage burns away its root?
Life passes by, and still my heart is mute.
Day follows night; and yet the sky no nigher
Leans to my hope. Shall all my days expire
And all my soul grow grey with the pursuit?
Shall life waste alway in this torrid blast
Of unstayed passion? Oh! it cannot be
But that some day the spirit shall have cast
Its slough of lusts, that in some luminous sea
Surely a man's desire shall purgèd be,
Surely the early peace come back at last.

ANGEL DEATH.

LO! I have made an end of many things,
Singing; yet never have I sung to thee,
Belovèd angel, that by Life's sad sea
Standest star-crowned, whilst all the dusk air rings
With the quick spirit-pulse of viewless wings:
No voice of mine has lifted litany
To thee with song, no hand of mine set free
The soul of praise that slumbers in the strings.
For am I not to thee as one (in this)
That lingers by some shining water-deeps,
When the slow tide sings in its moon-stilled sleeps,
Until his heart-strings catch its harmonies
And his life pulses to the time it keeps:
And yet thereof no thing he speaks, ywis.

BURIED CITIES.

IF one should wander, in a boat of dreams,
Upon the charmèd ocean of the Past,
Peering, with paddling hands and eyes down-cast,
Into the amethystine deeps, meseems
He should see many wonders, by the beams
Of backward memory; the phantoms vast
And awful of the cities of the past
Uplooming through the deeps with sudden gleams
Of glancing towers and jewel-wroughten spires;
And therein too there should be visible,
Methinks, about the streets strange flitting fires,
Wearing his hopes' soul-semblance; and the spell
Should be sung round with silver sound of lyres
And the sad song of some far golden bell.

EXIT.

THIS is my House of Dreams—a house of shade,
Built with the fleeting visions of the night:
Here have I set my youth and all its white
Sad mem'ries—in this dwelling that I made
With idle rhyme, as lonely fancy bade.
If any wonder at the strange sad might
The God of Visions holds upon my sight
And set himself my weak song to upbraid
For all the wailing notes therein that teem,
I pray him of his favour that to lands
Of sunnier clime he wend; for things that seem
Are here the things of life and give commands
To living; for a dream is on my hands
And on my life the shadow of a dream.

WITH A COPY OF THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.

FRIEND, in this book I proffer thee hereby,
The angelic voice of him my song obeys,
The well-nigh God and master of my lays,
With various speech, of matters rare and high,
That harpnotes now, now thunder doth outvie,
Discourseth in his verses passing praise.
This treasured work of all who bear the bays,
A poet, to thee, poet, offer I,
That evermore a pledge betwixt us twain
Of friendship and to boot a sign it may
Be of the common travel in the Way
Of our two souls, that various of strain
More than in heaven benighted star and star,
But none the less conjoined in variance are.

SUNFLOWER SOUL.

LIKE as the sunflower lifts up to the sun
Its star of summer, in the noontide heat,
Following the sacred circuit of his feet,
What while toward the house of Night they run;
Nor when the glad Day's glory is fordone
And the sun ceases from the starry street,
It leaves to turn to his celestial seat,
Seeking his face behind the shadows dun;
Even so my heart, from out these darkening days,
Whose little light is sad for winter's breath,
Strains upward still, with song and prayer and praise,
Ensuing ever, through the gathering haze,
Those twin suns of our darkness, Love and Death,
That rule the backward and the forward ways.

WITH A COPY OF HENRY VAUGHAN'S SACRED POEMS.

LAY down thy burden at this gate and knock.
What if the world without be dark and drear?
For there be fountains of refreshment here
Sweeter than all the runnels of the rock.
Hark! even to thy hand upon the lock
A wilding warble answers, loud and clear,
That falls as fain upon the heart of fear
As shepherds' songs unto the folded flock.
This is the quiet wood-church of the soul.
Be thankful, heart, to him betimes that stole,
Some Easter morning, through the golden door—
Haply ajar for early prayer to rise—
And brought thee back from that song-flowered shore
These haunting harmonies of Paradise.

J. B. COROT.

Died 22nd February, 1875.

BEFORE the earliest violet he died,
Who loved the new green and the stress of Spring
So tenderly. He knew that March must bring
The primrose by the brook and all the wide
Green spaces of the forest glorified
With scent and singing, when each passing wing
Would call him and each burst of blossoming:
He knew he could not die in the Spring-tide.
Yet he was weary, for his task was done
And sleep seemed sweet unto the tiréd eyes:
Weary! for many a year he had seen the sun
Arise; so in the season of the snows
He put off life—ere Spring could interpose
To hold him back—and went where Gautier lies.

ALOE-BLOSSOM.

LIFE stayed for me within a breach of days,
Sundered athwart the grey and rocky years:
Above, the day was dim to me for fears
And memories of the many-chasmed ways
Through which my feet had struggled. At amaze,
Silent I stood and listened with wide ears,
As for the coming of some Fate that nears
At last across the moon-mist and the haze.
The haggard earth lay speechless at my feet;
But, as I waited, suddenly there came
Within me as the flowering of a flame;
And like the mystic bud that bursts to meet
Its hundredth Spring with thunder and acclaim,
Love flowered upon me, terrible and sweet.

DREAM-LIFE.

IT seems to me sometimes that I am dead
And watch the live world in its ceaseless stream
Pass by me through the pauses of a dream.
The dawn breaks blue on them, the sunset's red
Burns on their smiles and on the tears they shed;
The moonlight floods them with its silver gleam:
To me they are as ghosts that do but seem;
Their grief is strange to me, their gladness dread.
Life lapses, like a vision dim and grey,
Before my sight, a cloud-wrack in the sky.
Since I am dead I can no longer die:
Ah, can it be this doom is laid on me,
To see the tired world slowly pass away
Nor die, but live on everlastingly?

AD ZOÏLOS.

CHIDE me who will for that my song is sad
And all my fancy follows on the wave
That bears our little being to the grave!
When did it fail that those—whose lives were glad
For lack of light and want of virtue had
To know the mystery and the hair-hung glaive
That shadow all our life so seeming brave—
The accusing wail of those that weep forbad?
Peace, triflers! Peace, dull ears and heedless eyne!
Yet haply Time unto your foolish fears
Shall yield a mocking áccord and the years,
Falling full-fated on these days of mine,
Crush from the grapes of grief a bitter wine
Of laughters, sadder than the saddest tears.

INDIAN SUMMER.

FADED LOVE.

FAREWELL, sweetheart! Farewell, our golden days!
So runs the cadence, ringing out the tune
Of sighs and kisses: for the tale of June
Is told and all the length of flowered ways
Fades in the distance, as the new life lays
Its hand upon the strings and all too soon
Breaks the brief song of birds and flowers and moon
That held the Maytime. What is this that stays?
—A white-robed figure, with sad eyes that hold
A far-off dream of never-travelled ways;
Wan with white lips and hands as pale and cold
As woven garlands of long-vanished Mays,
And the sun's memory halo-like above
Its head.—It is the wraith of faded Love.

SAD SUMMER.

AH Summer, lady of the flowered lands,
When shall thy lovely looks bring back to me,
—To me who strain into the grey sad sea
Of dreams unsatisfied and with stretched hands
Implore the stern sky and the changeless sands
For some faint sign of that which was to be
So perfect and so fair a life to see,—
The time of songs and season of flower-bands?
At least, for guerdon of full many a lay
In praise of thee and of thy youngling Spring,
What time my lips were yet attuned to sing,
Let not thy roses redden in my way
Too flauntingly nor all thy golden day
Insult my silence with too glad a ring.

THE LAST OF THE GODS.

ENGLAND'S HOPE.

(KITCHENER OF KHARTOUM.)

WHELP of the lion-breed of Wellington;
Careless to fit the date unto the deed
Or trumpet forth, that all who run may read,
His valiant worth to every mother's son;
In the lost field, as in the victory won,
Steadfast alike, unrecking whose the meed,
So but the achievement of his country's need
And honour saved attend on duty done:
Diluting action not with vain debate;
Contemptuous of Fortune's good and ill;
Not blown about, as is the unstable soul,
Hither and thither with each shift of fate,
But constant as the compass to the pole,
Fast founded on th'unconquerable will.

SARVARTHASIDDHA-BUDDHA.

OMAR KHEYYAM.

O THOU, the Orient morning's nightingale,
That, from the darkness of the Long Ago,
Thy note of unpropitiable woe
Cast'st out upon the Time-travérsing gale,
—Its burden still Life's lamentable tale,
Too late come hither and too soon to go,
Whence brought and whither bounden none doth know
Nor why thrust forth into this world of wail,—
We, thy sad brethren of the Western lands,
Sons of the Secret of this latter day,
We, who have sailed with thee the sea of tears,
Have trod with thee the BLOOD-DEVOURING WAY,
We, thy soul's mates, with thee join hearts and hands
Across the abysses of eight hundred years.

FROM BOCCACCIO.

TO PETRARCH DEAD.

NOW, dear my lord, unto those realms of light
Thou'rt mounted, whither looketh still to fare
Each soul of God elect unto that share,
On its departure from this world of spite;
Now art thou where full oft the longing spright
Drew thee, with Laura to commune whilere:
Now art thou come whereas my lovely fair
Fiammetta sitteth with her in God's sight.
Yea, with Sennuccio , Cino , Dante, thou
Assured of ease enternal dwellest now,
Things seeing our intelligence above.
Oh, in this world if I was dear to thee,
Draw thou me straight to thee, where I may see,
Joyful, her face who fired me first with love.

TO HIS OWN SOUL, EXHORTING IT TO REPENTANCE.

TURN, turn thee, weary soul: nay, hearken me.
Turn thee and note where thou hast run astray,
The course of idle lusts ensuing aye,
And in the fosse thy feet enmired thou'lt see.
Wake, ere thou fall! What dost thou? Presently
Return to Him, Him who the true allay
To who will giv'th and from the sore affray
Of woeful death, whereto thou far'st, doth free.
Return thee unto Him and thy last years
Yield, at the least, unto His will and gree,
Mourning the ills done in the days bygone.
Let the late season waken not thy fears;
He will accept thee, doing unto thee
That which He did erst with the last hired one.

OF THREE DAMSELS IN A MEADOW.

ABOUT a well-spring, in a little mead,
Of tender grasses full and flow'rets fair,
There sat three youngling angels, as it were
Their loves recounting; and for each, indeed,
Her sweet face shaded, 'gainst the noontide need,
A spray of green, that bound her golden hair;
Whilst, in and out by turns, a frolic air
The two clear colours blended at its heed.
And one, after a little, thus heard I
Say to her mates, “Lo, if by chance there lit
The lovers of each one of us hereby,
Should we flee hence for fear of quiet sit?”
Whereto the twain made answer, “Who should fly
From such a fortune sure were scant of wit.”

EXOTICA.

CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE.

VIRELAY.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

DOUBLE BALLAD

OF THE SINGERS OF THE TIME.

BALLAD OF POETS.

VILLANELLE.

RONDEL.

[KISS me, sweetheart; the Spring is here]

BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT.

RONDEAU.

BALLAD OF LOVE'S DESPITE.

RONDEAU.

VILLANELLE.

KYRIELLE.

PANTOUM.

SONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

DEDICATION

TO RICHARD WAGNER.

A PRELUDE.

A SONG BEFORE THE GATES OF DEATH.

FALSE SPRING.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

MADRIGAL TRISTE.

A SONG OF ROSES.

A FAREWELL.

AUBADE.

COURANTE.

THE DEAD MASTER.

A THRENODY.

VOCATION SONG.

SUNDOWN.

SHADOW-SOUL.

A BIRTHDAY SONG.

IN THE NIGHT-WATCHES.

A SONG OF DEAD LOVE.

CADENCES.

AREOPAGITICA.

A BACCHIC OF SPRING.

I.

II.

A SOUL'S ANTIPHON.

A SONG OF WILLOW.

SONGS' END.

TOURNESOL.

GEOFFREY of Rudel! How the name
Leaps to the lips like a flower of flame,
Holding the heart with a dream of days
When life lay yet in the flowered ways
And the winds of the world were stirred and strong
With blast of battle and silver of song;
When love was long and women were true
And the bell of the steadfast sky was blue
Over a world that was white as yet
From load of labour and fruitless fret
Of hunger for gain and greed of gold,
That now have made us our young world old!
I hail thee, honest and tender time!
I, last of many, that with rude rhyme
Ring out reproach to the cheerless air
And chide the age that it is not fair.
And first of any the blames I bring,
I chide it for lack of love-liking,
For fall of faith and hope grown cold,
For love turned lusting and youth grown old.
For where, I pray you, in this our day
Lives there the lover that loves alway
And where is the lady whose constant eye
Shall seek one only until she die?
Alack for Rudel and Carmosine,
Whose loves, as the constant sun his sheen,
Burn like a beryl in lays of yore!
Their day is dead as the bale they bore
For faithful fancy; and now alone
In minstrels' making their name is known.
Their thought is perished, their peerless fame
Faded and past as the marish flame
That flees from the blink of the breaking day;
And love is dead with them, wellaway!
For now men's love is a fitful fire,
A wayless desert of waste desire;
And women's love is a cold caprice,
A wind that changes without surcease.
For the lifelong love that in days of old
Was dearer than lands and grain and gold,
The love that possessed men's heart and soul
In life and leisure, in death and dole,
That stirred their spirits to many a deed
Of noble daring, that was the meed
Of haughty honour and high emprize,
That made men look in their lady's eyes
For gain and guerdon of all their strife,
This love lack we in our modern life.
For the folk through the fretful hours are hurled
On the ruthless rush of the wondrous world
And none has leisure to lie and cull
The blossoms that made life beautiful
In that old season when men could sing
For dear delight in the risen Spring
And Summer ripening fruit and flower.
Now carefulness cankers every hour;
We are too weary and sad to sing;
Our pastime's poisoned with thought-taking.
The bloom is faded from all that's fair
And grey with smoke is the grievous air.
None lifts to luting his hand and voice
Nor smites the strings with a joyful noise;
For all who sing in the land are pale;
Their voice is the voice of those that wail
For beauty buried and hang the head
For the dream of a day evanishèd.
How shall we say sweet things in rhyme
Of this our marvellous modern time,
We that are heavy at heart to sing,
But may not rejoice for remembering?
We care not, we, for the gorgeous glow
Of wealth and wonder, the stately show
Of light and luxury, that sweeps past,
Unheeded, before our eyes downcast.
The pageant of passion and pride and crime,
That fills the face of the turncoat time,
The gold that glitters, the gems that glow,
Hide not from us the wasting woe
That gnaws at the heart of the hungry age.
The starving soul in the crystal cage
Looks through the loop of the blazoned bars,
As out of heaven the sorrowing stars
Gaze on the grief of the night newborn.
What shall we do for the world forlorn,
We that drink deep of its sorrowing?
What can we do, alas! but sing?
Sing as the bird behind the wire,
That pours out his passion of dear desire,
His fret for the forest far away,
His hunger of hope for the distant day
When peradventure shall ope for him
The door that darkens on heaven's rim;
What can we do, bird-like, but pour
Into our singing the dreams of yore,
The long desire of the soul exiled
From some sweet Eden laid waste and wild?
And if, by fortune, we turn our feet,
Torn with long travel, toward that sweet,
That happy haven of “long ago”
And tune our lutany soft and low
To some dear ditty of things that were,
Memoried with melodies faint and fair,
Shall any blame us for this that we
Fordid Time's tyranny and forgot
Awhile life's lovelessness? I trow not;
For song is sinless and fancy free.

A FUNERAL SONG FOR THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY SONG.

LOVE'S AMULET.

MADRIGAL GAI.

LOVE'S AUTUMN.

ASPECT AND PROSPECT.

MELISANDE.

IN MEMORIAM

OLIVER MADOX BROWN ob. Nov. 5, 1874.

SALUT D'AMOUR.

EPILOGUE

TO THE BOOK OF THE THOUSAND NIGHTS AND ONE NIGHT.

DUST TO DUST.

VERE NOVO.

PRELUDE TO HAFIZ.

THE DOPPER'S LAMENT.

REQUIEM

FOR OUR DEAD IN SOUTH AFRICA.

BASSARID'S HORN.

(From “The Book of Hercules”.)

NOCTURN.

BARCAROLLE.

ARCADES AMBO.

IMPERIA

(A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.)

LITANY.

LOVE SOLICITOUS.

SUNSET-VOICES.

TRINITAS TRINITATUM.

DE PROFUNDIS.

A GHAZEL OF SPRING.

SOLITUDINEM FACIUNT.....

BIRD-PEEP.

A LAST LULLABY.

EVENSONG.

THE GRAVE OF MY SONGS.