The new minnesinger and other poems By Arran Leigh [i.e. K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper] |
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THE NEW MINNESINGER.
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 | The new minnesinger and other poems |  |
1
THE NEW MINNESINGER.
(‘Think of womanhood; and thou to be a woman.’)
O Woman, all too long by thee
Love's praises have been heard;
But thou to swell the minstrelsy
Hast brought no wealth'ning word.
Thou who its sweetest sweet canst tell
Heart-trainèd to the tongue,
Hast listen'd to its music well
But never led the song!
The world, through countless ages roll'd,
Hath given us but in part,
But in tradition faintly told
The love-lore of thine heart.
Long hath the study been pursued,
Nay, ere his brain began
Its toil and tent solicitude,
It was essayed of man.
And all of it that he can con,
With toil and study true,
He hath deep-mus'd and thought upon,
Mislearnt, and learnt anew;
Till losing through confusèd will
The grace, the touch divine,
His own too worldly-busy skill
Hath wrought his art's decline.
Dear, Eden-dated, heavenly art,
Ne'er doom'd of God to fall,
These woman-lips, so slow to part,
Thy glory shall recall!
Love's praises have been heard;
But thou to swell the minstrelsy
Hast brought no wealth'ning word.
Thou who its sweetest sweet canst tell
Heart-trainèd to the tongue,
Hast listen'd to its music well
But never led the song!
2
Hath given us but in part,
But in tradition faintly told
The love-lore of thine heart.
Long hath the study been pursued,
Nay, ere his brain began
Its toil and tent solicitude,
It was essayed of man.
And all of it that he can con,
With toil and study true,
He hath deep-mus'd and thought upon,
Mislearnt, and learnt anew;
Till losing through confusèd will
The grace, the touch divine,
His own too worldly-busy skill
Hath wrought his art's decline.
Dear, Eden-dated, heavenly art,
Ne'er doom'd of God to fall,
These woman-lips, so slow to part,
Thy glory shall recall!
Yes, Woman, she whose life doth lie
In virgin haunts of poesie,—
How have men woven into creeds
The unrecorded life she leads!
What she hath been to them, oh, well
The whole sweet legend they can tell;
But what she to herself may be
They see not, or but dream they see.
Content with what they touch and feel,
As from a violet we steal
Its sweet heart-odour; thinking so
That we its inmost being know;
And never learn what to the flower
Hath been the springtide's op'ning hour;
What winds have whisper'd, what the dew
Hath spoken, how the heaven's blue
Smil'd promise, when the timid thing,
Leaf-folded, dream'd of blossoming.
In virgin haunts of poesie,—
3
The unrecorded life she leads!
What she hath been to them, oh, well
The whole sweet legend they can tell;
But what she to herself may be
They see not, or but dream they see.
Content with what they touch and feel,
As from a violet we steal
Its sweet heart-odour; thinking so
That we its inmost being know;
And never learn what to the flower
Hath been the springtide's op'ning hour;
What winds have whisper'd, what the dew
Hath spoken, how the heaven's blue
Smil'd promise, when the timid thing,
Leaf-folded, dream'd of blossoming.
Yet it were worth our while to know
How fare the flowers before they blow;
To learn the low-breath'd life that's past
In snowy may-blooms, shut so fast.
Mid soothings of soft shaded light,
Warm creeping through the curtain'd white,
What deep security! what calm!
What fragrance of close-petall'd balm!
But slowly do the leaves unfold,
And chang'd the flower when we behold;
As chang'd as maiden in her prime
From that dim, early-growing time
When, happy with herself at play,
Amid warm nestling hopes she lay—
Such blameless hopes! they did not shoot
Like older hopes from sorrow's root;
No sharpen'd blast of outer breath
Brought to their promise blight or death;
But op'ning in the very air
That wooed their buds, they blossom'd fair.
Ah, would she but to us rehearse
Her first girl-life in April verse—
A fairer spring-tide would be ours
Than e'er across the woodland flowers.
How fare the flowers before they blow;
To learn the low-breath'd life that's past
In snowy may-blooms, shut so fast.
Mid soothings of soft shaded light,
Warm creeping through the curtain'd white,
4
What fragrance of close-petall'd balm!
But slowly do the leaves unfold,
And chang'd the flower when we behold;
As chang'd as maiden in her prime
From that dim, early-growing time
When, happy with herself at play,
Amid warm nestling hopes she lay—
Such blameless hopes! they did not shoot
Like older hopes from sorrow's root;
No sharpen'd blast of outer breath
Brought to their promise blight or death;
But op'ning in the very air
That wooed their buds, they blossom'd fair.
Ah, would she but to us rehearse
Her first girl-life in April verse—
A fairer spring-tide would be ours
Than e'er across the woodland flowers.
And those first dreams of dawning told,
While yet the sky is paly gold,
And she half-slumb'ring—will she then
Tell of that spirit-wakening, when
O'er her soft opal heaven is shed
Love's first faint flush of morning red?
Yes, will she to the world disclose,
Not the fair seeming and the shows,
The pretty masks that still she wears,
The wiles, the Eve-descended airs;
But will she ever give us part
Of the deep workings of her heart,
When suddenly she finds before
Its all unheeded, open door
A stranger, clad in pilgrim weeds,
Whose homeless state and simple needs
Ask courtesy and kindly care,
Which he wins of her unaware,
Meek suppliant! and then reveals
The lofty rank her roof conceals,
And urges secrecy, and lays
Constraint on all her guileless ways?
Her free, frank life she puts aside,
Careful her kingly charge to hide,
And guessing dimly thro' her fear
How the new durance groweth dear;
Tho' angry thoughts hot protest make,
Sore questioning why she should take
In her unquiet heart to rest
This captive, regnant, royal guest,
Who must be homaged, must be hid,
Till, conscience-goaded, conscience-chid,
Almost she wishes him away,
Almost she could her trust betray,
Then closer shuts the house, lest e'en
A peep of treasonous thought be seen.
While yet the sky is paly gold,
And she half-slumb'ring—will she then
Tell of that spirit-wakening, when
5
Love's first faint flush of morning red?
Yes, will she to the world disclose,
Not the fair seeming and the shows,
The pretty masks that still she wears,
The wiles, the Eve-descended airs;
But will she ever give us part
Of the deep workings of her heart,
When suddenly she finds before
Its all unheeded, open door
A stranger, clad in pilgrim weeds,
Whose homeless state and simple needs
Ask courtesy and kindly care,
Which he wins of her unaware,
Meek suppliant! and then reveals
The lofty rank her roof conceals,
And urges secrecy, and lays
Constraint on all her guileless ways?
Her free, frank life she puts aside,
Careful her kingly charge to hide,
And guessing dimly thro' her fear
How the new durance groweth dear;
6
Sore questioning why she should take
In her unquiet heart to rest
This captive, regnant, royal guest,
Who must be homaged, must be hid,
Till, conscience-goaded, conscience-chid,
Almost she wishes him away,
Almost she could her trust betray,
Then closer shuts the house, lest e'en
A peep of treasonous thought be seen.
And may we learn the bliss, the pride,
When she's no longer forc'd to hide
Her secret sovereign, but when he
May in full daylight thronèd be;
When with a very little thing—
The mother's kiss, the troth plight ring—
Her guilty wonderment, her dread
Of secret chamber'd thoughts, is fled.
No longer of her love afraid,
Her narrow prison-cell new made
To sainted chapel, now she ne'er
Need cease from service and from prayer;
Sweet worship there she offers:—praise,
Full pomp of rite on holy days,
And quietly, when none are by,
Pours out her heart's idolatry;
And feeds the lamp, and tends the flower,
Meek vigil keeps at midnight hour,
And joins with matin chimes the throng
She worships openly among.
When she's no longer forc'd to hide
Her secret sovereign, but when he
May in full daylight thronèd be;
When with a very little thing—
The mother's kiss, the troth plight ring—
Her guilty wonderment, her dread
Of secret chamber'd thoughts, is fled.
No longer of her love afraid,
Her narrow prison-cell new made
To sainted chapel, now she ne'er
Need cease from service and from prayer;
7
Full pomp of rite on holy days,
And quietly, when none are by,
Pours out her heart's idolatry;
And feeds the lamp, and tends the flower,
Meek vigil keeps at midnight hour,
And joins with matin chimes the throng
She worships openly among.
And, when soul-summon'd, at the last
She bids farewell to all her past,
Oh, may we stand to see her start
On those strange travels of the heart,
When, growing restless, ill at ease,
In homely Ur of the Chaldees,
She turns, most Abraham-like, to go
To a far country he will show
Who is her Promise, Covenant, Call;
For whom she leaves her girlhood, all
The happy plains and pastures sweet
Fleck'd with the track of childhood's feet,
Fragrant with all the bliss that she
Hath known from earliest infancy;
Her goal, where he directs alone;
She leaves the lov'd, familiar, known,
For rose-lit rims of hills that gleam
On far horizons half in dream.
She bids farewell to all her past,
Oh, may we stand to see her start
On those strange travels of the heart,
When, growing restless, ill at ease,
In homely Ur of the Chaldees,
She turns, most Abraham-like, to go
To a far country he will show
Who is her Promise, Covenant, Call;
For whom she leaves her girlhood, all
The happy plains and pastures sweet
Fleck'd with the track of childhood's feet,
Fragrant with all the bliss that she
Hath known from earliest infancy;
8
She leaves the lov'd, familiar, known,
For rose-lit rims of hills that gleam
On far horizons half in dream.
She goes, and God her path doth bless,
Her faith is counted righteousness.
She goes to pilgrim's fare and pain,
To woe and loss, and endless gain,
To doubt, misgiving, gladsome cheer,
High hope, and sudden blight of fear:
She goes, oh, not to heavenly peace,
Calm settlement, and toil's surcease,
But fierce, strange peoples to withstand
Even within the Promised Land:
She goes a worship high to hold
'Mong brazen bulls and calves of gold,
To break down many an idol show,
To suffer much, and much forego,
Nor haply, e'er her sun decline,
To sit beneath the promised vine.
Yet not for years in sorrow spent
Will she a moment's span repent
That Faith's fair prowess made her dare
Claim that untravers'd country, where
(As she sweet Canaan's conqueror knows)
Alone life's milk and honey flows.
Her faith is counted righteousness.
She goes to pilgrim's fare and pain,
To woe and loss, and endless gain,
To doubt, misgiving, gladsome cheer,
High hope, and sudden blight of fear:
She goes, oh, not to heavenly peace,
Calm settlement, and toil's surcease,
But fierce, strange peoples to withstand
Even within the Promised Land:
She goes a worship high to hold
'Mong brazen bulls and calves of gold,
To break down many an idol show,
To suffer much, and much forego,
Nor haply, e'er her sun decline,
To sit beneath the promised vine.
Yet not for years in sorrow spent
Will she a moment's span repent
9
Claim that untravers'd country, where
(As she sweet Canaan's conqueror knows)
Alone life's milk and honey flows.
Lone songs of girlhood, loftier lays,
Rich-noted, fuller-toned, to praise
The life new-margin'd, flowing wide
With a fresh water's mingling tide,
We ask of her; and then we call
For a new song most sweet of all—
A Song of Songs! but can it be,
O Earth, long list'ning Earth, that she
Hath hushed thy children's cries so long,
Nor given the world one cradle song!
Yea, even thus. All mothers know
Those brooding notes, those wailings low
That our new wearied mother Eve,
Her nursing daughterhood did leave—
Half sighs, and half caresses! still
Their faint, sad music seems to fill
Our childhood's air, as woodland breeze
Melodious with the minstrel trees;
But still poor broken lays, that bring
Scant glory to the love they sing.
That tell how woman's love doth make
Herself a child for children's sake:
Full of vain babblings, murmurings vain,
And snatches of too fond refrain;
But of that vaster love and deep
That lies about a baby's sleep,
That gives the heart prophetic fire,
Deep-passion'd prayers, and high desire—
Of these soul-reachings in no wise
We learn through earth's old lullabies.
Rich-noted, fuller-toned, to praise
The life new-margin'd, flowing wide
With a fresh water's mingling tide,
We ask of her; and then we call
For a new song most sweet of all—
A Song of Songs! but can it be,
O Earth, long list'ning Earth, that she
Hath hushed thy children's cries so long,
Nor given the world one cradle song!
Yea, even thus. All mothers know
Those brooding notes, those wailings low
That our new wearied mother Eve,
Her nursing daughterhood did leave—
Half sighs, and half caresses! still
Their faint, sad music seems to fill
Our childhood's air, as woodland breeze
Melodious with the minstrel trees;
10
Scant glory to the love they sing.
That tell how woman's love doth make
Herself a child for children's sake:
Full of vain babblings, murmurings vain,
And snatches of too fond refrain;
But of that vaster love and deep
That lies about a baby's sleep,
That gives the heart prophetic fire,
Deep-passion'd prayers, and high desire—
Of these soul-reachings in no wise
We learn through earth's old lullabies.
O Woman, can she e'er complain
Of straiten'd lot in song's domain,
Having as dower of highest good
The whole wide realm of motherhood?
Having on human souls a claim
That through all ages is the same:
No newer love can thrust aside,
No sad soul-wand'ring e'er divide.
From the first promise and the pain
Her children ever hers remain;
Most hers, when children's children show
How far the sacred fire can glow,
And lips, new-bath'd in mother's bliss,
Return the primal mother's kiss.
Of straiten'd lot in song's domain,
Having as dower of highest good
The whole wide realm of motherhood?
Having on human souls a claim
That through all ages is the same:
No newer love can thrust aside,
No sad soul-wand'ring e'er divide.
From the first promise and the pain
Her children ever hers remain;
11
How far the sacred fire can glow,
And lips, new-bath'd in mother's bliss,
Return the primal mother's kiss.
Fain would we listen to her song,
Her tender nursling flowers among:
Voice of the turtle would we hear
The fragrant lily-fields anear.
Fresh from the wild woods, with the scent
Of purest life her being's blent;
And yet with all that nature sweet
Blooming, rich scatter'd, at her feet,
Scarcely one flower-bud will she sing
Of all its countless blossoming.
Unchronicled her native bliss,
All spoil of travel she must miss.
The poet learns at home his art,
Woos it and weds, and if he part,
'Tis but, as traveller's wont, to yearn
O'er the lost pleasures and return;
But she, heart-errant, doth not prize
The fair realms where her queendom lies;
Courts empery in higher place,
Asks broader paths, and ampler space;
And seeks among life's busy throng
A swifter cadence to her song
Than e'er can tune itself to lays
Sung by life's bracken-hinder'd ways.
Her tender nursling flowers among:
Voice of the turtle would we hear
The fragrant lily-fields anear.
Fresh from the wild woods, with the scent
Of purest life her being's blent;
And yet with all that nature sweet
Blooming, rich scatter'd, at her feet,
Scarcely one flower-bud will she sing
Of all its countless blossoming.
Unchronicled her native bliss,
All spoil of travel she must miss.
The poet learns at home his art,
Woos it and weds, and if he part,
'Tis but, as traveller's wont, to yearn
O'er the lost pleasures and return;
But she, heart-errant, doth not prize
The fair realms where her queendom lies;
12
Asks broader paths, and ampler space;
And seeks among life's busy throng
A swifter cadence to her song
Than e'er can tune itself to lays
Sung by life's bracken-hinder'd ways.
And if, we ask it with a sigh,
The time, the happy time's gone by
When she, home-homag'd, must be known
By household gift and grace alone;
If she must sing of other theme
Than Love, or waking or in dream,
Yet must she harbour none the less
Care of her ancient blessedness.
Sage-sued, world-beckon'd, she must be
Full woman: lifted to a free
And fellow-life with man. No more
Must she creep dumbly as of yore
Adown the ages; but her word
Must, as man's echo, ne'er be heard.
How high soe'er her thought may reach
Still it must flow through woman's speech
In woman's fashion; only so
Can the twinn'd lives unhind'ring grow.
The woman's way—we count her blame—
Must be her glory-crown, her fame:
And far in after ages, when
She shares life's loftier toil with men,
Oh, never must she cast aside
Her early grace through growing pride,
Nor, foreign-cultur'd, leave behind
The native instincts of her kind!
Chosen by Nature's self to be
A consecrated ministry,
All needful knowledge to impart
In the fair scriptures of the heart,
Aye must she count her priestly name
Outhonours every earthly fame;
And whatsoe'er new gain she reap,
What realm encloseth, ever keep
All things subservient to the good
Of pure, free-growing womanhood.
The time, the happy time's gone by
When she, home-homag'd, must be known
By household gift and grace alone;
If she must sing of other theme
Than Love, or waking or in dream,
Yet must she harbour none the less
Care of her ancient blessedness.
Sage-sued, world-beckon'd, she must be
Full woman: lifted to a free
And fellow-life with man. No more
Must she creep dumbly as of yore
Adown the ages; but her word
Must, as man's echo, ne'er be heard.
How high soe'er her thought may reach
Still it must flow through woman's speech
13
Can the twinn'd lives unhind'ring grow.
The woman's way—we count her blame—
Must be her glory-crown, her fame:
And far in after ages, when
She shares life's loftier toil with men,
Oh, never must she cast aside
Her early grace through growing pride,
Nor, foreign-cultur'd, leave behind
The native instincts of her kind!
Chosen by Nature's self to be
A consecrated ministry,
All needful knowledge to impart
In the fair scriptures of the heart,
Aye must she count her priestly name
Outhonours every earthly fame;
And whatsoe'er new gain she reap,
What realm encloseth, ever keep
All things subservient to the good
Of pure, free-growing womanhood.
| The new minnesinger and other poems | |