 | The works of Francis Thompson |  |
165
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
167
DREAM-TRYST
The breaths of kissing night and day
Were mingled in the eastern Heaven:
Throbbing with unheard melody
Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:
When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey;
And souls went palely up the sky,
And mine to Lucidé.
Were mingled in the eastern Heaven:
Throbbing with unheard melody
Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:
When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey;
And souls went palely up the sky,
And mine to Lucidé.
There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's,
Wherein did ever come and go
The sparkle of the fountain-drops
From her sweet soul below.
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's,
Wherein did ever come and go
The sparkle of the fountain-drops
From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dreams
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time's hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about:
Where our last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time's hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about:
Where our last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.
168
ARAB LOVE-SONG
The hunchèd camels of the night
Trouble the bright
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon
Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.
Trouble the bright
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon
Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy mother
And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
169
BUONA NOTTE
[_]
Jane Williams, in her last letter to Shelley, wrote: ‘Why do you talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going to join your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? Buona Notte.’ This letter was dated July 6th, and Shelley was drowned on the 8th. The verses are supposed to be addressed to Jane by the poet's spirit while his body is tossing on the waters of Spezzia.
Ariel to Miranda:—Hear
This good-night the sea-winds bear;
And let thine unacquainted ear
Take grief for their interpreter.
This good-night the sea-winds bear;
And let thine unacquainted ear
Take grief for their interpreter.
Good-night! I have risen so high
Into slumber's rarity,
Not a dream can beat its feather
Through the unsustaining ether.
Let the sea-winds make avouch
How thunder summoned me to couch,
Tempest curtained me about
And turned the sun with his own hand out:
And though I toss upon my bed
My dream is not disquieted;
Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep,
And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep;
And I fell to sleep so suddenly
That my lips are moist yet—could'st thou see—
With the good-night draught I have drunk to thee.
Thou canst not wipe them; for it was Death
Damped my lips that has dried my breath.
A little while—it is not long—
The salt shall dry on them like the song.
Now know'st thou that voice desolate,—
Mourning ruined joy's estate,—
Reached thee through a closing gate.
‘Go'st thou to Plato?’ Ah, girl, no!
It is to Pluto that I go.
Into slumber's rarity,
Not a dream can beat its feather
Through the unsustaining ether.
Let the sea-winds make avouch
How thunder summoned me to couch,
Tempest curtained me about
And turned the sun with his own hand out:
And though I toss upon my bed
My dream is not disquieted;
Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep,
And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep;
And I fell to sleep so suddenly
That my lips are moist yet—could'st thou see—
With the good-night draught I have drunk to thee.
Thou canst not wipe them; for it was Death
Damped my lips that has dried my breath.
170
The salt shall dry on them like the song.
Now know'st thou that voice desolate,—
Mourning ruined joy's estate,—
Reached thee through a closing gate.
‘Go'st thou to Plato?’ Ah, girl, no!
It is to Pluto that I go.
171
THE PASSION OF MARY
VERSES IN PASSION-TIDE
O Lady Mary, thy bright crown
Is no mere crown of majesty;
For with the reflex of His own
Resplendent thorns Christ circled thee.
Is no mere crown of majesty;
For with the reflex of His own
Resplendent thorns Christ circled thee.
The red rose of this Passion-tide
Doth take a deeper hue from thee,
In the five wounds of Jesus dyed,
And in thy bleeding thoughts, Mary!
Doth take a deeper hue from thee,
In the five wounds of Jesus dyed,
And in thy bleeding thoughts, Mary!
The soldier struck a triple stroke,
That smote thy Jesus on the tree:
He broke the Heart of Hearts, and broke
The Saint's and Mother's hearts in thee.
That smote thy Jesus on the tree:
He broke the Heart of Hearts, and broke
The Saint's and Mother's hearts in thee.
Thy Son went up the angels' ways,
His passion ended; but, ah me!
Thou found'st the road of further days
A longer way of Calvary:
His passion ended; but, ah me!
Thou found'st the road of further days
A longer way of Calvary:
On the hard cross of hope deferred
Thou hung'st in loving agony,
Until the mortal-dreaded word
Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.
Thou hung'st in loving agony,
Until the mortal-dreaded word
Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.
The angel Death from this cold tomb
Of life did roll the stone away;
And He thou barest in thy womb
Caught thee at last into the day,
Before the living throne of Whom
The Lights of Heaven burning pray.
Of life did roll the stone away;
And He thou barest in thy womb
Caught thee at last into the day,
Before the living throne of Whom
The Lights of Heaven burning pray.
172
L'ENVOY
O thou who dwellest in the day!
Behold, I pace amidst the gloom:
Darkness is ever round my way
With little space for sunbeam-room.
Behold, I pace amidst the gloom:
Darkness is ever round my way
With little space for sunbeam-room.
Yet Christian sadness is divine
Even as thy patient sadness was:
The salt tears in our life's dark wine
Fell in it from the saving cross.
Even as thy patient sadness was:
The salt tears in our life's dark wine
Fell in it from the saving cross.
Bitter the bread of our repast;
Yet doth a sweet the bitter leaven:
Our sorrow is the shadow cast
Around it by the light of Heaven.
Yet doth a sweet the bitter leaven:
Our sorrow is the shadow cast
Around it by the light of Heaven.
O light in Light, shine down from Heaven!
173
MESSAGES
What shall I your true-love tell,
Earth-forsaking maid?
What shall I your true-love tell,
When life's spectre's laid?
Earth-forsaking maid?
What shall I your true-love tell,
When life's spectre's laid?
‘Tell him that, our side the grave,
Maid may not conceive
Life should be so sad to have,
That's so sad to leave!’
Maid may not conceive
Life should be so sad to have,
That's so sad to leave!’
What shall I your true-love tell,
When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell—
Eyes growing dim!
When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell—
Eyes growing dim!
‘Tell him this, when you shall part
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind.’
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind.’
What shall I your true-love tell?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell,
Death's white postulant?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell,
Death's white postulant?
‘Tell him—love, with speech at strife,
For last utterance saith:
I, who loved with all my life,
Love with all my death.’
For last utterance saith:
I, who loved with all my life,
Love with all my death.’
174
AT LORD'S
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:—
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
175
LOVE AND THE CHILD
‘Why do you so clasp me,
And draw me to your knee?
Forsooth, you do but chafe me,
I pray you let me be:
I will but be loved now and then
When it liketh me!’
And draw me to your knee?
Forsooth, you do but chafe me,
I pray you let me be:
I will but be loved now and then
When it liketh me!’
So I heard a young child,
A thwart child, a young child
Rebellious against love's arms,
Make its peevish cry.
A thwart child, a young child
Rebellious against love's arms,
Make its peevish cry.
To the tender God I turn:—
‘Pardon, Love most High!
For I think those arms were even Thine,
And that child even I.’
‘Pardon, Love most High!
For I think those arms were even Thine,
And that child even I.’
176
DAPHNE
The river-god's daughter,—the sun-god sought her,
Sleeping with never a zephyr by her.
Under the noon he made his prey sure,
Woofed in weeds of a woven azure,
As down he shot in a whistle of fire.
Sleeping with never a zephyr by her.
Under the noon he made his prey sure,
Woofed in weeds of a woven azure,
As down he shot in a whistle of fire.
Slid off, fair daughter! her vesturing water;
Like a cloud from the scourge of the winds fled she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And feet less fleet than the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a laurel-tree.
Like a cloud from the scourge of the winds fled she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And feet less fleet than the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a laurel-tree.
Risen out of birth's waters the soul distraught errs,
Nor whom nor whither she flieth knows she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And fleet the beat of the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a poet, woe's me!
Nor whom nor whither she flieth knows she:
With the breath in her hair of the keen Apollo,
And fleet the beat of the feet that follow,
She throes in his arms to a poet, woe's me!
You plucked the boughed verse the poet bears—
It shudders and bleeds as it snaps from the tree.
A love-banning love, did the god but know it,
Which barks the man about with the poet,
And muffles his heart of mortality!
It shudders and bleeds as it snaps from the tree.
A love-banning love, did the god but know it,
Which barks the man about with the poet,
And muffles his heart of mortality!
Yet I translate—ward of song's gate!—
Perchance all ill this mystery.
We both are struck with the self-same quarrel;
We grasp the maiden, and clasp the laurel—
Do we weep or we laugh more, Phœbe mi?
Perchance all ill this mystery.
We both are struck with the self-same quarrel;
We grasp the maiden, and clasp the laurel—
Do we weep or we laugh more, Phœbe mi?
177
‘His own green lays, unwithering bays,
Gird Keats' unwithering brow,’ say ye?
O fools, that is only the empty crown!
The sacred head has laid it down
With Hob, Dick, Marian, and Margery.
Gird Keats' unwithering brow,’ say ye?
O fools, that is only the empty crown!
The sacred head has laid it down
With Hob, Dick, Marian, and Margery.
178
ABSENCE
When music's fading's faded,
And the rose's death is dead,
And my heart is fain of tears, because
Mine eyes have none to shed;
I said,
Whence shall faith be fed?
And the rose's death is dead,
And my heart is fain of tears, because
Mine eyes have none to shed;
I said,
Whence shall faith be fed?
Canst thou be what thou hast been?
No, no more what thou hast!
Lo, all last things that I have known,
And all that shall be last,
Went past
With the thing thou wast!
No, no more what thou hast!
Lo, all last things that I have known,
And all that shall be last,
Went past
With the thing thou wast!
If the petal of this Spring be
As of the Spring that 's flown,
If the thought that now is sweet is
As the sweet thought overblown;
Alone
Canst thou be thy self gone.
As of the Spring that 's flown,
If the thought that now is sweet is
As the sweet thought overblown;
Alone
Canst thou be thy self gone.
To yester-rose a richer
The rose-spray may bear;
Thrice thousand fairer you may be,—
But tears for the fair
You were
When you first were fair!
The rose-spray may bear;
Thrice thousand fairer you may be,—
But tears for the fair
You were
When you first were fair!
Know you where they have laid her,
Maiden May that died?
With the loves that lived not
Strowing her soft side?
I cried;
Where Has-been may hide?
Maiden May that died?
179
Strowing her soft side?
I cried;
Where Has-been may hide?
To him that waiteth, all things!
Even death, if thou wait!
And they that part too early
May meet again too late:—
Ah, fate!
If meeting be too late!
Even death, if thou wait!
And they that part too early
May meet again too late:—
Ah, fate!
If meeting be too late!
And when the year new-launchèd
Shall from its wake extend
The blossomy foam of Summer,
What shall I attend,
My friend!
Flower of thee, my friend?
Shall from its wake extend
The blossomy foam of Summer,
What shall I attend,
My friend!
Flower of thee, my friend?
Sweet shall have its sorrow,
The rainbow its rain,
Loving have its leaving,
And bliss is of pain
So fain,
Ah, is she bliss or pain?
The rainbow its rain,
Loving have its leaving,
And bliss is of pain
So fain,
Ah, is she bliss or pain?
180
TO W. M.
O tree of many branches! One thou hastThou barest not, but grafted'st on thee. Now,
Should all men's thunders break on thee, and leave
Thee reft of bough and blossom, that one branch
Shall cling to thee, my Father, Brother, Friend,
Shall cling to thee, until the end of end.
181
A FALLEN YEW
It seemed corrival of the world's great prime,
Made to un-edge the scythe of Time,
And last with stateliest rhyme.
Made to un-edge the scythe of Time,
And last with stateliest rhyme.
No tender Dryad ever did indue
That rigid chiton of rough yew,
To fret her white flesh through:
That rigid chiton of rough yew,
To fret her white flesh through:
But some god like to those grim Asgard lords,
Who walk the fables of the hordes
From Scandinavian fjords,
Who walk the fables of the hordes
From Scandinavian fjords,
Upheaved its stubborn girth, and raised unriven,
Against the whirl-blast and the levin,
Defiant arms to Heaven.
Against the whirl-blast and the levin,
Defiant arms to Heaven.
When doom puffed out the stars, we might have said,
It would decline its heavy head,
And see the world to bed.
It would decline its heavy head,
And see the world to bed.
For this firm yew did from the vassal leas,
And rain and air, its tributaries,
Its revenues increase,
And rain and air, its tributaries,
Its revenues increase,
And levy impost on the golden sun,
Take the blind years as they might run,
And no fate seek or shun.
Take the blind years as they might run,
And no fate seek or shun.
But now our yew is strook, is fallen—yea,
Hacked like dull wood of every day
To this and that, men say.
Hacked like dull wood of every day
To this and that, men say.
182
Never!—To Hades' shadowy shipyards gone,
Dim barge of Dis, down Acheron
It drops, or Lethe wan.
Dim barge of Dis, down Acheron
It drops, or Lethe wan.
Stirred by its fall—poor destined bark of Dis!—
Along my soul a bruit there is
Of echoing images,
Along my soul a bruit there is
Of echoing images,
Reverberations of mortality:
Spelt backward from its death, to me
Its life reads saddenedly.
Spelt backward from its death, to me
Its life reads saddenedly.
Its breast was hollowed as the tooth of eld;
And boys, there creeping unbeheld,
A laughing moment dwelled.
And boys, there creeping unbeheld,
A laughing moment dwelled.
Yet they, within its very heart so crept,
Reached not the heart that courage kept
With winds and years beswept.
Reached not the heart that courage kept
With winds and years beswept.
And in its boughs did close and kindly nest
The birds, as they within its breast,
By all its leaves caressed.
The birds, as they within its breast,
By all its leaves caressed.
But bird nor child might touch by any art
Each other's or the tree's hid heart,
A whole God's breadth apart;
Each other's or the tree's hid heart,
A whole God's breadth apart;
The breadth of God, the breadth of death and life!
Even so, even so, in undreamed strife
With pulseless Law, the wife,—
Even so, even so, in undreamed strife
With pulseless Law, the wife,—
183
The sweetest wife on sweetest marriage-day,—
Their souls at grapple in mid-way,
Sweet to her sweet may say:
Their souls at grapple in mid-way,
Sweet to her sweet may say:
‘I take you to my inmost heart, my true!’
Ah, fool! but there is one heart you
Shall never take him to!
Ah, fool! but there is one heart you
Shall never take him to!
The hold that falls not when the town is got,
The heart's heart, whose immurèd plot
Hath keys yourself keep not!
The heart's heart, whose immurèd plot
Hath keys yourself keep not!
Its ports you cannot burst—you are withstood—
For him that to your listening blood
Sends precepts as he would.
For him that to your listening blood
Sends precepts as he would.
Its gates are deaf to Love, high summoner;
Yea, Love's great warrant runs not there:
You are your prisoner.
Yea, Love's great warrant runs not there:
You are your prisoner.
Yourself are with yourself the sole consortress
In that unleaguerable fortress;
It knows you not for portress.
In that unleaguerable fortress;
It knows you not for portress.
Its keys are at the cincture hung of God;
Its gates are trepidant to His nod;
By Him its floors are trod.
Its gates are trepidant to His nod;
By Him its floors are trod.
And if His feet shall rock those floors in wrath,
Or blest aspersion sleek His path,
Is only choice it hath.
Or blest aspersion sleek His path,
Is only choice it hath.
184
Yea, in that ultimate heart's occult abode
To lie as in an oubliette of God,
Or in a bower untrod,
To lie as in an oubliette of God,
Or in a bower untrod,
Built by a secret Lover for His Spouse;—
Sole choice is this your life allows,
Sad tree, whose perishing boughs
So few birds house!
Sole choice is this your life allows,
Sad tree, whose perishing boughs
So few birds house!
185
A JUDGEMENT IN HEAVEN
Athwart the sod which is treading for God * the Poet paced with his splendid eyes;
Paradise-verdure he stately passes * to win to the Father of Paradise,
Through the conscious and palpitant grasses * of intertangled relucent dyes.
Paradise-verdure he stately passes * to win to the Father of Paradise,
Through the conscious and palpitant grasses * of intertangled relucent dyes.
The angels a-play on its fields of Summer * (their wild wings rustled his guides' cymars)
Looked up from disport at the passing comer, * as they pelted each other with handfuls of stars;
And the warden-spirits with startled feet rose, * hand on sword, by their tethered cars.
Looked up from disport at the passing comer, * as they pelted each other with handfuls of stars;
And the warden-spirits with startled feet rose, * hand on sword, by their tethered cars.
With plumes night-tinctured englobed and cinctured * of Saints, his guided steps held on
To where on the far crystálline pale * of that transtellar Heaven there shone
The immutable crocean dawn * effusing from the Father's Throne.
To where on the far crystálline pale * of that transtellar Heaven there shone
The immutable crocean dawn * effusing from the Father's Throne.
Through the reverberant Eden-ways * the bruit of his great advent driven,
Back from the fulgent justle and press * with mighty echoing so was given,
As when the surly thunder smites * upon the clangèd gates of Heaven.
Back from the fulgent justle and press * with mighty echoing so was given,
As when the surly thunder smites * upon the clangèd gates of Heaven.
[_]
I have throughout this poem used an asterisk to indicate the caesura in the middle of the line, after the manner of the old Saxon section-point.
186
Over the bickering gonfalons, * far-ranged as for Tartarean wars,
Went a waver of ribbèd fire *—as night-seas on phosphoric bars
Like a flame-plumed fan shake slowly out * their ridgy reach of crumbling stars.
Went a waver of ribbèd fire *—as night-seas on phosphoric bars
Like a flame-plumed fan shake slowly out * their ridgy reach of crumbling stars.
At length to where on His fretted Throne * sat in the heart of His aged dominions
The great Triune, and Mary nigh, * lit round with spears of their hauberked minions,
The Poet drew, in the thunderous blue * involvèd dread of those mounted pinions.
The great Triune, and Mary nigh, * lit round with spears of their hauberked minions,
The Poet drew, in the thunderous blue * involvèd dread of those mounted pinions.
As in a secret and tenebrous cloud * the watcher from the disquiet earth
At momentary intervals * beholds from its raggèd rifts break forth
The flash of a golden perturbation, * the travelling threat of a witchèd birth;
At momentary intervals * beholds from its raggèd rifts break forth
The flash of a golden perturbation, * the travelling threat of a witchèd birth;
Till heavily parts a sinister chasm, * a grisly jaw, whose verges soon,
Slowly and ominously filled * by the on-coming plenilune,
Supportlessly congest with fire, * and suddenly spit forth the moon:—
Slowly and ominously filled * by the on-coming plenilune,
Supportlessly congest with fire, * and suddenly spit forth the moon:—
With beauty, not terror, through tangled error * of night-dipt plumes so burned their charge;
Swayed and parted the globing clusters * so,—disclosed from their kindling marge,
Roseal-chapleted, splendent-vestured, * the Poet there where God's light lay large.
187
Roseal-chapleted, splendent-vestured, * the Poet there where God's light lay large.
Hu, hu! a wonder! a wonder! see, * clasping the Poet's glories clings
A dingy creature, even to laughter * cloaked and clad in patchwork things,
Shrinking close from the unused glows * of the seraphs' versicoloured wings.
A dingy creature, even to laughter * cloaked and clad in patchwork things,
Shrinking close from the unused glows * of the seraphs' versicoloured wings.
A Rhymer, rhyming a futile rhyme, * he had crept for convoy through Eden-ways
Into the shade of the Poet's glory, * darkened under his prevalent rays,
Fearfully hoping a distant welcome * as a poor kinsman of his lays.
Into the shade of the Poet's glory, * darkened under his prevalent rays,
Fearfully hoping a distant welcome * as a poor kinsman of his lays.
The angels laughed with a lovely scorning: *—‘Who has done this sorry deed in
The garden of our Father, God? * 'mid his blossoms to sow this weed in?
Never our fingers knew this stuff: * not so fashion the looms of Eden!’
The garden of our Father, God? * 'mid his blossoms to sow this weed in?
Never our fingers knew this stuff: * not so fashion the looms of Eden!’
The Poet bowed his brow majestic, * searching that patchwork through and through,
Feeling God's lucent gazes traverse * his singing-stoling and spirit too:
The hallowed harpers were fain to frown * on the strange thing come 'mid their sacred crew.
Only the Poet that was earth * his fellow-earth and his own self knew.
Feeling God's lucent gazes traverse * his singing-stoling and spirit too:
188
Only the Poet that was earth * his fellow-earth and his own self knew.
Then the Poet rent off robe and wreath, * so as a sloughing serpent doth,
Laid them at the Rhymer's feet, * shed down wreath and raiment both,
Stood in a dim and shamèd stole, * like the tattered wing of a musty moth.
(The Poet addresses his Maker)
Laid them at the Rhymer's feet, * shed down wreath and raiment both,
Stood in a dim and shamèd stole, * like the tattered wing of a musty moth.
‘Thou gav'st the weed and wreath of song, * the weed and wreath are solely Thine,
And this dishonest vesture * is the only vesture that is mine;
The life I textured, Thou the song:*—my handicraft is not divine!’
(The Poet addresses the Rhymer)
And this dishonest vesture * is the only vesture that is mine;
The life I textured, Thou the song:*—my handicraft is not divine!’
He wrested o'er the Rhymer's head * that garmenting which wrought him wrong;
A flickering tissue argentine * down dripped its shivering silvers long:—
‘Better thou wov'st thy woof of life * than thou didst weave thy woof of song!’
A flickering tissue argentine * down dripped its shivering silvers long:—
‘Better thou wov'st thy woof of life * than thou didst weave thy woof of song!’
Never a chief in Saintdom was, * but turned him from the Poet then;
Never an eye looked mild on him * 'mid all the angel myriads ten,
Save sinless Mary, and sinful Mary *—the Mary titled Magdalen.
189
Save sinless Mary, and sinful Mary *—the Mary titled Magdalen.
‘Turn yon robe,’ spake Magdalen, * ‘of torn bright song, and see and feel.’
They turned the raiment, saw and felt * what their turning did reveal—
All the inner surface piled * with bloodied hairs, like hairs of steel.
They turned the raiment, saw and felt * what their turning did reveal—
All the inner surface piled * with bloodied hairs, like hairs of steel.
‘Take, I pray, yon chaplet up, * thrown down ruddied from his head.’
They took the roseal chaplet up, * and they stood astonishèd:
Every leaf between their fingers, * as they bruised it, burst and bled.
They took the roseal chaplet up, * and they stood astonishèd:
Every leaf between their fingers, * as they bruised it, burst and bled.
‘See his torn flesh through those rents; * see the punctures round his hair,
As if the chaplet-flowers had driven * deep roots in to nourish there—
Lord, who gav'st him robe and wreath, * what was this Thou gav'st for wear?’
As if the chaplet-flowers had driven * deep roots in to nourish there—
Lord, who gav'st him robe and wreath, * what was this Thou gav'st for wear?’
‘Fetch forth the Paradisal garb!’ * spake the Father, sweet and low;
Drew them both by the frightened hand * where Mary's throne made irised bow—
‘Take, Princess Mary, of thy good grace, * two spirits greater than they know.’
Drew them both by the frightened hand * where Mary's throne made irised bow—
‘Take, Princess Mary, of thy good grace, * two spirits greater than they know.’
190
EPILOGUE TO ‘A JUDGEMENT IN HEAVEN’
Virtue may unlock hell, or even
A sin turn in the wards of Heaven,
(As ethics of the text-book go,)
So little men their own deeds know,
Or through the intricate mêlée
Guess whitherward draws the battle-sway;
So little, if they know the deed,
Discern what therefrom shall succeed.
To wisest moralists 'tis but given
To work rough border-law of Heaven,
Within this narrow life of ours,
These marches 'twixt delimitless Powers.
Is it, if Heaven the future showed,
Is it the all-severest mode
To see ourselves with the eyes of God?
God rather grant, at His assize,
He see us not with our own eyes!
A sin turn in the wards of Heaven,
(As ethics of the text-book go,)
So little men their own deeds know,
Or through the intricate mêlée
Guess whitherward draws the battle-sway;
So little, if they know the deed,
Discern what therefrom shall succeed.
To wisest moralists 'tis but given
To work rough border-law of Heaven,
Within this narrow life of ours,
These marches 'twixt delimitless Powers.
Is it, if Heaven the future showed,
Is it the all-severest mode
To see ourselves with the eyes of God?
God rather grant, at His assize,
He see us not with our own eyes!
Heaven, which man's generations draws,
Nor deviates into replicas,
Must of as deep diversity
In judgement as creation be.
There is no expeditious road
To pack and label men for God,
And save them by the barrel-load.
Some may perchance, with strange surprise,
Have blundered into Paradise.
In vasty dusk of life abroad,
They fondly thought to err from God,
Nor knew the circle that they trod;
And, wandering all the night about,
Found them at morn where they set out.
Death dawned; Heaven lay in prospect wide:—
Lo! they were standing by His side!
Nor deviates into replicas,
Must of as deep diversity
In judgement as creation be.
There is no expeditious road
To pack and label men for God,
And save them by the barrel-load.
Some may perchance, with strange surprise,
Have blundered into Paradise.
In vasty dusk of life abroad,
191
Nor knew the circle that they trod;
And, wandering all the night about,
Found them at morn where they set out.
Death dawned; Heaven lay in prospect wide:—
Lo! they were standing by His side!
The Rhymer a life uncomplex,
With just such cares as mortals vex,
So simply felt as all men feel,
Lived purely out to his soul's weal.
A double life the Poet lived,
And with a double burthen grieved;
The life of flesh and life of song,
The pangs to both lives that belong;
Immortal knew and mortal pain,
Who in two worlds could lose and gain,
And found immortal fruits must be
Mortal through his mortality.
The life of flesh and life of song!
If one life worked the other wrong,
What expiating agony
May for him, damned to poesy,
Shut in that little sentence be—
What deep austerities of strife—
‘He lived his life.’ He lived his life!
With just such cares as mortals vex,
So simply felt as all men feel,
Lived purely out to his soul's weal.
A double life the Poet lived,
And with a double burthen grieved;
The life of flesh and life of song,
The pangs to both lives that belong;
Immortal knew and mortal pain,
Who in two worlds could lose and gain,
And found immortal fruits must be
Mortal through his mortality.
The life of flesh and life of song!
If one life worked the other wrong,
What expiating agony
May for him, damned to poesy,
Shut in that little sentence be—
What deep austerities of strife—
‘He lived his life.’ He lived his life!
192
THE SERE OF THE LEAF
Winter wore a flapping wind, and his beard, disentwined,
Blew cloudy in the face of the Fall,
When a poet-soul flew South, with a singing in her mouth,
O'er the azure Irish parting-wall.
There stood one beneath a tree whose matted greenery
Was fruited with the songs of birds;
By the melancholy water drooped the slender sedge, its daughter,
Whose silence was a sadness passing words:
He held him very still,
And he heard the running rill,
And the soul-voice singing blither than the birds.
Blew cloudy in the face of the Fall,
When a poet-soul flew South, with a singing in her mouth,
O'er the azure Irish parting-wall.
There stood one beneath a tree whose matted greenery
Was fruited with the songs of birds;
By the melancholy water drooped the slender sedge, its daughter,
Whose silence was a sadness passing words:
He held him very still,
And he heard the running rill,
And the soul-voice singing blither than the birds.
All Summer the sunbeams drew the curtains from the dreams
Of the rose-fay, while the sweet South wind
Lapped the silken swathing close round her virginal repose
When night swathed folding slumbers round her mind.
Now the elf of the flower had sickened in her bower,
And fainted in a thrill of scent;
But her lover of the South, with a moan upon his mouth,
Caught her spirit to his arms as it went:
Then the storms of West and North
Sent a gusty vaward forth,
Sent a skirring desolation, and he went.
Of the rose-fay, while the sweet South wind
Lapped the silken swathing close round her virginal repose
When night swathed folding slumbers round her mind.
Now the elf of the flower had sickened in her bower,
And fainted in a thrill of scent;
But her lover of the South, with a moan upon his mouth,
Caught her spirit to his arms as it went:
Then the storms of West and North
Sent a gusty vaward forth,
Sent a skirring desolation, and he went.
193
And a troop of roving gales rent the lily's silver veils,
And tore her from her trembling leaves;
And the Autumn's smitten face flushed to a red disgrace,
And she grieved as a captive grieves.
Once the gold-barred cage of skies with the sunset's moulted dyes
Was splendorously littered at the even;
Beauty-fraught o'er shining sea, once the sun's argosy
To rich wreck on the Western reefs was driven;
Now the sun, in Indian pall,
Treads the russet-amber fall
From the ruined trees of Heaven.
And tore her from her trembling leaves;
And the Autumn's smitten face flushed to a red disgrace,
And she grieved as a captive grieves.
Once the gold-barred cage of skies with the sunset's moulted dyes
Was splendorously littered at the even;
Beauty-fraught o'er shining sea, once the sun's argosy
To rich wreck on the Western reefs was driven;
Now the sun, in Indian pall,
Treads the russet-amber fall
From the ruined trees of Heaven.
Too soon fails the light, and the swart boar, night,
Gores to death the bleeding day;
And the dusk has no more a calm at its core,
But is turbid with obscene array.
For the cloud, a thing of ill dilating baleful o'er the hill,
Spreads a bulk like a huge Afreet
Drifting in gigantic sloth, or a murky behemoth,
For the moon to set her silver feet;
For the moon's white paces,
And its nostril for her traces,
As she urges it with wild witch feet.
Gores to death the bleeding day;
And the dusk has no more a calm at its core,
But is turbid with obscene array.
For the cloud, a thing of ill dilating baleful o'er the hill,
Spreads a bulk like a huge Afreet
Drifting in gigantic sloth, or a murky behemoth,
For the moon to set her silver feet;
For the moon's white paces,
And its nostril for her traces,
As she urges it with wild witch feet.
And the stars, forlornly fair, shiver keenly through the air,
All an-aching till their watch be ceased;
And the hours like maimed flies lag on, ere night hatch her golden dragon
In the mold of the upheaved East.
‘As the cadent languor lingers after Music droops her fingers,
Beauty still falls dying, dying through the days;
But ah!’ said he who stood in that Autumn solitude,
‘Singing-soul, thou art 'lated with thy lays!
All things that on this globe err
Fleet into dark October,
When day and night encounter, the nights war down the days.
All an-aching till their watch be ceased;
And the hours like maimed flies lag on, ere night hatch her golden dragon
194
‘As the cadent languor lingers after Music droops her fingers,
Beauty still falls dying, dying through the days;
But ah!’ said he who stood in that Autumn solitude,
‘Singing-soul, thou art 'lated with thy lays!
All things that on this globe err
Fleet into dark October,
When day and night encounter, the nights war down the days.
‘For the song in thy mouth is all of the South,
Though Winter wax in strength more and more,
And at eve with breath of malice the stained windows of day's palace
Pile in shatters on the Western floor.’
But the song sank down his soul like a Naiad through her pool,
He could not bid the visitant depart;
For he felt the melody make tune like a bee
In the red rose of his heart:
Like a Naiad in her pool
It lay within his soul,
Like a bee in the red rose of his heart.
Though Winter wax in strength more and more,
And at eve with breath of malice the stained windows of day's palace
Pile in shatters on the Western floor.’
But the song sank down his soul like a Naiad through her pool,
He could not bid the visitant depart;
For he felt the melody make tune like a bee
In the red rose of his heart:
Like a Naiad in her pool
It lay within his soul,
Like a bee in the red rose of his heart.
She sang of the shrill East fled and bitterness surceased:—
‘O the blue South wind is musical!
And the garden's drenched with scent, and my soul hath its content,
This eve or any eve at all.’
On his form the blushing shames of her ruby-plumaged flames
Flickered hotly, like a quivering crimson snow:
‘And hast thou thy content? Were some rain of it besprent
On the soil where I am drifted to and fro,
My soul, blown o'er the ways
Of these arid latter days,
Would blossom like a rose of Jericho.
‘O the blue South wind is musical!
And the garden's drenched with scent, and my soul hath its content,
This eve or any eve at all.’
195
Flickered hotly, like a quivering crimson snow:
‘And hast thou thy content? Were some rain of it besprent
On the soil where I am drifted to and fro,
My soul, blown o'er the ways
Of these arid latter days,
Would blossom like a rose of Jericho.
‘I know not equipoise, only purgatorial joys,
Grief's singing to the soul's instrument,
And forgetfulness which yet knoweth that it doth forget;
But content—what is content?
For a harp of singeing wire, and a goblet dripping fire,
And desires that hunt down Beauty through the Heaven
With unslackenable bounds, as the deep-mouthed thunder-hounds
Bay at heel the fleeing levin,—
The chaliced lucencies
From pure holy-wells of eyes,
And the bliss unbarbed with pain I have given.
Grief's singing to the soul's instrument,
And forgetfulness which yet knoweth that it doth forget;
But content—what is content?
For a harp of singeing wire, and a goblet dripping fire,
And desires that hunt down Beauty through the Heaven
With unslackenable bounds, as the deep-mouthed thunder-hounds
Bay at heel the fleeing levin,—
The chaliced lucencies
From pure holy-wells of eyes,
And the bliss unbarbed with pain I have given.
‘Is—O framed to suffer joys!—thine the sweet without alloys
Of the many, who art numbered with the few?
And thy flashing breath of song, does it do thy lips no wrong,
Nor sear them as the heats spill through?
When the welling musics rise, like tears from heart to eyes,
Is there not a pang dissolved in them for thee?
Does not Song, like the Queen of radiant Love, Hellene,
Float up dripping from a bitter sea?
No tunèd metal known
Unless stricken yields a tone,
Be it silver, or sad iron like to me.
Of the many, who art numbered with the few?
And thy flashing breath of song, does it do thy lips no wrong,
Nor sear them as the heats spill through?
When the welling musics rise, like tears from heart to eyes,
196
Does not Song, like the Queen of radiant Love, Hellene,
Float up dripping from a bitter sea?
No tunèd metal known
Unless stricken yields a tone,
Be it silver, or sad iron like to me.
‘Yet the rhymes still roll from the bell-tower of thy soul,
Though no tongued griefs give them vent;
If they ring to me no gladness, if my joy be sceptred sadness,
I am glad, yet, for thy content.
Not always does the lost, 'twixt the fires of heat and frost,
Envy those whom the healing lustres bless;
But may sometimes, in the pain of a yearning past attain,
Thank the angels for their happiness;
'Twixt the fire and fiery ice,
Looking up to Paradise
Thank the angels for their happiness.
Though no tongued griefs give them vent;
If they ring to me no gladness, if my joy be sceptred sadness,
I am glad, yet, for thy content.
Not always does the lost, 'twixt the fires of heat and frost,
Envy those whom the healing lustres bless;
But may sometimes, in the pain of a yearning past attain,
Thank the angels for their happiness;
'Twixt the fire and fiery ice,
Looking up to Paradise
Thank the angels for their happiness.
‘The heart, a censered fire whence fuming chants aspire,
Is fed with oozèd gums of precious pain;
And unrest swings denser, denser, the fragrance from that censer,
With the heart-strings for its quivering chain.
Yet 'tis vain to scale the turret of the cloud-uplifted spirit,
And bar the immortal in, the mortal out;
For sometime unaware comes a footfall up the stair,
And a soft knock under which no bolts are stout,
And lo, there pleadeth sore
The heart's voice at the door,
“I am your child, you may not shut me out!”
Is fed with oozèd gums of precious pain;
And unrest swings denser, denser, the fragrance from that censer,
With the heart-strings for its quivering chain.
Yet 'tis vain to scale the turret of the cloud-uplifted spirit,
And bar the immortal in, the mortal out;
197
And a soft knock under which no bolts are stout,
And lo, there pleadeth sore
The heart's voice at the door,
“I am your child, you may not shut me out!”
‘The breath of poetry in the mind's autumnal tree
Shakes down the saddened thoughts in singing showers,
But fallen from their stem, what part have we in them?
“Nay,” pine the trees, “they were, but are not ours.”
Not for the mind's delight these serèd leaves alight,
But, loosened by the breezes, fall they must.
What ill if they decay? yet some a little way
May flit before deserted by the gust,
May touch some spirit's hair,
May cling one moment there,—
She turns; they tremble down. Drift o'er them, dust!’
Shakes down the saddened thoughts in singing showers,
But fallen from their stem, what part have we in them?
“Nay,” pine the trees, “they were, but are not ours.”
Not for the mind's delight these serèd leaves alight,
But, loosened by the breezes, fall they must.
What ill if they decay? yet some a little way
May flit before deserted by the gust,
May touch some spirit's hair,
May cling one moment there,—
She turns; they tremble down. Drift o'er them, dust!’
198
TO STARS
You, my unrest, and Night's tranquillity,
Bringers of peace to it, and pang to me:
You that on heaven and on my heart cast fire,
To heaven a purging light, my heart unpurged desire;
Bright juts for foothold to the climbing sight
Which else must slip from the steep infinite;
Reared standards which the sequent centuries
Snatch, each from his forerunner's grasp who dies,
To lead our forlorn hope upon the skies;
Bells that from night's great bell-tower hang in gold,
Whereon God rings His changes manifold;
Meek guides and daughters to the blinded heaven
In Œdipean, remitless wandering driven;
The burning rhetoric, quenchless oratory,
Of the magniloquent and all-suasive sky;
I see and feel you—but to feel and see
How two child-eyes have dulled a firmament for me.
Bringers of peace to it, and pang to me:
You that on heaven and on my heart cast fire,
To heaven a purging light, my heart unpurged desire;
Bright juts for foothold to the climbing sight
Which else must slip from the steep infinite;
Reared standards which the sequent centuries
Snatch, each from his forerunner's grasp who dies,
To lead our forlorn hope upon the skies;
Bells that from night's great bell-tower hang in gold,
Whereon God rings His changes manifold;
Meek guides and daughters to the blinded heaven
In Œdipean, remitless wandering driven;
The burning rhetoric, quenchless oratory,
Of the magniloquent and all-suasive sky;
I see and feel you—but to feel and see
How two child-eyes have dulled a firmament for me.
Once did I bring her, hurt upon her bed,
Flowers we had loved together; brought, and said:—
‘I plucked them; yester-morn you liked them wild.’
And then she laid them on my eyes, and smiled.
And now, poor Stars, your fairness is not fair,
Because I cannot gather it for her;
I cannot sheave you in my arms, and say:—
‘See, sweet, you liked these yester-eve; like them for me to-day!’
Flowers we had loved together; brought, and said:—
‘I plucked them; yester-morn you liked them wild.’
And then she laid them on my eyes, and smiled.
And now, poor Stars, your fairness is not fair,
Because I cannot gather it for her;
I cannot sheave you in my arms, and say:—
‘See, sweet, you liked these yester-eve; like them for me to-day!’
She has no care, my Stars, of you or me;
She has no care, we tire her speedily;
She has no care, because she cannot see—
She cannot see, who sees not past her sight.
We are set too high, we tire her with our height:
Her years are small, and ill to strain above.
She may not love us: wherefore keep we love
To her who may not love us—you and I?
And yet you thrill down towards her, even as I,
With all your golden eloquence held in mute.
We may not plead, we may not plead our suit;
Our wingèd love must beat against its bars:
For should she enter once within those guarding bars,
Our love would do her hurt—oh, think of that, my Stars!
She has no care, we tire her speedily;
199
She cannot see, who sees not past her sight.
We are set too high, we tire her with our height:
Her years are small, and ill to strain above.
She may not love us: wherefore keep we love
To her who may not love us—you and I?
And yet you thrill down towards her, even as I,
With all your golden eloquence held in mute.
We may not plead, we may not plead our suit;
Our wingèd love must beat against its bars:
For should she enter once within those guarding bars,
Our love would do her hurt—oh, think of that, my Stars!
200
LINES FOR A DRAWING OF OUR LADY OF THE NIGHT
This, could I paint my inward sight,
This were Our Lady of the Night:
This were Our Lady of the Night:
She bears on her front's lucency
The starlight of her purity:
The starlight of her purity:
For as the white rays of that star
The union of all colours are,
The union of all colours are,
She sums all virtues that may be
In her sweet light of purity.
In her sweet light of purity.
The mantle which she holds on high
Is the great mantle of the sky.
Is the great mantle of the sky.
Think, O sick toiler, when the night
Comes on thee, sad and infinite,
Comes on thee, sad and infinite,
Think, sometimes, 'tis our own Lady
Spreads her blue mantle over thee,
Spreads her blue mantle over thee,
And folds the earth, a wearied thing,
Beneath its gentle shadowing;
Beneath its gentle shadowing;
Then rest a little; and in sleep
Forget to weep, forget to weep!
Forget to weep, forget to weep!
201
ORISON-TRYST
She told me, in the morning her white thought
Did beat to Godward, like a carrier-dove,
My name beneath its wing. And I—how long!—
That, like a bubble from a water-flower
Released as it withdraws itself up-curled
Into the nightly lake, her sighèd name
So loosened from my sleepward-sinking heart;
And in the morning did like Phosphor set it
To lead the vanward of my orient soul
When it storms Heaven; and did all alone,
Methought, upon the live coals of my love
Those distillations of rich memory cast
To feed the fumes of prayer:—oh! I was then
Like one who, dreaming solitude, awakes
In sobbing from his dream; and, straining arms
That ache for their own void, with sudden shock
Takes a dear form beside him.
Did beat to Godward, like a carrier-dove,
My name beneath its wing. And I—how long!—
That, like a bubble from a water-flower
Released as it withdraws itself up-curled
Into the nightly lake, her sighèd name
So loosened from my sleepward-sinking heart;
And in the morning did like Phosphor set it
To lead the vanward of my orient soul
When it storms Heaven; and did all alone,
Methought, upon the live coals of my love
Those distillations of rich memory cast
To feed the fumes of prayer:—oh! I was then
Like one who, dreaming solitude, awakes
In sobbing from his dream; and, straining arms
That ache for their own void, with sudden shock
Takes a dear form beside him.
Now, when light
Pricks at my lids, I never rouse but think—
‘Is 't orison-time with her?’—And then my hand
Presses thy letters in my pulses shook;
Where, neighboured on my heart with those pure lines
In amity of kindred pureness, lies
Image of Her conceived Immaculate;
And on the purple inward, thine,—ah! thine
O'the purple-linèd side.
Pricks at my lids, I never rouse but think—
‘Is 't orison-time with her?’—And then my hand
Presses thy letters in my pulses shook;
Where, neighboured on my heart with those pure lines
In amity of kindred pureness, lies
Image of Her conceived Immaculate;
And on the purple inward, thine,—ah! thine
O'the purple-linèd side.
And I do set
Tryst with thy soul in its own Paradise;
As lovers of an earthly rate that use,
In severance, for their sweet messages
Some concave of a tree, and do their hearts
Enharbour in its continent heart—I drop
My message in the hollow breast of God.
Thy name is known in Heaven; yea, Heaven is weary
With the reverberation of thy name;
I fill with it the gap between two sleeps,
The inter-pause of dream: hell's gates have learned
To shake in it; and their fierce forayers
Before the iterate echoing recoil,
In armèd watches when my preparate soul
(A war-cry in the alarums of the Night)
Conjoins thy name with Hers, Auxiliatrix.
Tryst with thy soul in its own Paradise;
As lovers of an earthly rate that use,
In severance, for their sweet messages
Some concave of a tree, and do their hearts
202
My message in the hollow breast of God.
Thy name is known in Heaven; yea, Heaven is weary
With the reverberation of thy name;
I fill with it the gap between two sleeps,
The inter-pause of dream: hell's gates have learned
To shake in it; and their fierce forayers
Before the iterate echoing recoil,
In armèd watches when my preparate soul
(A war-cry in the alarums of the Night)
Conjoins thy name with Hers, Auxiliatrix.
203
‘WHERETO ART THOU COME?’
‘Friend, whereto art thou come?’ Thus Verity;Of each that to the world's sad Olivet
Comes with no multitude, but alone by night,
Lit with the one torch of his lifted soul,
Seeking her that he may lay hands on her;
Thus: and waits answer from the mouth of deed.
Truth is a maid, whom men woo diversely;
This, as a spouse; that, as a light-o'-love,
To know, and having known, to make his brag.
But woe to him that takes the immortal kiss,
And not estates her in his housing life,
Mother of all his seed! So he betrays,
Not Truth, the unbetrayable, but himself:
And with his kiss's rated traitor-craft
The Haceldama of a plot of days
He buys, to consummate his Judasry
Therein with Judas' guerdon of despair.
204
SONG OF THE HOURS
SCENE: Before the Palace of the Sun, into which a god has just passed as the guest of Hyperion. Time: Dawn. The Hours of Night and Day advance on each other as the gates close.MORNING HOURS
In curbed expanses our wheeling dances
Meet from the left and right;
Under this vaporous awning
Tarrying awhile in our flight,
Waiting the day's advances,
We, the children of light,
Clasp you on verge of the dawning,
Sisters of Even and Night!
CHORUS
We who lash from the way of the sun
With the whip of the winds the thronging clouds
Who puff out the lights of the stars, or run
To scare dreams back to their shrouds,
Or tiar the temples of Heaven
With a crystalline gleam of showers;
EVENING HOURS
While to flit with the soft moth, Even,
Round the lamp of the day is ours;
NIGHT HOURS
And ours with her crescent argentine,
To make Night's forehead fair,
To wheel up her throne of the earth, and twine
The daffodils in her hair;
205
We, moulted as plumes are,
From the wings whereon Time is borne;
MORNING HOURS
We, buds who in blossoming foretell
The date when our leaves shall be torn;
NIGHT HOURS
We, knowing our dooms are to plunge with the gloom's car
Down the steep ruin of morn;
ALL
We hail thee, Immortal!
We robes of Life, mouldering while worn.
NIGHT HOURS
Sea-birds, winging o'er sea calm-strewn
To the lure of the beacon-stars, are we,
O'er the foamy wake of the white-sailed moon,
Which to men is the Galaxy.
MORNING HOURS
Our eyes, through our pinions folden,
By the filtered flame are teased
As we bow when the sun makes golden
Earthquake in the East.
206
And we shake on the sky a dusted fire
From the ripened sunset's anther,
While the flecked main, drowsing in gorged desire,
Purrs like an outstretched panther.
MORNING HOURS
O'er the dead moon-maid
We draw softly the day's white pall;
And our children the Moments we see as
In drops of the dew they fall,
Or on light plumes laid they shoot the cascade
Of colours some Heaven's bow call;
ALL
And we sing, Guest, to thee, as
Thou pacest the crystal-paved hall!
Thou pacest the crystal-paved hall!
We, while the sun with his hid chain swings
Like a censer around him the blossom-sweet earth,
Who dare the lark with our passionate wings,
And its mirth with our masterless mirth;
Or—when that flying laughter
Has sunk and died away
Which beat against Heaven's rafter—
Who vex the clear eyes of day,
Who weave for the sky in the loom of the cloud
A mantle of waving rain,
We, whose hair is jewelled with joys, or bowed
Under veilings of misty pain;
We hymn thee at leaving
Who strew thy feet's coming, O Guest!
We, the linked cincture which girdles
Mortality's feverous breast,
Who heave in its heaving, who grieve in its grieving,
Are restless in its unrest;
Our beings unstirred else
Were it not for the bosom they pressed.
Like a censer around him the blossom-sweet earth,
Who dare the lark with our passionate wings,
And its mirth with our masterless mirth;
Or—when that flying laughter
Has sunk and died away
Which beat against Heaven's rafter—
Who vex the clear eyes of day,
Who weave for the sky in the loom of the cloud
A mantle of waving rain,
We, whose hair is jewelled with joys, or bowed
Under veilings of misty pain;
207
Who strew thy feet's coming, O Guest!
We, the linked cincture which girdles
Mortality's feverous breast,
Who heave in its heaving, who grieve in its grieving,
Are restless in its unrest;
Our beings unstirred else
Were it not for the bosom they pressed.
We see the wind, like a light swift leopard
Leap on the flocks of the cloud that flee,
As we follow the feet of the radiant shepherd
Whose bright sheep drink of the sea.
When that drunken Titan the Thunder
Stumbles through staggered Heaven,
And spills on the scorched earth under
The fiery wine of the levin,
With our mystic measure of rhythmic motion
We charm him in snorting sleep,
While round him the sun enchants from ocean
The walls of a cloudy keep.
Beneath the deep umbers
Of night as we watch and hark,
The dim-wingèd dreams which feed on
The blossoms of day we mark,
As in murmurous numbers they swarm to the slumbers
That cell the hive of the dark;
And life shakes, a reed on
Our tide, in the death-wind stark.
Leap on the flocks of the cloud that flee,
As we follow the feet of the radiant shepherd
Whose bright sheep drink of the sea.
When that drunken Titan the Thunder
Stumbles through staggered Heaven,
And spills on the scorched earth under
The fiery wine of the levin,
With our mystic measure of rhythmic motion
We charm him in snorting sleep,
While round him the sun enchants from ocean
The walls of a cloudy keep.
Beneath the deep umbers
Of night as we watch and hark,
The dim-wingèd dreams which feed on
The blossoms of day we mark,
As in murmurous numbers they swarm to the slumbers
That cell the hive of the dark;
And life shakes, a reed on
Our tide, in the death-wind stark.
208
Time, Eternity's fountain, whose waters
Fall back thither from whence they rose,
Deweth with us, its showery daughters,
The life that is green in its flows.
But whether in grief or mirth we shower,
We make not the thing we breed,
For what may come of the passing Hour
Is what was hid in the seed.
And now as wakes,
Like love in its first blind guesses,
Or a snake just stirring its coils,
Sweet tune into half-caresses,
Before the sun shakes the clinging flakes
Of gloom from his spouting tresses,
Let winds have toils
To catch at our fluttering dresses!
Winter, that numbeth the throstle and stilled wren,
Has keen frost-edges our plumes to pare,
Till we break, with the summer's laughing children,
Over the fields of air.
While the winds in their tricksome courses
The snowy steeds vault upon
That are fooled of the white sea-horses
And washed in the streams of the sun.
Thaw, O thaw the enchanted throbbings
Curdled at music's heart;
Tread she her grapes till from their englobings
The melodies spurt and smart!
We fleet as a rain,
Nor yearn for the being men own,
With whom is nought beginneth
Or endeth without some mean
We soar to our zenith
And are panglessly overblown.
Fall back thither from whence they rose,
Deweth with us, its showery daughters,
The life that is green in its flows.
But whether in grief or mirth we shower,
We make not the thing we breed,
For what may come of the passing Hour
Is what was hid in the seed.
And now as wakes,
Like love in its first blind guesses,
Or a snake just stirring its coils,
Sweet tune into half-caresses,
Before the sun shakes the clinging flakes
Of gloom from his spouting tresses,
Let winds have toils
To catch at our fluttering dresses!
Winter, that numbeth the throstle and stilled wren,
Has keen frost-edges our plumes to pare,
Till we break, with the summer's laughing children,
Over the fields of air.
While the winds in their tricksome courses
The snowy steeds vault upon
That are fooled of the white sea-horses
And washed in the streams of the sun.
Thaw, O thaw the enchanted throbbings
Curdled at music's heart;
Tread she her grapes till from their englobings
The melodies spurt and smart!
We fleet as a rain,
Nor yearn for the being men own,
209
Or endeth without some mean
We soar to our zenith
And are panglessly overblown.
Yet, if the roots of the truth were bare,
Our transience is only a mortal seeming;
Fond men, we are fixed as a still despair,
And we fleet but in your dreaming.
We are columns in Time's hall, mortals,
Where through life hurrieth;
You pass in at birth's wide portals,
And out at the postern of death.
As you chase down the vista your dream or your love
The swift pillars race you by,
And you think it is we who move, who move,—
It is you who die, who die!
O firmament, even
You pass, by whose fixture man voweth;
God breathes you forth as a bubble
And shall suck you back into His mouth!
Through earth, sea, and Heaven a doom shall be driven,
And, sown in the furrows it plougheth,
As fire bursts from stubble
Shall spring the new wonders none troweth.
Our transience is only a mortal seeming;
Fond men, we are fixed as a still despair,
And we fleet but in your dreaming.
We are columns in Time's hall, mortals,
Where through life hurrieth;
You pass in at birth's wide portals,
And out at the postern of death.
As you chase down the vista your dream or your love
The swift pillars race you by,
And you think it is we who move, who move,—
It is you who die, who die!
O firmament, even
You pass, by whose fixture man voweth;
God breathes you forth as a bubble
And shall suck you back into His mouth!
Through earth, sea, and Heaven a doom shall be driven,
And, sown in the furrows it plougheth,
As fire bursts from stubble
Shall spring the new wonders none troweth.
The bowed East lifteth the dripping sun,
A golden cup, to the lips of Night,
Over whose cheek in flushes run
The heats of the liquid light.
A golden cup, to the lips of Night,
Over whose cheek in flushes run
The heats of the liquid light.
210
To our very pinions' ridge
We tremble expectantly;—
Is it ready, the burnished bridge
We must cast for our King o'er the sea?
And who will kneel with sunbeam-slips
To dry the flowers' sweet eyes?
Who touch with fire her finger-tips
For the lamp of the grape, as she flies?
ALL
List, list to the prances, his chariot advances,
It comes in a dust of light!
From under our brightening awning
We wheel in a diverse flight:
Yet the hands we unclasp, as our dances
Sweep off to the left and the right,
Are but loosed on the verge of the dawning
To join on the verge of the night.
211
PASTORAL
Pan-imbued
Tempe wood,
Pretty player's sporting-place;
Tempe wood's
Solitude 's
Everywhere a courting-place.
Kiss me, sweet
Gipsy feet,
Though a kissed maid hath her red;
Kisses grow—
Trust me so—
Faster than they're gatherèd!
I will flute a tune
On the pipes of ivory;
All long noon
Piping of a melody;
A merry, merry, merry, merry,
Merry, merry melody.
Dance, ho! foot it so! Feat fleets the melody!
Tempe wood,
Pretty player's sporting-place;
Tempe wood's
Solitude 's
Everywhere a courting-place.
Kiss me, sweet
Gipsy feet,
Though a kissed maid hath her red;
Kisses grow—
Trust me so—
Faster than they're gatherèd!
I will flute a tune
On the pipes of ivory;
All long noon
Piping of a melody;
A merry, merry, merry, merry,
Merry, merry melody.
Dance, ho! foot it so! Feat fleets the melody!
Let the wise
Say, youth dies;—
'Tis for pleasure's mending, Sweet!
Kisses are
Costlier far,
That they have an ending, Sweet!
Half a kiss 's
Dainty bliss is
From the day of kiss-no-more;
When we shall,
Roseal
Lass, do this and this no more!
And we pipe a tune
On the pipes of ivory;
All long noon
Fluting of a melody:—
A merry, merry, merry, merry,
Merry, merry melody.
Dance, ho! trip it so! Feat fleets the melody!
Say, youth dies;—
'Tis for pleasure's mending, Sweet!
Kisses are
Costlier far,
That they have an ending, Sweet!
Half a kiss 's
Dainty bliss is
From the day of kiss-no-more;
212
Roseal
Lass, do this and this no more!
And we pipe a tune
On the pipes of ivory;
All long noon
Fluting of a melody:—
A merry, merry, merry, merry,
Merry, merry melody.
Dance, ho! trip it so! Feat fleets the melody!
My love must
Be to trust,
While you safely fold me close:
Yours will smile
A kissing-while,
For the hours I hold you close.
Maiden gold!
Clipping bold
Here the truest mintage is:
Lips will bear
But, I swear,
In the press their vintages!
I will flute a tune
On the pipes of ivory;
All long noon
Piping of a melody:—
A merry, merry, merry, merry,
Merry, merry melody.
Dance, ho! foot it so! Feat fleets the melody!
Be to trust,
While you safely fold me close:
Yours will smile
A kissing-while,
For the hours I hold you close.
Maiden gold!
Clipping bold
Here the truest mintage is:
Lips will bear
But, I swear,
In the press their vintages!
I will flute a tune
On the pipes of ivory;
All long noon
Piping of a melody:—
A merry, merry, merry, merry,
Merry, merry melody.
Dance, ho! foot it so! Feat fleets the melody!
213
PAST THINKING OF SOLOMON
Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth, before
the years draw nigh of which thou shalt say: They please
me not: Before the sun, and the light, and the moon, and
the stars be darkened, and the clouds return after the rain.
ECCLESIASTES.
Wise-unto-hell Ecclesiast,
Who siev'dst life to the gritted last!
Who siev'dst life to the gritted last!
This thy sting, thy darkness, Mage—
Cloud upon sun, upon youth age?
Cloud upon sun, upon youth age?
Now is come a darker thing,
And is come a colder sting,
And is come a colder sting,
Unto us, who find the womb
Opes on the courtyard of the tomb;
Opes on the courtyard of the tomb;
Now in this fuliginous
City of flesh our sires for us
City of flesh our sires for us
Darkly built, the sun at prime
Is hidden, and betwixt the time
Is hidden, and betwixt the time
Of day and night is variance none,
Who know not altern moon and sun;
Who know not altern moon and sun;
214
Whose deposed heaven through dungeon-bars
Looks down blinded of its stars.
Looks down blinded of its stars.
Yea, in the days of youth, God wot,
Now we say: They please me not.
Now we say: They please me not.
215
A DEAD ASTRONOMER
STEPHEN PERRY, S. J.
Starry amorist, starward gone,
Thou art—what thou didst gaze upon!
Passed through thy golden garden's bars,
Thou seest the Gardener of the Stars.
Thou art—what thou didst gaze upon!
Passed through thy golden garden's bars,
Thou seest the Gardener of the Stars.
She, about whose moonèd brows
Seven stars make seven glows,
Seven lights for seven woes;
She, like thine own Galaxy,
All lustres in one purity:—
What said'st thou, Astronomer,
When thou did'st discover her?
When thy hand its tube let fall,
Thou found'st the fairest Star of all!
Seven stars make seven glows,
Seven lights for seven woes;
She, like thine own Galaxy,
All lustres in one purity:—
What said'st thou, Astronomer,
When thou did'st discover her?
When thy hand its tube let fall,
Thou found'st the fairest Star of all!
216
CHEATED ELSIE
Elsie was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon:
Born to teach her swains despair
By smiling on them every one;
Born to win all hearts to her
Just because herself had none;
All the day she had no care,
For she was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon,
Heartless as the brooks that run.
As the sun
Shone upon:
Born to teach her swains despair
By smiling on them every one;
Born to win all hearts to her
Just because herself had none;
All the day she had no care,
For she was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon,
Heartless as the brooks that run.
All the maids, with envy tart,
Sneering said, ‘She has no heart.’
All the youths, with bitter smart,
Sighing said, ‘She has no heart!’
Could she care
For their sneers or their despair
When she was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon,
Heartless as the brooks that run?
Sneering said, ‘She has no heart.’
All the youths, with bitter smart,
Sighing said, ‘She has no heart!’
Could she care
For their sneers or their despair
When she was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon,
Heartless as the brooks that run?
But one day whenas she stood
In a wood
Haunted by the fairy brood,
Did she view, or dream she viewed
In a vision's
Wild misprisions,
How a pedlar, dry and rude
As a crook'd branch taking flesh,
Caught the spirit in a mesh,
Singing of—‘What is't ye lack?’
Wizard-pack
On twisted back,
Still he sang, ‘What is't ye lack?
In a wood
Haunted by the fairy brood,
Did she view, or dream she viewed
In a vision's
Wild misprisions,
217
As a crook'd branch taking flesh,
Caught the spirit in a mesh,
Singing of—‘What is't ye lack?’
Wizard-pack
On twisted back,
Still he sang, ‘What is't ye lack?
‘Lack ye land or lack ye gold,
What I give, I give unsold;
Lack ye wisdom, lack ye beauty,
To your suit he
Gives unpaid, the pedlar old!’
Fairies.
What I give, I give unsold;
Lack ye wisdom, lack ye beauty,
To your suit he
Gives unpaid, the pedlar old!’
Beware, beware! the gifts he gives
One pays for, sweetheart, while one lives
Elsie.
What is it the maidens say
That I lack?
Pedlar.
By this bright day
Can so fair a maiden lack?
Maid so sweet
Should be complete.
Elsie.
Yet a thing rhey say I lack.
In thy pack,—
Pedlar, tell—
Hast thou ever a heart to sell?
218
Yea, a heart I have, as tender
As the mood of evening air.
Elsie.
Name thy price!
Pedlar.
The price, by Sorrow!
Only is, the heart to wear.
Elsie.
Not great the price, as was my fear.
Fairies.
So cheap a price was ne'er so dear.
Beware, beware,
O rash and fair!
The gifts he gives,
Sweetheart, one pays for while one lives!
Beware, beware,
O rash and fair!
The gifts he gives,
Sweetheart, one pays for while one lives!
Scarce the present did she take,
When the heart began to ache.
When the heart began to ache.
Elsie.
Ah, what is this? Take back thy gift!
I had not, and I knew no lack;
Now I have, I lack for ever!
Fairies.
The gifts he gives, he takes not back.
219
Ah! why the present did I take,
And knew not that a heart would ache?
Fairies.
Ache! and is that all thy sorrow?—
Beware, beware—a heart will break!
220
THE FAIR INCONSTANT
Dost thou still hope thou shalt be fair,
When no more fair to me?
Or those that by thee taken were
Hold their captivity?
Is this thy confidence? No, no;
Trust it not; it can not be so.
When no more fair to me?
Or those that by thee taken were
Hold their captivity?
Is this thy confidence? No, no;
Trust it not; it can not be so.
But thou too late, too late shalt find
'Twas I that made thee fair;
Thy beauties never from thy mind
But from my loving were;
And those delights that did thee stole
Confessed the vicinage of my soul.
'Twas I that made thee fair;
Thy beauties never from thy mind
But from my loving were;
And those delights that did thee stole
Confessed the vicinage of my soul.
The rosy reflex of my heart
Did thy pale cheek attire;
And what I was, not what thou art,
Did gazers-on admire.
Go, and too late thou shalt confess
I looked thee into loveliness!
Did thy pale cheek attire;
And what I was, not what thou art,
Did gazers-on admire.
Go, and too late thou shalt confess
I looked thee into loveliness!
221
THE HOUSE OF SORROWS
I.
Of the white purity
They wrought my wedding-dress,
Inwoven silverly—
For tears, as I do guess.
Oh, why did they with tears inweave my marriage-dress?
They wrought my wedding-dress,
Inwoven silverly—
For tears, as I do guess.
Oh, why did they with tears inweave my marriage-dress?
A girl, I did espouse
Destiny, grief, and fears;
The love of Austria's house
And its ancestral years
I learned; and my salt eyes grew erudite in tears.
Destiny, grief, and fears;
The love of Austria's house
And its ancestral years
I learned; and my salt eyes grew erudite in tears.
Devote our tragic line—
One to his rebel's aim,
One to his ignorant brine,
One to the eyeless flame:
Who should be skilled to weep but I, O Christ's dear Dame?
One to his rebel's aim,
One to his ignorant brine,
One to the eyeless flame:
Who should be skilled to weep but I, O Christ's dear Dame?
222
Give one more to the fire,
One more for water keep:
O Death, wilt thou not tire?
Still Austria must thou reap?
Can I have plummetless tears, that still thou bidd'st ‘Weep, weep!’?
One more for water keep:
O Death, wilt thou not tire?
Still Austria must thou reap?
Can I have plummetless tears, that still thou bidd'st ‘Weep, weep!’?
No—thou at length with me
Too far, Dark Fool, hast gone!
One costly cruelty
Voids thy dominion:
I am drained to the uttermost tear: O Rudolph, O my son!
Too far, Dark Fool, hast gone!
One costly cruelty
Voids thy dominion:
I am drained to the uttermost tear: O Rudolph, O my son!
Take this woof of sorrows,
Son of all Women's Tears!
I am not for the morrows,
I am dead with the dead years.
Lo, I vest Thee, Christ, with my woven tears!
Son of all Women's Tears!
I am not for the morrows,
I am dead with the dead years.
Lo, I vest Thee, Christ, with my woven tears!
My bridal wreath take thou,
Mary! Take Thou, O Christ,
My bridal garment! Now
Is all my fate sufficed,
And, robed and garlanded, the victim sacrificed.
Mary! Take Thou, O Christ,
My bridal garment! Now
Is all my fate sufficed,
And, robed and garlanded, the victim sacrificed.
II
The Son of Weeping heard,
The gift benignly saw;
The Women's Pitier heard.
Together, by hid law,
The life-gashed heart, the assassin's healing poniard, draw.
The gift benignly saw;
The Women's Pitier heard.
223
The life-gashed heart, the assassin's healing poniard, draw.
Too long that consummation
The obdurate seasons thwart;
Too long were the sharp consolation
And her breast apart;—
The remedy of steel has gone home to her sick heart.
The obdurate seasons thwart;
Too long were the sharp consolation
And her breast apart;—
The remedy of steel has gone home to her sick heart.
Her breast, dishabited,
Revealed, her heart above,
A little blot of red,—
Death's reverent sign to approve
He had sealed up that royal tomb of martyred love.
Revealed, her heart above,
A little blot of red,—
Death's reverent sign to approve
He had sealed up that royal tomb of martyred love.
Now, Death, if thou wouldst show
Some ruth still left in store,
Guide thou the armèd blow
To strike one bosom more,
Where any blow were pity, to this it struck before!
Some ruth still left in store,
Guide thou the armèd blow
To strike one bosom more,
Where any blow were pity, to this it struck before!
In the opening stanzas the Empress Elizabeth of Austria addresses first Our Lady, then the ‘Dark Fool’ Death, and finally the Son of Sorrows, in allusion to the griefs of her own and her husband's line: the shooting of Maximilian of Mexico, her sister's burning at the Paris Bazar de la Charité, the drowning of the Archduke John and of the mad King of Bavaria, and the tragedy of the Crown Prince Rudolph. Her own assassination was the immediate occasion of these verses; and the traditional offering of her wedding-wreath to a Madonna-shrine and the making of her wedding-gown into priestly vestments elucidate other references in the text.
224
INSENTIENCE
O sweet is Love, and sweet is Lack!
But is there any charm
When Lack from round the neck of Love
Drops her languid arm?
But is there any charm
When Lack from round the neck of Love
Drops her languid arm?
Weary, I no longer love,
Weary, no more lack;
O for a pang, that listless Loss
Might wake, and, with a playmate's voice,
Call the tired Love back!
Weary, no more lack;
O for a pang, that listless Loss
Might wake, and, with a playmate's voice,
Call the tired Love back!
225
ENVOY
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow.
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchasèd with sorrow.
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchasèd with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way:
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.
| The works of Francis Thompson | |