The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
129
II.
When last I saw thee—(following in thy train
Was I)—O would those times might be again!
They were too happy, sweet! and therefore brief,
And withered, like an early budding leaf,
Which, while its cold associates still are seen
Flourishing, having lived its age, (in hours!)
And wasted on the wanton Spring its powers,
Doth die upon its stem of summer green:
Therefore it may not be.—O princely maid!
When last I saw thee, was not promise made
That I should tell my story (all) to thee?
Yes,—we were sitting underneath a tree
Which shook its odours on the Baian waves.
Thou must remember it:—We gazed together
Enchanted by the glassy sea that laves
The Cape and islands, in that sunny weather
Seen plainly from the Pausillippo hill.
Hast thou forgotten how we talked of him
Whose ashes slumber there, holy and still?
From which his name, that never shall grow dim,
Sprang like a lunar glory, gently driven
Across the many-coloured plains of Heaven,
Until, as stars whose glittering toils are o'er,
It sank into its place, and moved no more.
Was I)—O would those times might be again!
They were too happy, sweet! and therefore brief,
And withered, like an early budding leaf,
Which, while its cold associates still are seen
Flourishing, having lived its age, (in hours!)
And wasted on the wanton Spring its powers,
Doth die upon its stem of summer green:
Therefore it may not be.—O princely maid!
When last I saw thee, was not promise made
That I should tell my story (all) to thee?
Yes,—we were sitting underneath a tree
Which shook its odours on the Baian waves.
Thou must remember it:—We gazed together
Enchanted by the glassy sea that laves
The Cape and islands, in that sunny weather
Seen plainly from the Pausillippo hill.
Hast thou forgotten how we talked of him
Whose ashes slumber there, holy and still?
From which his name, that never shall grow dim,
130
Across the many-coloured plains of Heaven,
Until, as stars whose glittering toils are o'er,
It sank into its place, and moved no more.
Now, hearken to my story!—When I came
First to this world, and saw the morning flame
From the grey East, streaking the sky with bars
Of light—(this while the shepherd of the stars,
Great Lucifer, was busied in the West)—
Imaginations strange perplexed my breast,
Like ghosts some ancient house untenanted:
And, after this, pale Learning sowed her seed
Within my memory, and I became
Such as I am. This, and no more, I claim
From the remembrance of my childish time:
Yet 'twas so like the period of my prime
(The interval was nothing,—buried years
Of boyhood,—idle, full of pains, and fears)
That the first germ of what may never bloom
Was born, it seems, in me,—a sweet perfume
Clinging about my birth, and making still
Those years seem sage,—not comprehensible
To me or others; but 'tis often so;
In budding, happiness is likest woe:
Great thought is pain until the strengthen'd mind
Can lift it into light: the soul is blind
Until the suns of years have cleared away
The film that hangeth round its wedded clay.
First to this world, and saw the morning flame
From the grey East, streaking the sky with bars
Of light—(this while the shepherd of the stars,
Great Lucifer, was busied in the West)—
Imaginations strange perplexed my breast,
Like ghosts some ancient house untenanted:
And, after this, pale Learning sowed her seed
Within my memory, and I became
Such as I am. This, and no more, I claim
From the remembrance of my childish time:
Yet 'twas so like the period of my prime
(The interval was nothing,—buried years
Of boyhood,—idle, full of pains, and fears)
That the first germ of what may never bloom
Was born, it seems, in me,—a sweet perfume
Clinging about my birth, and making still
131
To me or others; but 'tis often so;
In budding, happiness is likest woe:
Great thought is pain until the strengthen'd mind
Can lift it into light: the soul is blind
Until the suns of years have cleared away
The film that hangeth round its wedded clay.
Then Love came—Love!—How like a star it streamed
In infancy upon me,—till I dreamed,
And 'twas as pure and almost cold a light,
And led me to the sense of such delight
As children know not; so, at last I grew
Enamoured of beauty and soft pain,
And felt mysterious pleasure wander through
My heart, and animate my childish brain;
And thus I rose (for patient still was I
And a true worshipper)—to poetry.
In infancy upon me,—till I dreamed,
And 'twas as pure and almost cold a light,
And led me to the sense of such delight
As children know not; so, at last I grew
Enamoured of beauty and soft pain,
And felt mysterious pleasure wander through
My heart, and animate my childish brain;
And thus I rose (for patient still was I
And a true worshipper)—to poetry.
Thou radiant spirit of the Muses! never
Will I profane thee with adulterate rhyme:
Love is thy theme, or Glory. Never, never
Will I mix up the cavils of my time
(Things of an instant, which a day disarms
Of worth) or this my petty state's alarms,
Or jealousies, or vulgar tricks of need,
With ‘peerless Poesy,’—a poor base breed
Are they, not children whom the stream of song
Should clasp in its bright arms, as slow along
It winds into Eternity. The theme
Whereon my charmed spirit loves to dream
Is thou,—Queen!—princess of that sunny throne
Seated upon the waters, where alone
The glory of the world is not a name:
Even in Florence it is not the same;
Yet here are woods and rivers, and the swell
Of hills,—the pastoral mead, and lawny dell:
But here lives not the Sea:—The ocean waters
Wander not here, nor lash our sylvan ground,
Making immortal noise, nor sound for sound
Send back to our mountain echoes when the daughters
Of the pine-forests shout in storm and gloom:
And we have not thy skies, nor thy perfume
Winging the azure air,—yet through green vales
Our Arno runs, and where the slope prevails
Clings with bright kisses, till the yielding earth
Gives forth its coloured sweets, a cloudy birth!
Will I profane thee with adulterate rhyme:
Love is thy theme, or Glory. Never, never
132
(Things of an instant, which a day disarms
Of worth) or this my petty state's alarms,
Or jealousies, or vulgar tricks of need,
With ‘peerless Poesy,’—a poor base breed
Are they, not children whom the stream of song
Should clasp in its bright arms, as slow along
It winds into Eternity. The theme
Whereon my charmed spirit loves to dream
Is thou,—Queen!—princess of that sunny throne
Seated upon the waters, where alone
The glory of the world is not a name:
Even in Florence it is not the same;
Yet here are woods and rivers, and the swell
Of hills,—the pastoral mead, and lawny dell:
But here lives not the Sea:—The ocean waters
Wander not here, nor lash our sylvan ground,
Making immortal noise, nor sound for sound
Send back to our mountain echoes when the daughters
Of the pine-forests shout in storm and gloom:
And we have not thy skies, nor thy perfume
Winging the azure air,—yet through green vales
331
Clings with bright kisses, till the yielding earth
Gives forth its coloured sweets, a cloudy birth!
| The Flood of Thessaly | |