Poems with Fables in Prose By Frederic Herbert Trench |
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 | Poems with Fables in Prose |  |
III
Therefore we hail him, wingèd poet undated,
Backward-gazer, seer Chaldean belated,
Hymning Terror and Chaos, as Earth in her vagrance
Leaves long behind her in space wild tresses of fragrance,—
Hymning all wonder, as momently grey Earth breaketh
Still into spaces new, and new-eyed awaketh!
Backward-gazer, seer Chaldean belated,
Hymning Terror and Chaos, as Earth in her vagrance
Leaves long behind her in space wild tresses of fragrance,—
Hymning all wonder, as momently grey Earth breaketh
Still into spaces new, and new-eyed awaketh!
He floats in the ivory boat he hath carven for pleasure,
On, down a faery gorge, as one treads a measure,
Bound for the paradise still where his heart hath treasure.
Deep-wombed valleys delight him, ambrosial clouded,
Clear streams wan with lilies and forestshrouded,
Walled by autumnal mountains, all sunsetlustred,
Streams that mirror the cypress, dark, cedarclustered.
On, down a faery gorge, as one treads a measure,
Bound for the paradise still where his heart hath treasure.
Deep-wombed valleys delight him, ambrosial clouded,
Clear streams wan with lilies and forestshrouded,
71
Streams that mirror the cypress, dark, cedarclustered.
Down the mid-flood he bears through a vaporous Rhineland
Borne in his plumèd shallop by pool and vineland
(Strange and phantasmal country!) by towers enchanted
Ablaze with his enemies' souls or by demons haunted.
Broideries droop no longer from keep or casement,
Ruins honeycombed with horror and foul abasement.
Rats swim off in the water—dead shoulders welter—
Cold on the bulwark, lo, a dead hand craves shelter.
No, he must hasten past, this poet unfriended,
He, too, is shelterless, cold, till this voyage be ended.
Borne in his plumèd shallop by pool and vineland
(Strange and phantasmal country!) by towers enchanted
Ablaze with his enemies' souls or by demons haunted.
Broideries droop no longer from keep or casement,
Ruins honeycombed with horror and foul abasement.
Rats swim off in the water—dead shoulders welter—
Cold on the bulwark, lo, a dead hand craves shelter.
No, he must hasten past, this poet unfriended,
He, too, is shelterless, cold, till this voyage be ended.
Melodies dark he sings, low-toned, melancholy,
He, too, has wrestled with Gods in his radiant folly,
He, too, has felt the breath of passion too near him,
Still the lost ecstasy clings, and lost arms ensphere him.
O high houses crumbling down to the water,
He seeks one lost and gone, the heaven's wise daughter!
Named under many names, although none recalls her—
Ligeia or Berenice, ah, what befalls her?
He, too, has wrestled with Gods in his radiant folly,
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Still the lost ecstasy clings, and lost arms ensphere him.
O high houses crumbling down to the water,
He seeks one lost and gone, the heaven's wise daughter!
Named under many names, although none recalls her—
Ligeia or Berenice, ah, what befalls her?
Valleys and forests and cities that Time enchanteth,
Have they not marked her passing for whom he panteth?
“None hath gone by, O Genius serene and sombre!
Whom dost thou still pursue, through waking and slumber?”
“I seek one face alone on my soul's arrival
At Hades' glimmering wharves, one divine survival!”
“Lo! thy lost one is she, who in airs above thee
Urges thy faery sail with the lips that love thee!
She takes thy sore heart hence, and shall heal its bruises
Far in the deathless country, the land of Muses. . . .”
Have they not marked her passing for whom he panteth?
“None hath gone by, O Genius serene and sombre!
Whom dost thou still pursue, through waking and slumber?”
“I seek one face alone on my soul's arrival
At Hades' glimmering wharves, one divine survival!”
“Lo! thy lost one is she, who in airs above thee
Urges thy faery sail with the lips that love thee!
She takes thy sore heart hence, and shall heal its bruises
Far in the deathless country, the land of Muses. . . .”
| Poems with Fables in Prose | |