 | Autumn songs (1889) |  |
46
TO LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD
I dread the Sonnet, whose insidious tonesAllure, and captivate, and lull to sleep
The wingèd steed! No siren of the Deep
Singing to whit'ning harp of dead men's bones
Discourseth sweeter strains, yet are the moans
Of disembodied ghosts, or winds that sweep
The woodlands bare, less sad than these, that keep
The soul in thrall, and turn its bread to stones.
My Muse would wake to larger life, and slip
Such prison bonds,—eager to soar and sing
High with the carolling lark,—or, all as free,
Chirp with the sparrow;—with the swallow dip
To Earth's green breast, or roam,—on wider wing,
To undiscovered countries over-sea.
61
THE THISTLE-DOWN.
Once, so it chanced, a wind-blown thistle-down
That floated,—aimless, over English fields
Of corn and clover,—came to where a train
Was speeding swiftly to a sea-port town,
Whence travellers embark for far-off lands.
The rush of wild commotion in the air
Involved the seedling in its headlong course,
That,—at an open window entering in
Was likewise hurried sea-ward. But before
Its fellow travellers had gained the coast
Within some fold or wrappage of their goods
It found itself entrapped, and so constrained
To put to sea with them against its will
And seek the Far Unknown.
That floated,—aimless, over English fields
Of corn and clover,—came to where a train
Was speeding swiftly to a sea-port town,
Whence travellers embark for far-off lands.
The rush of wild commotion in the air
Involved the seedling in its headlong course,
That,—at an open window entering in
Was likewise hurried sea-ward. But before
Its fellow travellers had gained the coast
Within some fold or wrappage of their goods
It found itself entrapped, and so constrained
To put to sea with them against its will
And seek the Far Unknown.
There, on an Isle
Where all was new, and strange, and unforeseen,
Its prison bonds were loosed, and forth it flew
To wander over unfamiliar fields,
Where, finally, self-sown, it grew and bloomed
Amongst an alien race of plants and men
That wist not whether it was weed or flow'r.
Now if, as some will have it, plants can feel,—
Not poignantly,—but in some tempered sense
Absorb emotions kindred to our own,—
Or thrill with memories,—then this lonely thing
May well have felt,—in sad regretful mood,
The faint sweet echoing of village bells
Go tingling to its core.—The lowing kine,
The fox-glove, dock, and burdock,—neighbours once,—
The purple willow-weed that masked the stream
In cool green meadows by its English home,
Not wholly unremember'd, may have left
Their impress,—vague, yet ineffacable,
Upon its stubborn nature!
Where all was new, and strange, and unforeseen,
Its prison bonds were loosed, and forth it flew
To wander over unfamiliar fields,
62
Amongst an alien race of plants and men
That wist not whether it was weed or flow'r.
Now if, as some will have it, plants can feel,—
Not poignantly,—but in some tempered sense
Absorb emotions kindred to our own,—
Or thrill with memories,—then this lonely thing
May well have felt,—in sad regretful mood,
The faint sweet echoing of village bells
Go tingling to its core.—The lowing kine,
The fox-glove, dock, and burdock,—neighbours once,—
The purple willow-weed that masked the stream
In cool green meadows by its English home,
Not wholly unremember'd, may have left
Their impress,—vague, yet ineffacable,
Upon its stubborn nature!
Even thus
The Poet,—often vexed and out of tune
With his surroundings,—seems to stand apart
And live an inner life, that thrills and teems
With recollections, echoes, images,
Wafted from some far Past he knew not here,—
A Past he knows not,—wholly,—where he knew,—
At times, his waking dreams take form and voice
And seem realities;—His spirit glows
As with consuming fires,—his soul laments
Some sweet lost bow'r,—some unaccomplished dream
Of vanish'd love,—unbounded,—infinite
And all-sufficing.
The Poet,—often vexed and out of tune
With his surroundings,—seems to stand apart
And live an inner life, that thrills and teems
With recollections, echoes, images,
Wafted from some far Past he knew not here,—
A Past he knows not,—wholly,—where he knew,—
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And seem realities;—His spirit glows
As with consuming fires,—his soul laments
Some sweet lost bow'r,—some unaccomplished dream
Of vanish'd love,—unbounded,—infinite
And all-sufficing.
. . . Doth he vex his heart
With self-created woes,—illusions bred
Of an intemperate imagination,
Or, like the thistle-down that cross'd the sea
Is he,—in truth,—some poor transplanted thing,
Set, by mere accident, in foreign soil,
Amongst an alien race? . . .
With self-created woes,—illusions bred
Of an intemperate imagination,
Or, like the thistle-down that cross'd the sea
Is he,—in truth,—some poor transplanted thing,
Set, by mere accident, in foreign soil,
Amongst an alien race? . . .
Wrapped in his dreams
He feeds his fancy, till it spreads and blooms
And runs to seed, whilst but a few of those
Who look and listen, know, or weed from flow'r,
Or flow'r from weed!
He feeds his fancy, till it spreads and blooms
And runs to seed, whilst but a few of those
Who look and listen, know, or weed from flow'r,
Or flow'r from weed!
83
THE IRISH “PATRIOTS.”
(To Wilfrid Scawen Blunt.)
Think you these men seek truly Ireland's ease
From England's yoke;—her front exalted, free,
Amongst the nations ruled by just decree
Of King or Council? . . . Dare you hope that these,—
The things they crave to-day,—could wholly please
Such fretful spirits;—that their eyes could see
The calm that would engulf them; or, maybe,
Two sister-flags,—afloat o'er friendly seas?
Nay! for above the boasted love they bear
Their native Isle;—ay, over and above
The hate they bear the Saxon,—flowers fair,
In genial soil,—another kind of love,—
The love they bear themselves; that this may thrive
It is expedient that they strut and strive!
| Autumn songs (1889) | |