 | Complete works (1925-27) |  |
234
VI. [VOL. VI]
THE WHITE MAID'S WOOING
‘How will you woo her,
This white maid of thine?
With breaking of wastel,
Or pouring of wine?’
This white maid of thine?
With breaking of wastel,
Or pouring of wine?’
Not with pouring of cups,
Or with breaking of bread;
But with wood that is cloven,
And wine that is red.
Or with breaking of bread;
But with wood that is cloven,
And wine that is red.
With rings will I woo her,
With chains will I wed;
With ships that are broken,
With blood that is shed.
With chains will I wed;
With ships that are broken,
With blood that is shed.
Not with gold for a ring,
Nor with kisses on lips,
But with slaying of sailors,
And breaking of ships.
Nor with kisses on lips,
But with slaying of sailors,
And breaking of ships.
‘And how will you tame her,
This mad maid of thine?
With kisses for seal,
Or with gold for a sign?’
This mad maid of thine?
With kisses for seal,
Or with gold for a sign?’
With a bit for the mouth,
And a ring for the hand;
With a neck-chain of foam,
Or a waist-chain of sand.
And a ring for the hand;
With a neck-chain of foam,
Or a waist-chain of sand.
338
With the wind for a seal,
And the sun for a sign;
And so will I wed her,
This white wife of mine.
And the sun for a sign;
And so will I wed her,
This white wife of mine.
339
EVENING BY THE SEA
It was between the night and day,
The trees looked weary—one by one
Against the west they seemed to sway,
And yet were steady. The sad sun
In a sick doubt of colour lay
Across the water's belt of dun.
The trees looked weary—one by one
Against the west they seemed to sway,
And yet were steady. The sad sun
In a sick doubt of colour lay
Across the water's belt of dun.
On the weak wind scarce flakes of foam
There floated, hardly borne at all
From the rent edge of water—some
Between slack gusts the wind let fall,
The white brine could not overcome
That pale grass on the southern wall.
There floated, hardly borne at all
From the rent edge of water—some
Between slack gusts the wind let fall,
The white brine could not overcome
That pale grass on the southern wall.
That evening one could always hear
The sharp hiss of the shingle, rent
As each wave settled heavier,
The same rough way. This noise was blent
With many sounds that hurt the air
As the salt sea-wind came and went.
The sharp hiss of the shingle, rent
As each wave settled heavier,
The same rough way. This noise was blent
With many sounds that hurt the air
As the salt sea-wind came and went.
The wind wailed once and was not. Then
The white sea touching its salt edge
Dropped in a slow low sigh: again
The ripples deepened to the ledge,
Across the beach marsh and fen
Came a faint smell of rotten sedge.
The white sea touching its salt edge
Dropped in a slow low sigh: again
The ripples deepened to the ledge,
Across the beach marsh and fen
Came a faint smell of rotten sedge.
340
Like a hurt thing that will not die
The sea lay moaning; waifs of weed
Strove thro' the water painfully
Or lay flat, like drenched hair indeed,
Rolled over with the pebbles, nigh
Low places where the rock-fish feed.
The sea lay moaning; waifs of weed
Strove thro' the water painfully
Or lay flat, like drenched hair indeed,
Rolled over with the pebbles, nigh
Low places where the rock-fish feed.
345
GENTLE SPRING
WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE BY FREDERICK SANDYS
O Virgin Mother! of gentle days and nights,Spring of fresh buds and gentle soft delights,
Come, with lips kissed of many an amorous hour,
Come, with hands heavy from the fervent flower
The fleet first flower that feels the wind and sighs,
The tenderer leaf that draws the sun and dies;
Light butterflies like flowers alive in the air
Circling and crowning thy delicious hair,
And many a fruitful flower and floral fruit
Born of thy breath and fragrant from thy foot.
Thee, Mother, all things born desire, and thee
Earth and the fruitless hollows of the sea
Praise, and thy tender winds of ungrown wing
Fill heaven with murmurs of the sudden spring.
346
AUTUMN ROUNDEL
From spring to fall the year makes merry
With days to days that chant and call:
With hopes to crown and fears to bury
With crowns of flowers and flowers for pall,
With bloom and song and bird and berry
That fill the months with festival
From spring to fall.
With days to days that chant and call:
With hopes to crown and fears to bury
With crowns of flowers and flowers for pall,
With bloom and song and bird and berry
That fill the months with festival
From spring to fall.
Who knows if ever skies were dreary
With shower and cloud and waterfall?
While yet the world's good heart is cheery,
Who knows if rains will ever brawl?
The storm thinks long, the winds wax weary
Till winter comes to wind up all
From spring to fall.
With shower and cloud and waterfall?
While yet the world's good heart is cheery,
Who knows if rains will ever brawl?
The storm thinks long, the winds wax weary
Till winter comes to wind up all
From spring to fall.
347
THE CONCERT OF EUROPE
Sharp the concert wrought of discord thrills the tune of shame and death,
Turk by Christian fenced and fostered, Mecca backed by Nazareth:
All the powerless powers, tongue-valiant, breathe but greed's or terror's breath.
Turk by Christian fenced and fostered, Mecca backed by Nazareth:
All the powerless powers, tongue-valiant, breathe but greed's or terror's breath.
Though the tide that feels the west wind lift it, wave by widening wave,
Wax not yet to height and fullness of the storm that smites to save,
None shall bid the flood back seaward till no bar be left to brave.
Wax not yet to height and fullness of the storm that smites to save,
None shall bid the flood back seaward till no bar be left to brave.
1st March 1897.
348
IN THE TWILIGHT
Lord, is it daytime or night?
Failure, Lord, or success?
Speak to us, answer us, thou:
Surely the light of thy brow
Gave us, giveth us, light,
Dark be the season or bright,
Strong to support or suppress.
Failure, Lord, or success?
Speak to us, answer us, thou:
Surely the light of thy brow
Gave us, giveth us, light,
Dark be the season or bright,
Strong to support or suppress.
Thou, with eyes to the east,
Beautiful, vigilant eyes;
Father, Comforter, Chief,
Joy be it with us or grief,
Season of funeral or feast,
Careful of thine, of thy least,
Careful who lives and who dies.
Beautiful, vigilant eyes;
Father, Comforter, Chief,
Joy be it with us or grief,
Season of funeral or feast,
Careful of thine, of thy least,
Careful who lives and who dies.
Soul and Spirit of all,
Keeping the watch of the world,
All through the night-watches, there
Gazing through turbulent air
Standest; how shall we fall?
What should afflict or appal,
Though the streamers of storm be unfurled?
Keeping the watch of the world,
All through the night-watches, there
Gazing through turbulent air
Standest; how shall we fall?
What should afflict or appal,
Though the streamers of storm be unfurled?
All the noise of the night,
All the thunder of things,
All the terrors be hurled
Of the blind brute-force of the world,
All the weight of the fight,
All men's violent might,
All the confluence of Kings;
All the thunder of things,
All the terrors be hurled
Of the blind brute-force of the world,
349
All men's violent might,
All the confluence of Kings;
Rouse all earth against us,
Hurl all heaven against thee?
Though it be thus, though it were,
Speak to us, if thou be there,
Save, tho' indeed it be thus
Then that the dolorous
Stream sweeps off to the sea.
Hurl all heaven against thee?
Though it be thus, though it were,
Speak to us, if thou be there,
Save, tho' indeed it be thus
Then that the dolorous
Stream sweeps off to the sea.
Lift up heads that are hidden,
Strengthen hearts that are faint;
Lighten on eyes that are blind
To the poor of thy kind,
Courage their lives over-ridden,
Smitten how sorely and chidden
Sharply with reins of restraint.
Strengthen hearts that are faint;
Lighten on eyes that are blind
To the poor of thy kind,
Courage their lives over-ridden,
Smitten how sorely and chidden
Sharply with reins of restraint.
Peace, it may be he will say,
Somewhat, if yet ye will hear
Some great word of a chief,
Ask not of joy, neither grief,
Ask nothing more of the day,
Not whether night be away,
Not whether comfort be near.
Somewhat, if yet ye will hear
Some great word of a chief,
Ask not of joy, neither grief,
Ask nothing more of the day,
Not whether night be away,
Not whether comfort be near.
Seek not after a token;
Ask not what of the night,
Nor what the end of it brings:
Seek after none of these things.
What though nothing were spoken,
Nothing, though all we were broken,
Shewn as seen of the light?
Ask not what of the night,
Nor what the end of it brings:
Seek after none of these things.
What though nothing were spoken,
Nothing, though all we were broken,
Shewn as seen of the light?
350
What if the morning awake
Never of us to be seen?
Yet, if we die, if we live,
That which we have will we give,
That which is with us we take,
Borne in our hands for her sake
Who shall be and is and hath been.
Never of us to be seen?
Yet, if we die, if we live,
That which we have will we give,
That which is with us we take,
Borne in our hands for her sake
Who shall be and is and hath been.
She though we die we shall find
Surely, though far she be fled,
Nay, if we find not at last,
We, though we die and go past,
Yet shall we leave her behind,
Leave to the sons of our kind
Men that come after us dead.
Surely, though far she be fled,
Nay, if we find not at last,
We, though we die and go past,
Yet shall we leave her behind,
Leave to the sons of our kind
Men that come after us dead.
These shall say of us then;
‘Freedom they had not as we,
Yet were none of them slaves;
Free they lie in their graves,
Our fathers, the ancient of men,
Souls that awake not again
Free, as we living were free.’
‘Freedom they had not as we,
Yet were none of them slaves;
Free they lie in their graves,
Our fathers, the ancient of men,
Souls that awake not again
Free, as we living were free.’
Then, if remembrance remain,
Shall we not seeing have said
Out of the place where we lie
Hearing, rejoice and reply;
Men of a world without stain
Sons of men that in vain
Lie not for love of you dead.
Shall we not seeing have said
Out of the place where we lie
Hearing, rejoice and reply;
Men of a world without stain
Sons of men that in vain
Lie not for love of you dead.
1867.
351
A CAROL FOR CHARITY
Winter, friend of health and wealth,
Hailed of goodly girls and boys,
Slays the poor by strength and health,
Makes their lives his lifeless toys.
Hailed of goodly girls and boys,
Slays the poor by strength and health,
Makes their lives his lifeless toys.
One boy goes galloping over the moorland,
Wild with delight of the sunshine and speed,
Blithe as a bird on his bleak bright foreland,
Glad as the wind or his own glad steed.
Wild with delight of the sunshine and speed,
Blithe as a bird on his bleak bright foreland,
Glad as the wind or his own glad steed.
One, with darkness and toil fast bound,
Bound in misery and iron fast,
Drags his nakedness underground,
Sees the mine as the world at last.
Bound in misery and iron fast,
Drags his nakedness underground,
Sees the mine as the world at last.
Winter, lord of laughing Yule,
Winter, weeping on his dead,
Bids us ease his iron rule,
Bids us bring his poor men bread.
Winter, weeping on his dead,
Bids us ease his iron rule,
Bids us bring his poor men bread.
352
A SONG FOR MARGARET MIDHURST
God send the sea sorrow
And all men that sail thorough.
And all men that sail thorough.
God give the wild sea woe,
And all ships that therein go.
And all ships that therein go.
My love went out with dawn's light;
He went down ere it was night.
He went down ere it was night.
God give no live man good
That sails over the sea's flood.
That sails over the sea's flood.
God give all live men teen
That sail over the waves green.
That sail over the waves green.
God send for my love's sake
All their lovers' hearts break.
All their lovers' hearts break.
Many sails went over sea;
One took my heart from me.
One took my heart from me.
All they, saving one,
Came in landward under the sun.
Came in landward under the sun.
Many sails stood in from sea;
One twinned my heart and me.
One twinned my heart and me.
Waves white and waves black,
One sail they sent not back.
One sail they sent not back.
Many maidens laughed that tide;
I fell down and sore sighed.
I fell down and sore sighed.
353
Many mouths I saw kiss;
No man kissed there mine, I wis.
No man kissed there mine, I wis.
Many gat there brooch and glove;
I gat but loss of love.
I gat but loss of love.
I rose and sighed sore;
I set my face from the shore.
I set my face from the shore.
On my fingers fair gold rings,
In my heart bitter things.
In my heart bitter things.
In mine hair combs of pride,
I stood up and sore sighed.
I stood up and sore sighed.
I looked out over sea;
Never a man's eye looked to me.
Never a man's eye looked to me.
I cried out over the tide;
Never a man's mouth on me cried.
Never a man's mouth on me cried.
I came there a goodly thing;
I was full wan ere evening.
I was full wan ere evening.
I came there fresh and red;
I came thence like one dead.
I came thence like one dead.
I came there glad and lief;
I came thence with heart's grief.
I came thence with heart's grief.
God give all men grief, I say,
That sail over the seas grey.
That sail over the seas grey.
I laid my head to the sea-stone;
I made my bed there alone.
I made my bed there alone.
I made my bed into the sand,
Betwixen sea and green land.
Betwixen sea and green land.
354
Betwixen land and green sea
Sorrows and sorrows fell on me.
Sorrows and sorrows fell on me.
In yellow sea-sand washen well,
Weary watches on me fell.
Weary watches on me fell.
There all a night I lay:
I would I had died ere day.
I would I had died ere day.
There in the young light
I looked over the waves white.
I looked over the waves white.
There all a day I stood
Looking over the sea's flood.
Looking over the sea's flood.
I saw waves black and green,
But no man's sail between.
But no man's sail between.
I saw waves blue and white,
But no sails under the light.
But no sails under the light.
There was no wind passed me by,
But I was like to die.
But I was like to die.
I sought long and I sought sore,
And aye my tears fell more.
And aye my tears fell more.
I found sorrow and much pain,
But not my lover again.
But not my lover again.
God gave me a green bed,
And no pillow to my head.
And no pillow to my head.
God gave me brief life's breath,
And a good sleep after death.
And a good sleep after death.
355
SAIREY GAMP'S ROUNDEL
A baby's thumb, the little duck's,
Is fitter food than crust or crumb,
In baby's mouth when baby sucks
A baby's thumb.
It gives delight to all and some
Who wish the child the best of lucks
That ever to a child may come.
Is fitter food than crust or crumb,
In baby's mouth when baby sucks
A baby's thumb.
It gives delight to all and some
Who wish the child the best of lucks
That ever to a child may come.
Its mien is pleasanter than Puck's,
Its air triumphant, placid, dumb,
Benignant, bland, when baby sucks
A baby's thumb.
Its air triumphant, placid, dumb,
Benignant, bland, when baby sucks
A baby's thumb.
356
SONG
INTENDED FOR CHASTELARD
Though ye be never so fair a May
As Queen Marie that is so sweet,
I am so bounden in love's way
I may not go upon my feet.
As Queen Marie that is so sweet,
I am so bounden in love's way
I may not go upon my feet.
Though ye be never so true a thing
As Saint Marie that is so clean,
Yet I am so taken in your loving
I wis ye be the better queen.
As Saint Marie that is so clean,
Yet I am so taken in your loving
I wis ye be the better queen.
Though I be never so good in face
As Absalom that was callèd fair,
Give me so much of your least grace
As I may kiss your neck and hair.
As Absalom that was callèd fair,
Give me so much of your least grace
As I may kiss your neck and hair.
Though I be never so wise a king
As Solomon that woned out south,
Do so much for me, good sweeting,
As I may kiss upon your mouth.
As Solomon that woned out south,
Do so much for me, good sweeting,
As I may kiss upon your mouth.
357
TO JAMES McNEILL WHISTLER
Fly away, butterfly, back to Japan,Tempt not a pinch at the hand of a man,
And strive not to sting ere you die away.
So pert and so painted, so proud and so pretty,
To brush the bright down from your wings were a pity—
Fly away, butterfly, fly away!
1888.
THE CENTENARY OF SHELLEY
Now a hundred years agone among us cameDown from some diviner sphere of purer flame,
Clothed in flesh to suffer, maimed of wings to soar,
One whom hate once hailed as now love hails by name,
Chosen of love as chosen of hatred. Now no more
Ear of man may hear or heart of man deplore
Aught of dissonance or doubt that mars the strain
Raised at last of love where love sat mute of yore.
Fame is less than love, and loss is more than gain,
When the sweetest souls and strongest, fallen in fight,
Slain and stricken as it seemed in base men's sight,
Rise and lighten on the graves of foeman slain,
Clothed about with love of all men as with light,
Suns that set not, stars that know not day from night.
1892.
358
RECOLLECTIONS
TO WILLIAM BELL SCOTT
Years have sped from us under the sun
Through blossom and snow-tides twenty-one,
Since first your hand as a friend's was mine,
In a season whose days are yet honey and wine
To the pale close lips of Remembrance, shed
By the cupbearer Love for desire of the dead:
And the weeds I send you may half seem flowers
In eyes that were lit by the light of its hours.
For the life (if at all there be life) in them grew
From the sun then risen on a young day's dew,
When ever in August holiday times
I rode or swam through a rapture of rhymes,
Over heather and crag, and by scaur and by stream,
Clothed with delight by the might of a dream,
With the sweet sharp wind blown hard through my hair,
On eyes enkindled and head made bare,
Reining my rhymes into royal order
Through honied leagues of the northland border;
Or loosened a song to seal for me
A kiss on the clamorous mouth of the sea.
So swarmed and sprang, as a covey they start,
The song-birds hatched of a hot glad heart,
With notes too shrill and a windy joy
Fluttering and firing the brain of a boy,
With far keen echoes of painless pain
Beating their wings on his heart and his brain,
Till a life's whole reach, were it brief, were it long,
Seemed but a field to be sown with song.
Through blossom and snow-tides twenty-one,
Since first your hand as a friend's was mine,
In a season whose days are yet honey and wine
To the pale close lips of Remembrance, shed
By the cupbearer Love for desire of the dead:
And the weeds I send you may half seem flowers
In eyes that were lit by the light of its hours.
For the life (if at all there be life) in them grew
From the sun then risen on a young day's dew,
When ever in August holiday times
I rode or swam through a rapture of rhymes,
Over heather and crag, and by scaur and by stream,
Clothed with delight by the might of a dream,
With the sweet sharp wind blown hard through my hair,
On eyes enkindled and head made bare,
Reining my rhymes into royal order
Through honied leagues of the northland border;
Or loosened a song to seal for me
A kiss on the clamorous mouth of the sea.
So swarmed and sprang, as a covey they start,
The song-birds hatched of a hot glad heart,
With notes too shrill and a windy joy
Fluttering and firing the brain of a boy,
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Beating their wings on his heart and his brain,
Till a life's whole reach, were it brief, were it long,
Seemed but a field to be sown with song.
The snow-time is melted, the flower-time is fled,
That were one to me then for the joys they shed.
Joys in garland and sorrows in sheaf,
Rose-red pleasure and gold-eared grief,
Reared of the rays of a mid-noon sky,
I have gathered and housed them, worn and put by
These wild-weed waifs with a wan green bloom
Found in the grass of that old year's tomb,
Touched by the gleam of it, soiled with its dust,
I well could leave in the green grave's trust,
Lightly could leave in the light wind's care
Were all thoughts dead of the dead life there.
But if some note of its old glad sound
In your ear should ring as a dream's rebound,
As a song, that sleep in his ear keeps yet,
Tho' the senses and soul rewaking forget.
To move so fitly the sprays I send
Could come as at hail of the hand of a friend.
That were one to me then for the joys they shed.
Joys in garland and sorrows in sheaf,
Rose-red pleasure and gold-eared grief,
Reared of the rays of a mid-noon sky,
I have gathered and housed them, worn and put by
These wild-weed waifs with a wan green bloom
Found in the grass of that old year's tomb,
Touched by the gleam of it, soiled with its dust,
I well could leave in the green grave's trust,
Lightly could leave in the light wind's care
Were all thoughts dead of the dead life there.
But if some note of its old glad sound
In your ear should ring as a dream's rebound,
As a song, that sleep in his ear keeps yet,
Tho' the senses and soul rewaking forget.
To move so fitly the sprays I send
Could come as at hail of the hand of a friend.
360
LANDOR AT FLORENCE
The stateliest singing mouth that speaks our tongue,The lordliest, and the brow of loftiest leaf
Worn after the great fashion close and brief,
Sounds and shines yet; to whom all braids belong
Of plaited laurel that no weathers wrong,
All increase of the spring and of the sheaf,
All high delight and godliness of grief,
All bloom and fume of summer and of song.
The years are of his household; Fate and Fame
Observe him; and the things of pestilence
Die out of fear, that could not die of shame,
Before his heel he set on their offence:
Time's hand shall hoard the gold of such a name
When death has blown the dust of base men thence.
1864.
361
MEMORIAL ODE ON THE DEATH OF LECONTE DE LISLE
[_]
On the first of June 1885, the greatest poet of the nineteenth century was borne to his rest amid the lamentations and the applause of his countrymen, and of all to whom either the example of a noble life or the triumph of a genius inaccessible and unapproachable seemed worthy of honour and regard. Many earnest and cordial and admirable words of tribute and thanksgiving and farewell were uttered over the hearse of Victor Hugo; none more memorable than those in which a great poet became the spokesman of all his kind in honour of the greatest of them all. Short and simple as was the speech of M. Leconte de Lisle, none of the longer and more elaborate orations was more genuinely eloquent, more seriously valuable, than the admirably terse and apt expression of gratitude and reverence with which he bade ‘farewell and hail’ in the name of all surviving poets to their beloved and beneficent master. Nor could a fitter and a worthier spokesman have been imagined or desired by the most exacting or the most ambitious devotions or design. —A. C. S.
I
Beside the lordliest grave in all the world,
A singer crowned with golden years and fame
Spake words more sweet than wreaths of incense curled,
That bade an elder yet and mightier name
Hail, for whose love the wings of time were furled,
And death that heard it died of deadlier shame.
A singer crowned with golden years and fame
Spake words more sweet than wreaths of incense curled,
That bade an elder yet and mightier name
Hail, for whose love the wings of time were furled,
And death that heard it died of deadlier shame.
Our father and lord of all the sons of song,
Hugo, supreme on earth, had risen above
Earth, as the sun soars noonward: grief and wrong
Had yielded up their part in him to love;
And one man's word came forth upon the throng
Brief as the brooding music of the dove.
Hugo, supreme on earth, had risen above
Earth, as the sun soars noonward: grief and wrong
Had yielded up their part in him to love;
And one man's word came forth upon the throng
Brief as the brooding music of the dove.
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And he now too, the praiser as the praised,
Being silent, speaks for ever. He, whose word
Reverberate made the gloom whereon he gazed
Radiant with sound whose song in his we heard,
Stands far from us as they whose souls he raised
Again, and darkness carolled like a bird.
Being silent, speaks for ever. He, whose word
Reverberate made the gloom whereon he gazed
Radiant with sound whose song in his we heard,
Stands far from us as they whose souls he raised
Again, and darkness carolled like a bird.
II
Golden eastern waters rocked the cradle where he slept
Songless, crowned with bays to be of sovereign song,
Breathed upon with balm and calm of bounteous seas that kept
Secret all the blessing of his birthright, strong,
Soft, severe, and sweet as dawn when first it laughed and leapt
Forth of heaven, and clove the clouds that wrought it wrong.
Songless, crowned with bays to be of sovereign song,
Breathed upon with balm and calm of bounteous seas that kept
Secret all the blessing of his birthright, strong,
Soft, severe, and sweet as dawn when first it laughed and leapt
Forth of heaven, and clove the clouds that wrought it wrong.
Calm and proud and patient even as light that bides its hour
All night long till night wax weary, shone the soul
Crowned and girt with light, sublime in peace and sure in power,
Sunlike, over tidal years and changes; whole,
Full, serene, superb as time that kindles fruit from flower,
Lord alike of waves that rest and waves that roll.
All night long till night wax weary, shone the soul
Crowned and girt with light, sublime in peace and sure in power,
Sunlike, over tidal years and changes; whole,
Full, serene, superb as time that kindles fruit from flower,
Lord alike of waves that rest and waves that roll.
Sunlight round the soft Virgilian meads where sunbeams sleep
Lulled not overlong a spirit of strength to strive
Right against the winds that stormier times heard strain and sweep
Round the rocks whereon man crucified alive
Man, and bade the soul of manhood cower and chant and weep,
Strong in vain to soar and seek, to delve and dive.
Lulled not overlong a spirit of strength to strive
363
Round the rocks whereon man crucified alive
Man, and bade the soul of manhood cower and chant and weep,
Strong in vain to soar and seek, to delve and dive.
III
Time and change and death made music as of life and strife and doom
When his lyric spell bade ope the graves of ages dead as dust.
Cain, a shadow like a sunrise clad in fire whose light was gloom,
Towered above the deepening deluge, crying on justice held unjust,
Whence his giant sons should find the world their throne become their tomb,
And a wider world of waters hide the strongholds of their trust.
When his lyric spell bade ope the graves of ages dead as dust.
Cain, a shadow like a sunrise clad in fire whose light was gloom,
Towered above the deepening deluge, crying on justice held unjust,
Whence his giant sons should find the world their throne become their tomb,
And a wider world of waters hide the strongholds of their trust.
Soiled with desert sand and lit with fire of wrath from heaven, the seer
Spake for Naboth slain the sentence of the judgment of the Lord:
Age on ruining age and year as rolling thunder crashed on year
Down the measures of the mighty song that glittered like a sword:
Truth and legend strange and fierce as truth or dreams of faith and fear
Made their lightnings one to crown it, flashed from stormy chord to chord.
Spake for Naboth slain the sentence of the judgment of the Lord:
Age on ruining age and year as rolling thunder crashed on year
Down the measures of the mighty song that glittered like a sword:
Truth and legend strange and fierce as truth or dreams of faith and fear
Made their lightnings one to crown it, flashed from stormy chord to chord.
364
Now the lyre whose lord's wise mastery gave its notes reverberate skill
Whence to give again the grace of golden gifts or hands long dead,
Now the deep clear soul that all the lore of time could scarce fulfil,
Now the sovereign voice that spake it, now the radiant eye that read,
Seem to sleep as sleeps the indomitable imperishable will
Here, that haply lives and sleeps not, though its word on earth be said.
Whence to give again the grace of golden gifts or hands long dead,
Now the deep clear soul that all the lore of time could scarce fulfil,
Now the sovereign voice that spake it, now the radiant eye that read,
Seem to sleep as sleeps the indomitable imperishable will
Here, that haply lives and sleeps not, though its word on earth be said.
1894.
365
MEMORIAL VERSES ON THE DEATH OF KARL BLIND
Across the wide-wing'd years
Whose sound no hearkener hears
Passing in thunder of reverberate flight,
Nor any seer may see
What fruit of them shall be,
Shines from the death-struck past a living light,
And music breathed of memory's breath
Attunes the darkling silence born of earthly death.
Whose sound no hearkener hears
Passing in thunder of reverberate flight,
Nor any seer may see
What fruit of them shall be,
Shines from the death-struck past a living light,
And music breathed of memory's breath
Attunes the darkling silence born of earthly death.
Through all the thunderous time,
Now silent and sublime,
When Right in hopeless hope waged war on Wrong,
His head shone high, his hand
Grasped as a burning brand
The sword of faith which weakness makes more strong,
And they for whom it shines hold fast
The trust that Time bequeaths for truth to assure at last.
Now silent and sublime,
When Right in hopeless hope waged war on Wrong,
His head shone high, his hand
Grasped as a burning brand
The sword of faith which weakness makes more strong,
And they for whom it shines hold fast
The trust that Time bequeaths for truth to assure at last.
Not prison, not the breath
Of doom denouncing death,
Could make the manhood in him burn less high
For one breath's space than when
It shone for following men,
A sign to show how man might live or die
With freedom in triumphant sight,
And hope elate above all fluctuant chance of fight.
Of doom denouncing death,
Could make the manhood in him burn less high
For one breath's space than when
It shone for following men,
A sign to show how man might live or die
With freedom in triumphant sight,
And hope elate above all fluctuant chance of fight.
366
The German fame of old,
By Roman hands inscrolled
As bright beyond all nations else borne down,
Shone round his banished head,
As round the deathless dead
With light bequeathed of one coequal crown:
And now that his and theirs are one
No time shall see the setting of that sovereign sun.
By Roman hands inscrolled
As bright beyond all nations else borne down,
Shone round his banished head,
As round the deathless dead
With light bequeathed of one coequal crown:
And now that his and theirs are one
No time shall see the setting of that sovereign sun.
All this must all time know
While memories ebb and flow
Till out of blind forgetfulness is born
Fame deathless as the day,
When none may think to say
Her light is less than noon and even and morn:
When glories forged in hell-fire fade,
And warrior empires wither in the waste they made.
While memories ebb and flow
Till out of blind forgetfulness is born
Fame deathless as the day,
When none may think to say
Her light is less than noon and even and morn:
When glories forged in hell-fire fade,
And warrior empires wither in the waste they made.
When all a forger's fame
Is shrivelled up in shame;
When all imperial notes of praise and prayer
And hoarse thanksgiving raised
To the abject God they praised
For murderous mercies are but poisonous air;
When Bismarck and his William lie
Low even as he they warred on—damned too deep to die.
Is shrivelled up in shame;
When all imperial notes of praise and prayer
And hoarse thanksgiving raised
To the abject God they praised
For murderous mercies are but poisonous air;
When Bismarck and his William lie
Low even as he they warred on—damned too deep to die.
For how should history bid
Their names go free, lie hid,
Stand scathless of her Tacitean brand?
From them forgetfulness,
Too bright a boon to bless
Crime deep as hell, withholds her healing hand;
But while their fame was fresh and rank
The old light of German glory here nor sank nor shrank.
Their names go free, lie hid,
Stand scathless of her Tacitean brand?
From them forgetfulness,
Too bright a boon to bless
367
But while their fame was fresh and rank
The old light of German glory here nor sank nor shrank.
Here, where all wrongs find aid,
Where all foul strengths are stayed,
Where empire means not evil, here was one
Whose glance, whose smile, whose voice
Bade all their souls rejoice
Who hailed in sight of English sea and sun
A head sublime as theirs who died
For England ere her praise was Freedom's crowning pride.
Where all foul strengths are stayed,
Where empire means not evil, here was one
Whose glance, whose smile, whose voice
Bade all their souls rejoice
Who hailed in sight of English sea and sun
A head sublime as theirs who died
For England ere her praise was Freedom's crowning pride.
Not even his head shone higher,
Whose only loftiest lyre
Were meet to hail faith pure and proud as his:
A pride all praise must wrong
Less high than soared the song
Wherein the light that was and was not is:
The lyric light whence Milton lit
The darkness of the darkling days that knew not it.
Whose only loftiest lyre
Were meet to hail faith pure and proud as his:
A pride all praise must wrong
Less high than soared the song
Wherein the light that was and was not is:
The lyric light whence Milton lit
The darkness of the darkling days that knew not it.
Less high my praise may soar:
But when it lives no more
Silent and fervent in the secret heart
That holds for all time fast
The sense of time long past,
No sense of life will then therein have part.
No thought may speak, no words enshrine,
My thanks to him who gave Mazzini's hand to mine.
But when it lives no more
Silent and fervent in the secret heart
That holds for all time fast
The sense of time long past,
No sense of life will then therein have part.
No thought may speak, no words enshrine,
My thanks to him who gave Mazzini's hand to mine.
368
Our glorious century gone
Beheld no head that shone
More clear across the storm, above the foam,
More steadfast in the fight
Of warring night and light,
True to the truth whose star leads heroes home,
Than his who, loving all things free,
Loved as with English passion of delight our sea.
Beheld no head that shone
More clear across the storm, above the foam,
More steadfast in the fight
Of warring night and light,
True to the truth whose star leads heroes home,
Than his who, loving all things free,
Loved as with English passion of delight our sea.
The joy of glorious age
To greet the sea's glad rage
With answering rapture as of bird or boy,
When sundawn thrilled the foam
And bade the sea's flock home,
Crowned all a foiled heroic life with joy
Bright as the light of living flame,
That glows, a deathless gloriole, round his deathless name.
To greet the sea's glad rage
With answering rapture as of bird or boy,
When sundawn thrilled the foam
And bade the sea's flock home,
Crowned all a foiled heroic life with joy
Bright as the light of living flame,
That glows, a deathless gloriole, round his deathless name.
1907.
369
SONNET
[Ah, face and hands and body beautiful]
Ah, face and hands and body beautiful,Fair tender body, for my body's sake
Are you made faultless without stain or break.
Locks close as weed in river-water cool,
A purer throat and softer than white wool,
Eyes where sleep always seems about to wake.
No dead man's flesh but feels the strong sweet ache,
And that sharp amorous watch the years annul,
If his grave's grass have felt you anywhere.
Rain and the summer shadow of the rain
Are not so gentle to the generous year
As your soft rapid kisses are to men,
Felt here about my face, yea here and here,
Caught on my lips and thrown you back again.
370
BALLAD OF THE FAIR HELMET-MAKER TO THE GIRLS OF JOY
FROM VILLON
Now think hereof, fair Gloveress,
That wast my scholar constantly,
And you too, Blanche the Cobbleress,
'Tis time to walk now warily,
Take right and left; I pray you, see
Ye spare no man in any place;
For old girls keep no currency,
No more than coin cried down for base.
That wast my scholar constantly,
And you too, Blanche the Cobbleress,
'Tis time to walk now warily,
Take right and left; I pray you, see
Ye spare no man in any place;
For old girls keep no currency,
No more than coin cried down for base.
And you, my dainty Flesheress,
So light in dance of heel and knee,
And Winifred the Weaveress,
Despise not low your master free;
Ye too must shut up shop, all ye
When ye wax old and bleak of face;
Of no more use than old priests be,
No more than coin cried down for base.
So light in dance of heel and knee,
And Winifred the Weaveress,
Despise not low your master free;
Ye too must shut up shop, all ye
When ye wax old and bleak of face;
Of no more use than old priests be,
No more than coin cried down for base.
Take heed too, Joan the Hatteress,
That no friend lime your liberty;
No more, fair Kate, the Spurrieress,
Bid men go hang or pack to sea;
For whoso lacks her beauty, she
Gets scorn of them, and no good grace,
Foul age takes no man's love for fee,
No more than coin cried down for base.
That no friend lime your liberty;
No more, fair Kate, the Spurrieress,
Bid men go hang or pack to sea;
371
Gets scorn of them, and no good grace,
Foul age takes no man's love for fee,
No more than coin cried down for base.
Girls, hearken and give heed to me,
Why thus I wail and weep my case
'Tis that I find no remedy,
No more than coin cried down for base.
Why thus I wail and weep my case
'Tis that I find no remedy,
No more than coin cried down for base.
1872.
372
CONSTANCE AND FREDERICK
Fred.Why should it hurt you that he goes to Rome?
Now I am glad; I can sit close to you,
Feel my hand put away and lost in yours,
And the sweet smell of your long knotted hair
Laid on my face and mouth; can kiss you too
And not be smitten; that is good for me.
Con.
Poor child, I love you; yea, keep close by me,
So am I safe. Ah! yet no woman here
Would pity; keep you closer to me, boy!
Fred.
Is not this well? now I can touch your sleeve,
Count over the thick rings and fair round stones
About your neck and forehead, and on mine
Lay down the soft palm of your smooth long hand;
If I were as my father I would reach
Both hands up—so—to bow your head quite down,
Pulled by the hair each side, till I could touch
The rows of gracious pearl that part your hair.
Then I would kiss you, your lips would move to cry
And I would make them quiet; ah! but now
I cannot reach your lips—not so! alas,
And then they shiver and curl sideways, see,
And your eyes cry too.
Con.
There—sit gravelier now!
Nay, child, you twist my finger in the ring.
Fred.
I wonder if God means to leave us so?
If he forget us, and my father die,
How well that were for you! dear mother, think
How we would praise him!
373
Child, no words of it,
Let us forget him. Come, I'll spoil a tale,
With idle remembrance. There was a king once
Lived where the trees are great and green, with leaves
The white midwinter keeps alive; there grew
All red fruit and all flowers full of gold
In the broad low grasses: from the poppy-root
Came lilies, and from lily-stems there clomb
Tall roses, with close petals, and the stalk
Was heavy gold, solid and smooth, the wind
Was full of soft rain gathered in the dusk
That fell with no clouds near; so this king
Grew past a child.
Fred.
Taller than I? so tall?
Con.
Ay, where the sun divides the olive-shade;
And on his head—Rise, here are men, I think.
Enter Massimo and Lucrezia.
Mas.
What do these here? Hush! now,
Madam, I pray you,
Though we put on some outer show of man,
Think us no more than beast: What certainty is there
Or in our faces, in our brows' mould, or
In the clear shape and colour of our speech,
Sets this word man upon us? We, as you,
Are the king's ware, his good necessities;
(I'll teach you shortly what this babble means,
Fear we not there) good chattels of his use
For one to handle; I beseech you, let not
The outside of our speech condemn us; else
Had we kept mouth shut ever.
Though we put on some outer show of man,
Think us no more than beast: What certainty is there
Or in our faces, in our brows' mould, or
In the clear shape and colour of our speech,
Sets this word man upon us? We, as you,
Are the king's ware, his good necessities;
(I'll teach you shortly what this babble means,
Fear we not there) good chattels of his use
For one to handle; I beseech you, let not
The outside of our speech condemn us; else
Had we kept mouth shut ever.
Con.
My fair lord,
I know not what ungracious day of mine
Hath given you tongue against me.
Fred.
What says he, mother?
374
This is no father: I may kill him then?
Con.
Hush, boy! this insolence has changed you. Sir,
I pray you let me understand; you said
(I think) and there was a secret in your speech
I must unriddle. Lady Lucrezia,
What madness hurts our friend? he speaks awry
With a most broken action.
Fred.
Speak, sir: I
Stand for my mother.
Mas.
So you have set him words
To work out, to spell over, each as loud
As any threat the mouth makes like a blow?
Ay, must his father praise him too?
Luc.
My lord,
It seems that change can make the face of hope
Grey as his own thin hair; I loved you well,
Put honour on you, which you seemed to wear
With natural apprehension and keen grace
Past blame of any, over praise of me:
Now either my hurt sense is sick to death,
Or I conceive such meaning in your talk
As makes me faint with shame; I would fain be angry;
But shame has left me bare of even will
To seem so angry, and to say this out
With your set eyes so fast upon my face
Grows like shame to me.
Mas.
Nathless I believe
Since you shook hands with shame's last messenger
And felt her hand's mark hot along your cheek,
Some years have made it whiter.
Luc.
Pardon me!
I know not, Madam, what he speaks.
Mas.
Nor you?
375
Who wears the blood of holy centuries
In her fair palms and forehead; their blue curves
Royally written; nay, this boy's soft lip
So red and fair by that imperial sign,
By your most gracious warrant; else I'll say
The name you had was bastarded, and you
Some wicked season's error.
Luc.
Are you mad?
See, her mouth trembles, tears drop over it,
Her brows move: now, be silent!
Mas.
Then I'll end!
I held this lady so past service, yea
Past man's approval or the keenest feet
Of his obedience: You're my kinswoman,
And the dear honour that I have of you
Hath borne some witness; now for her, I'll say
I would forget you, and unclothe my soul
Of its strong reverence and opinion
That makes you to me as the music is
To the dead cithern there, as the live smell
To some quick flower midways the lily-row.
So I hold you—well, I'd forget all this
To serve her; that was Lady Constance here,
When she was no mere German ornament
Scrawled broad with some gold flourishes at top
Above some Austrian document to prove
Our lord a liar, some stale letter, say,
To be just fingered by Pope Celestin
Before he tears it, tears her name and all.
No witness of that devil's assurance made
Between our masters, that strong bond that holds
Treason each side—no empress of this mould,
But just the lady we had just to serve,
Live by or die for—oh, not when she bade
376
Tancred's own blood, the king's own very flesh,
Made for our sakes so beautiful and weak
That we might even help God by serving her—
The maiden face more gracious than was need
To keep it perfect—yea, more love in the lip
Than what sufficed us to accredit her
As only Constance, more repose i' the eyes
Than had alone constrained her worship out—
For certes no man ever wondered much
Why she wants worship! (to complete her, say)
And what were love's work? yea, thus verily
God wrought her with good cunning; and our part
Was to be patient—some day this might end,
She might pray God to find us room, suppose—
So many as we were, and such poor blood
As this might wash her floorèd palace clean—
I talk that old way! See how pale she is,
Her eyes more narrow, and with shallow lights
Filling them, broken hints of purposes,
How pain has worn the golden secret out
Some strange grand language wrote upon her face.
All this more wasted than a flame that fails
On sick lamp lit at daybreak—more rebuked,
Chastened and beaten by the imperious time,
Than my words last year spoken!
Con.
Oh, not so:
Not the soul—let the body wear so thin
Each feature shows of it by this—
Mas.
I said
No man's change that we are ruled by does much harm,
God overlines it, shall not the queen live?
But this so new and bitter thing to taste
That poisons me—this curse that changes her
I saw not ever.
377
This—
Mas.
That you should turn
A woman none of those men pay to find
The costliness of such a golden sin
As loves by hire and loves not—no such thing
Would praise or pity, would despise or hate—
A shame familiar on the pander's lip,
Smiled out by courtiers from their slippery mouth,
Laughed over, chattered over by the page
A groom might spit on—handled, breathed upon
By the spent breath in his mid office, worn
As garb and badge of his necessity
On one permitted shoulder, by this king . . .
378
POPE CELESTIN AND GIORDANO
Gio.These matters are but shadows of the truth,
Mean indications; time will shew, my lord,
Our wrong lies deeper.
Cel.
Proofs—ay, proofs you say—
Let me see that, sir: I'll believe your proof:
What must I do? what stirs you up to give
This dead dissension teeth to bite again?
And I am old; my body is no wall
For you to shoot behind at emperors:
Ay, the keen spirit eats the flesh like fire,
It's mere slow poison, this my dignity,
Consumes me; ah, you're just a man, my Count,
Cannot conceive how God's will overcomes,
How the Church bears one's very soul to hold
And stoops the shoulders; then, we're set to pray
Save you your souls, gather you fruit of prayer,
Not whet you fresh blades when blood mars the old:
Ah, what must we do?
Gio.
But, your Holiness
Imagines not we seek your wrong in this:
Our words are meant to save God's Church and you
From this man's red and insolent hands, put forth
To pluck you out of kingdom, set you up
But as a dead thing, as a monument
That boys may spit at. Sir, if you speak of peace,
Best cover up the face of you and weep
Till he be here: it may be he will say
‘Throw me that hoar scalp to the dogs,’ or else
‘Nay, find him some low cell not overboard
379
The lean old wrist and elbow’: this may be.
Cel.
This! Oh, God help me, but how cold it gets!
Why—but I think, by Venus, it's no spring
But winter comes to pinch us by the chin.
—Are not we vicar of the Son of God?
Are not we lord of you and him? Ha, see
How the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!
The fingers are but lank as sprays of wood
In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before—
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps always dark hair, not so thick as yours,
God help it!
Gio.
I beseech your Holiness
Even by the sweet blood of your Lord the Christ,
Believe me this is perilous to say:
You talk of things that either you must kill
Or they will smite you on the sacred face,
Discredit you, despoil the chosen gold
On the dear bosom of this mother Church,
Uncover—
Cel.
Ah, sir, tell me not of these!
An old man—ere the blessèd knife had shorn
One black top curl, I might have answered you;
I was too young—eh, well, suppose men talk,
What matter? there's a lie in each man's mouth.
Yea ‘dixi’ said God's blessed Psalmist once,
‘Dixi,’ that's where the choir breaks out full breath,
Makes half the sweet smoke ripple graciously,
Praising God's mother in delicious wise.
Ah, sir, be very tender of such words;
The trampled flesh is like a hurt snake's head,
380
It stings the blood thro', verily!
Gio.
My lord—
Cel.
Ay, then begins to stir and strike and more
God keep us—worries as with angry teeth,
This sensual serpent of the evil flesh,
With its bruised head alive and such keen eyes,
And such a large mouth with lean lips astir,
Ah, sir, be very tender of the flesh!
Gold said you, gold? there was hair once she had
Most like a Byzant painter makes
For some saint's face—alas, the hair she had
Which now red worms have eaten to the roots!
Ah, flesh is weaker than a rich man's breath,
An old man's hand with fingers shut like these—
The mouth she had which years ago black earth
Filled to the lips that used to kiss me once,
Which Mary pardon! so shall I too die
And have my body eaten of cold worms
As Herod—so Christ pardon me the sin!
Gold said you, on her bosom? ah, she wore
An armlet of thin gold, and on her neck
There was a plait she had of threaded yellow silk—
And all this has been done with many years,
And will not come again. I grow so old,
So old and sick, alas the evil flesh!
Gio.
I told your Holiness of Henry's aim,
His aim assured and evident, to seize
The Church lands and the Church's wealth, if you
Confirm not, sir, his tyrannous dignity
By the mere seal of strong permission: think
I do beseech you by Queen Mary's might,
What shame, what utter peril there should be
If this thing fall! That henceforth one may say
Trust in the Church and trust, and find no place
381
If you do this: yea, men will violate
Things hidden with securest insolence;
So that between the slayer's bearded mouth
And the chaste lip of reverence there will be
Even such communion as the traitor's kiss,
A present lie for ever.
Cel.
Ay, woe's me,
A lie to say—a very bitter lie
To take upon the tongue we pray withal.
Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,
The body and the body's frail thin sense
Is liable to most dangerous attributes,
Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,
To any craft of Satan's; we should think
We are made of most frail body and weak soul
Mere tools for diabolic usages,
For ministration of man's enemy
Whom God confound! nathless it hath been kept.
I say, sir, there be men have seldom sinned
Since the pure vow made clean their fleshly lips:
To God ascribe the praise, my son, not me;
Yea, be it written for me in God's book
What have I done—whereof I take but blame
Seeing there is no profit in me, none,
Nor in my service: verily, I think
The keeper of God's house is more than I,
Who have but served him these hoar eighty years
With barren service.
Gio.
(Ay, past help of mine!)
I pray you then, my lord, that of your grace
I may speak with the Cardinal Orsino
As in your name; he loves me well, there's none
Of more swift judgment and deliberate act,
Nor who serves justice better.
382
Yea, my lord,
You shall have letters to the Cardinal;
A good man, who hath slain the flesh of sin—
A good man, certainly no son of Christ
Hath done more service, is more ripe for grace.
He hath looked seldom on the evil thing
To hunger for it in the bond of lust,
Or violence of the keen iniquitous will:
I'll send him letters—yea, a man of grace,
A pillar fairly carven of wrought stone
All builded without hammer, clean and fair
To do God honour, and accredit us
The builder of him: for his judgment, sir,
That shall you test, but all grow old in time.
Ay, soon or late God fashions us anew
By some good pattern; so shall all get made
Fit to be welded stone by shapen stone
Into the marvellous Jerusalem wall
That shall be builded. A good man, I said,
But somewhat older than he was, meseems,
That shall you notice; let him not suspect
That I misdoubt him, sir; he hath been wise,
Fulfilled of grace and wisdom: but our time
Is as a day—as half a day with God:
Yea, as a watch that passeth in the night
And is not honoured. Come, sir, you shall go:
I pray God prosper you, and overcome
The evil of your body, by his grace.
Also the Cardinal, that he may speak
Things worthy, which shall worthily be heard,
For without wisdom are we as the grass
Which the sun withers: yea, our sojourn here
Is as a watch that passeth in the night.
383
KING BAN
A FRAGMENT
These three held flight upon the leaning lands
At undern, past the skirt of misty camps
Sewn thick from Benwick to the outer march—
King Ban, and, riding wrist by wrist, Ellayne,
And caught up with his coloured swathing-bands
Across her arm, a hindrance in the reins,
A bauble slipt between the bridle-ties,
The three months' trouble that was Launcelot.
For Claudas leant upon the land, and smote
This way and that way, as a pestilence
Moves with vague patience in the unclean heat
This way and that way; so the Gaulish war
Smote, moving in the marches. Then King Ban
Shut in one girdled waist of narrow stones
His gold and all his men, and set on them
A name, the name of perfect men at need,
And over them a seneschal, the man
Most inward and entailed upon his soul,
That next his will and in his pulses moved
As the close blood and purpose of his heart,
And laid the place between his hands, and rode
North to the wild rims of distempered sea
That, crossed to Logres, his face might look red [sic]
The face of Arthur, and therein light blood
Even to the eyes and to the circled hair
For shame of failure in so near a need,
Failure in service of so near a man.
Because that time King Arthur would not ride,
But lay and let his hands weaken to white
Among the stray gold of a lady's head.
His hands unwedded: neither could bring help
To Ban that helped to rend his land for him
From the steel wrist of spoilers, but the time
A sleep like yellow mould had overgrown,
A pleasure sweet and sick as marsh-flowers.
Therefore about his marches rode King Ban
With eyes that fell between his hands to count
The golden inches of the saddle-rim,
Strange with rare stones; and in his face there rose
A doubt that burnt it with red pain and fear
All over it, and plucked upon his heart,
The old weak heart that loss had eaten through,
Remembering how the seneschal went back
At coming out from Claudas in his tent;
And how they bound together, chin by chin,
Whispered and wagged, and made lean room for words,
And a sharp mutter fed the ears of them.
And he went in and set no thought thereon
To waste; fear had not heart to fear indeed,
The king being old, since any fear in such
Is as a wound upon the fleshly sense
That drains a parcel of his time thereout,
Therefore he would not fear that as it fell
This thing should fall. For Claudas the keen thief
For some thin rounds and wretched stamps of gold
Had bought the tower and men and seneschal,
Body and breath and blood, yea, soul and shame.
They knew not this, at halt upon a hill.
Only surmise was dull upon the sense
And thin conjecture sickened in the speech;
So they fell silent, riding in the hills.
There on a little terrace the good king
Reined, and looked out. Far back the white lands lay;
The wind went in them like a broken man,
Lamely; the mist had set a bitter lip
To the rimmed river, and the moon burnt blank.
But outward from the castle of King Ban
There blew a sound of trouble, and there clomb
A fire that thrust an arm across the air,
Shook a rent skirt of dragging flame, and blanched
The grey flats to such cruel white as shone
Iron against the shadow of the sky
Blurred out with its blind stars; for as the sea
Gathers to lengthen a bleached edge of foam
Whole weights of windy water, and the green
Brine flares and hisses as the heap makes up,
Till the gaunt wave writhes, trying to breathe,
Then turns, and all the whited rims of steel
Lean over, and the hollowed round roars in
And smites the pebble forward in the mud,
And grinds the shingle in cool whirls of white,
Clashed through and crossed with blank assault of foam,
Filled with hard thunder and drenched dregs of sand—
So leant and leapt the many-mouthèd fire,
So curled upon the walls, dipt, crawled, smote, clung,
Caught like a beast that catches on the flesh,
Waxed hoar with sick default, shivered across,
Choked out, a snake unfed.
At undern, past the skirt of misty camps
Sewn thick from Benwick to the outer march—
King Ban, and, riding wrist by wrist, Ellayne,
And caught up with his coloured swathing-bands
Across her arm, a hindrance in the reins,
A bauble slipt between the bridle-ties,
The three months' trouble that was Launcelot.
For Claudas leant upon the land, and smote
This way and that way, as a pestilence
Moves with vague patience in the unclean heat
This way and that way; so the Gaulish war
Smote, moving in the marches. Then King Ban
Shut in one girdled waist of narrow stones
His gold and all his men, and set on them
A name, the name of perfect men at need,
And over them a seneschal, the man
Most inward and entailed upon his soul,
That next his will and in his pulses moved
As the close blood and purpose of his heart,
And laid the place between his hands, and rode
North to the wild rims of distempered sea
That, crossed to Logres, his face might look red [sic]
The face of Arthur, and therein light blood
Even to the eyes and to the circled hair
For shame of failure in so near a need,
Failure in service of so near a man.
384
But lay and let his hands weaken to white
Among the stray gold of a lady's head.
His hands unwedded: neither could bring help
To Ban that helped to rend his land for him
From the steel wrist of spoilers, but the time
A sleep like yellow mould had overgrown,
A pleasure sweet and sick as marsh-flowers.
Therefore about his marches rode King Ban
With eyes that fell between his hands to count
The golden inches of the saddle-rim,
Strange with rare stones; and in his face there rose
A doubt that burnt it with red pain and fear
All over it, and plucked upon his heart,
The old weak heart that loss had eaten through,
Remembering how the seneschal went back
At coming out from Claudas in his tent;
And how they bound together, chin by chin,
Whispered and wagged, and made lean room for words,
And a sharp mutter fed the ears of them.
And he went in and set no thought thereon
To waste; fear had not heart to fear indeed,
The king being old, since any fear in such
Is as a wound upon the fleshly sense
That drains a parcel of his time thereout,
Therefore he would not fear that as it fell
This thing should fall. For Claudas the keen thief
For some thin rounds and wretched stamps of gold
Had bought the tower and men and seneschal,
Body and breath and blood, yea, soul and shame.
They knew not this, at halt upon a hill.
Only surmise was dull upon the sense
And thin conjecture sickened in the speech;
So they fell silent, riding in the hills.
There on a little terrace the good king
385
The wind went in them like a broken man,
Lamely; the mist had set a bitter lip
To the rimmed river, and the moon burnt blank.
But outward from the castle of King Ban
There blew a sound of trouble, and there clomb
A fire that thrust an arm across the air,
Shook a rent skirt of dragging flame, and blanched
The grey flats to such cruel white as shone
Iron against the shadow of the sky
Blurred out with its blind stars; for as the sea
Gathers to lengthen a bleached edge of foam
Whole weights of windy water, and the green
Brine flares and hisses as the heap makes up,
Till the gaunt wave writhes, trying to breathe,
Then turns, and all the whited rims of steel
Lean over, and the hollowed round roars in
And smites the pebble forward in the mud,
And grinds the shingle in cool whirls of white,
Clashed through and crossed with blank assault of foam,
Filled with hard thunder and drenched dregs of sand—
So leant and leapt the many-mouthèd fire,
So curled upon the walls, dipt, crawled, smote, clung,
Caught like a beast that catches on the flesh,
Waxed hoar with sick default, shivered across,
Choked out, a snake unfed.
Thereat King Ban
Trembled for pain in all his blood, and death
Under the heart caught him and made his breath
Wince, as a worm does, wounded in the head;
And fear began upon his flesh, and shook
The chaste and inly sufferance of it
Almost to ruin; a small fire and keen
Eating in muscle and nerve and hinge of joint
Perilous way; so bitter was the blow
Made on his sense by treason and sharp loss.
Then he fell weeping tears, with blood in them,
Like that red sweat that stained Gethsemane
With witness, when the deadly kiss had put
Shame on the mouth of Judas; and he cried,
Crying on God, and made out words and said:
Fair lord, sweet lord, most pleasant to all men,
To me so pleasant in clean days of mine
That now are rained upon with heavy rain,
Soiled with grey grime and with the dusty years,
Because in all those tourneys and hot things
I had to do with, in all riding times
And noise of work, and on smooth holidays
Sitting to see the smiting of hard spears,
And spur-smiting of steeds and wrath of men,
And gracious measure of the rounded game,
I held you in true honour and kept white
The hands of my allegiance as a maid's,
Being whole of faith and perfect in the will.
Therefore I pray you, O God marvellous,
See me how I am stricken among men,
And how the lip I fed with plenteousness
And cooled with wine of liberal courtesy
Turns a snake's life to poison me and clings— [OMITTED]
Trembled for pain in all his blood, and death
Under the heart caught him and made his breath
Wince, as a worm does, wounded in the head;
And fear began upon his flesh, and shook
The chaste and inly sufferance of it
Almost to ruin; a small fire and keen
Eating in muscle and nerve and hinge of joint
386
Made on his sense by treason and sharp loss.
Then he fell weeping tears, with blood in them,
Like that red sweat that stained Gethsemane
With witness, when the deadly kiss had put
Shame on the mouth of Judas; and he cried,
Crying on God, and made out words and said:
Fair lord, sweet lord, most pleasant to all men,
To me so pleasant in clean days of mine
That now are rained upon with heavy rain,
Soiled with grey grime and with the dusty years,
Because in all those tourneys and hot things
I had to do with, in all riding times
And noise of work, and on smooth holidays
Sitting to see the smiting of hard spears,
And spur-smiting of steeds and wrath of men,
And gracious measure of the rounded game,
I held you in true honour and kept white
The hands of my allegiance as a maid's,
Being whole of faith and perfect in the will.
Therefore I pray you, O God marvellous,
See me how I am stricken among men,
And how the lip I fed with plenteousness
And cooled with wine of liberal courtesy
Turns a snake's life to poison me and clings— [OMITTED]
387
DISGUST
A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE
[_]
A woman and her husband, having been converted from free thought to Calvinism, and being utterly miserable in consequence, resolve to end themselves by poison. The man dies, but the woman is rescued by application of the stomach-pump. —[A. C. S.]
I
Pills? talk to me of your pills? Well, that, I must say, is cool.Can't bring my old man round? he was always a stubborn old fool.
If I hadn't taken precautions—a warning to all that wive—
He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive.
II
You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles began?You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man.
And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know—
Professor Huxley's doing—where does he expect to go!
388
III
Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble—I may say, a peck—And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque—
And his puppy died of the mange—my parrot choked on its perch.
This was the consequence, was it, of not going weekly to church?
IV
So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be doneOn an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun,
Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their betters—
And reviewers are barely civil—and people get spiteful letters—
And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine—
Was to send in our P.P.C., and purchase a packet of strychnine.
V
Nay—but first we thought it was rational—only fair—To give both parties a hearing—and went to the meeting-house there,
At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue Lion.
‘Little Zion’ they call it—a deal more ‘little’ than ‘Zion.’
389
VI
And the preacher preached from the text, ‘Come out of her.’ Hadn't we come?And we thought of the shepherd in Pickwick—and fancied a flavour of rum
Balmily borne on the wind of his words—and my man said, ‘Well,
Let's get out of this, my dear—for his text has a brimstone smell.’
VII
So we went, O God, out of chapel—and gazed, ah God, at the sea.And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me.
VIII
And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact,That, whether or not you believe in the doctrine taught in a tract,
Life was not in the least worth living. Because, don't you see?
Nothing that can't be, can, and what must be, must. Q.E.D.
And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality
Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality
Whose refraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway of Mars
Like the parings of nails Æonian—clippings and snippings of stars—
390
Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes.
IX
And the sea curved in with a moan—and we thought how once—beforeWe fell out with those atheist lecturers—once, ah, once and no more,
We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag,
A reverend gentleman's work—the Conversion of Colonel Quagg.
And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure—
Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel—a word that deserves to endure
Infinite millions on millions of infinite Æons to come—
‘Vocation,’ says he, ‘is vocation, and duty duty. Some.’
X
And duty, said I, distinctly points out—and vocation, said he,Demands as distinctly—that I should kill you, and that you should kill me.
The reason is obvious—we cannot exist without creeds—who can?
So we went to the chemist's—a highly respectable church-going man—
And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so?—Wait.
391
Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog,
But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog.
(I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan,
But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man.)
XI
I meant of course to go with him—as far as I pleased—but firstTo see how my old man liked it—I thought perhaps he might burst.
I didn't wish it—but still it's a blessed release for a wife—
And he saw that I thought so—and grinned in derision—and threatened my life
If I made wry faces—and so I took just a sip—and he—
Well—you know how it ended—he didn't get over me.
XII
Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse.He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse.
‘Never do it again?’ Why, certainly not. You don't
Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow—there—I won't.
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