 | In Russet & Silver |  |
25
Poems of Experience
27
A TRAGEDY WITHOUT WORDS
Passion no more in these last days requires
The old stock-rant of vows and darts and fires;
We quit the frantic stage, and turn to see
A finer art, a tenderer mimicry,
But find, as through this subtler world we rove,
That, tho' a sworn Carthusian, love is Love.
The old stock-rant of vows and darts and fires;
We quit the frantic stage, and turn to see
A finer art, a tenderer mimicry,
But find, as through this subtler world we rove,
That, tho' a sworn Carthusian, love is Love.
Hear, in a house of peaceful days and nights,
Full of sequestered virtues, cold delights,
How two young souls could, unsuspected, fashion
A long-drawn elfin tragedy of passion.
No vows were made, no sealèd springs were broken,
No kiss was given, no word of love was spoken;
Among calm faces clustered round the fire,
These two played out their drama of desire.
Full of sequestered virtues, cold delights,
How two young souls could, unsuspected, fashion
A long-drawn elfin tragedy of passion.
No vows were made, no sealèd springs were broken,
No kiss was given, no word of love was spoken;
Among calm faces clustered round the fire,
These two played out their drama of desire.
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Who knows what unseen prompter pulled the strings?
What curtain sank and wrapped them round with wings?
Not Bion, not Sebaste! Yet they know
A wild wind drove their spirits to and fro,
Swept by,—and left them, when it passed away,
Two weary actors in a finished play.
What curtain sank and wrapped them round with wings?
Not Bion, not Sebaste! Yet they know
A wild wind drove their spirits to and fro,
Swept by,—and left them, when it passed away,
Two weary actors in a finished play.
Heaven, air, and earth, spectators nothing loth,
Hung at their lips, surmised, and watched them both;
What did the March grey sky divine at length
In that sparse wood where the wind spent its strength?
Each twig of ash, contorted, tipped with black,
Whipped Bion on, and strained him at the rack;
Each primrose, darting from the arms of Death,
Dazzled Sebaste, caught her panting breath;
He plucked a flower, and with a masking jest
Craved leave to lay it on her silken breast;
She laughed, but though they both dissembled well,
One act was over, and the curtain fell.
Hung at their lips, surmised, and watched them both;
What did the March grey sky divine at length
In that sparse wood where the wind spent its strength?
Each twig of ash, contorted, tipped with black,
Whipped Bion on, and strained him at the rack;
Each primrose, darting from the arms of Death,
Dazzled Sebaste, caught her panting breath;
He plucked a flower, and with a masking jest
Craved leave to lay it on her silken breast;
She laughed, but though they both dissembled well,
One act was over, and the curtain fell.
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Now thro' that noiseless house by day and night
The keen electric storm rose to its height.
What beating hearts, what dewy-glistening eyes,
What breathless questions, what demure replies!
The scented twirls of wood-smoke, thin and blue,
Straight to their inmost souls like incense flew;
When the logs fell, they started as from sleep,
Watched o'er the hearth the smouldering ruin creep,
Stole glances, met in lightning, sped apart,—
Each sitting languid with a throbbing heart.
The keen electric storm rose to its height.
What beating hearts, what dewy-glistening eyes,
What breathless questions, what demure replies!
The scented twirls of wood-smoke, thin and blue,
Straight to their inmost souls like incense flew;
When the logs fell, they started as from sleep,
Watched o'er the hearth the smouldering ruin creep,
Stole glances, met in lightning, sped apart,—
Each sitting languid with a throbbing heart.
So runs another act; next morning, see
Another actor, and their parts are three!
That blue-grey form! that rich and jetty throat!
Hark! from a russet breast that liquid note!
How like a flash the redstart's sudden flight
Darts warm with love across Sebaste's sight!
How sleek the wings which back discreetly move,—
Like Bion's thoughts that hover round his love!
The shapely bird, those thorny boughs between,
Pours out his song, a god from a machine,
Folds and unfolds his twinkling tail in sport,
Twits now a challenge, now a brisk retort,
And makes the lover-pair so fiercely glad
That they could die for joy,—they feel so sad.
Another actor, and their parts are three!
That blue-grey form! that rich and jetty throat!
Hark! from a russet breast that liquid note!
How like a flash the redstart's sudden flight
Darts warm with love across Sebaste's sight!
How sleek the wings which back discreetly move,—
Like Bion's thoughts that hover round his love!
The shapely bird, those thorny boughs between,
Pours out his song, a god from a machine,
Folds and unfolds his twinkling tail in sport,
Twits now a challenge, now a brisk retort,
30
That they could die for joy,—they feel so sad.
But when the snow along the woodland crest
Caught them at dusk, their pain was worst and best.
Within Sebaste's heart the flood rose higher,
A keener perfume whirled across the pyre;
She felt his breath along her cheek, and glanced
Sidelong, where on dark air his profile danced;
Her hand lay tingling on his bended arm,
Each finger thrilled to find the sleeve so warm,
While down her shell-pink cheek, severe and pure,
Long lashes drooped with maiden mirth demure.
Caught them at dusk, their pain was worst and best.
Within Sebaste's heart the flood rose higher,
A keener perfume whirled across the pyre;
She felt his breath along her cheek, and glanced
Sidelong, where on dark air his profile danced;
Her hand lay tingling on his bended arm,
Each finger thrilled to find the sleeve so warm,
While down her shell-pink cheek, severe and pure,
Long lashes drooped with maiden mirth demure.
This was the hour! but Bion's swifter heat
Outstepped his pulse, and flung him at her feet,
Tame with excess of boldness just when she
Was ready for the mutual mastery;
The longed-for moment in the sparkling air,
The frost which twinkled in her tawny hair,
The gathering nonchalance in maiden blood,—
All, all were wasted on his flagging mood;
The spent bow twanged not, and 'twas all in vain
Sebaste smiled on his uncouth disdain;
He found no word, till she began to link
A scarlet anger with her white and pink,
And then—'twas worse than none; and dull and wan
Back thro' the whitening woods went maid and man.
Outstepped his pulse, and flung him at her feet,
Tame with excess of boldness just when she
Was ready for the mutual mastery;
The longed-for moment in the sparkling air,
The frost which twinkled in her tawny hair,
The gathering nonchalance in maiden blood,—
All, all were wasted on his flagging mood;
The spent bow twanged not, and 'twas all in vain
Sebaste smiled on his uncouth disdain;
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A scarlet anger with her white and pink,
And then—'twas worse than none; and dull and wan
Back thro' the whitening woods went maid and man.
That night the frosty world was whelmed in rain,
With restless hand wearying the window-pane;
Deep in each silent twilight chamber lay
A heart that weighed the fortunes of the day;
Slowly the blank night wasted; sleep at last
Cooled each loud pulse, and closed each eyelid fast.
With restless hand wearying the window-pane;
Deep in each silent twilight chamber lay
A heart that weighed the fortunes of the day;
Slowly the blank night wasted; sleep at last
Cooled each loud pulse, and closed each eyelid fast.
Sebaste waked; the pale blue sky peeped in
And helped the cool transition to begin;
Within her breast the night's cold seal had set
Its deep conviction, “Better to forget”;
The hour of joyous abnegation past,
The virginal reaction fall'n at last,
She, looking back in wonder at the stir
Of pulses thrilled, held them no part of her,
And pressed her slender wrists with joy to find
Herself restored to her own quiet mind.
And helped the cool transition to begin;
Within her breast the night's cold seal had set
Its deep conviction, “Better to forget”;
The hour of joyous abnegation past,
The virginal reaction fall'n at last,
She, looking back in wonder at the stir
Of pulses thrilled, held them no part of her,
And pressed her slender wrists with joy to find
Herself restored to her own quiet mind.
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Bion, meanwhile, blushing with rage, rehearsed
The uncaptured hour, and his false coldness curst,
Ran o'er the tortures of the dark, and found
No ambush from the archers' stalking ground,—
No ambush except one, the vow to borrow
From last night's weakness strength to win the morrow,
Nor ever battled in so brave a heat
As now, upon the sting of his defeat.
The uncaptured hour, and his false coldness curst,
Ran o'er the tortures of the dark, and found
No ambush from the archers' stalking ground,—
No ambush except one, the vow to borrow
From last night's weakness strength to win the morrow,
Nor ever battled in so brave a heat
As now, upon the sting of his defeat.
They met afar. Loathing his faint disdain,
With passion seven times heated in his brain,
Bion gazed humbly at her distant eyes,
Noted her questions, weighed her light replies,
Marked when she rose, and joined her at the lawn,
Voiceless, by cords of tender longing drawn.
With passion seven times heated in his brain,
Bion gazed humbly at her distant eyes,
Noted her questions, weighed her light replies,
Marked when she rose, and joined her at the lawn,
Voiceless, by cords of tender longing drawn.
Silent they stood; then, thro' their lack of speech
Nature once more revealed them each to each.
Close to their very feet a squirrel came,
With feathery tail whisking his ears of flame,
Seized in pink fingers nuts and shreds of cake,
Then in long leaps raced downward to the lake.
Nature once more revealed them each to each.
Close to their very feet a squirrel came,
With feathery tail whisking his ears of flame,
Seized in pink fingers nuts and shreds of cake,
Then in long leaps raced downward to the lake.
33
Ah! who shall say what bond the creature broke?
What in that moment as in thunder spoke?
Each turned and saw the other's soul unveiled,
Each one the other's secret being scaled;
She read his passion, penitent and wroth,
And pitied,—as a star might watch a moth;
He marked her cold conviction, and fell back,
As slips a boulder on a mountain track.
The play was done, and after one short sigh,
He stretched his hand to her with but “Good-bye!”
She took it, and—such mercy Heaven extends—
Held it one moment longer than a friend's;
Then on the wet bright sward they turned and went
Self-sentenced each to mutual banishment.
What in that moment as in thunder spoke?
Each turned and saw the other's soul unveiled,
Each one the other's secret being scaled;
She read his passion, penitent and wroth,
And pitied,—as a star might watch a moth;
He marked her cold conviction, and fell back,
As slips a boulder on a mountain track.
The play was done, and after one short sigh,
He stretched his hand to her with but “Good-bye!”
She took it, and—such mercy Heaven extends—
Held it one moment longer than a friend's;
Then on the wet bright sward they turned and went
Self-sentenced each to mutual banishment.
34
MANES, THE HERETIC
To J. L., De T.
Dark, dark at last! and this warm tide of scent,—
A west wind in a cedarn element,—
These cold leaves of the lily out of sight,
And the long single ray of sacred light!
A west wind in a cedarn element,—
These cold leaves of the lily out of sight,
And the long single ray of sacred light!
'Tis night, then; I have slept, and o'er my sleep
The soul of love has hovered close and deep.
The soul of love has hovered close and deep.
A bat moves in the porphyry capitals,
And cuts the clear-drawn radiance as it falls;
So man, intruding in his bestial way,
Shears from the lamp of God the heavenly ray.
And cuts the clear-drawn radiance as it falls;
So man, intruding in his bestial way,
Shears from the lamp of God the heavenly ray.
Ah! to my keen and tempered senses rise
The temple-perfumes like a people's cries,—
The cinnamon, a prayer beneath the stars,
Adoring love pulsed from the nenuphars,
Sharp aloes, like a soul that strives with sin,
And myrrh, the song of one all chaste within;
In each I join, on each my spirit flies
To float, a thread of mist, along the skies.
The temple-perfumes like a people's cries,—
The cinnamon, a prayer beneath the stars,
Adoring love pulsed from the nenuphars,
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And myrrh, the song of one all chaste within;
In each I join, on each my spirit flies
To float, a thread of mist, along the skies.
By every way we soar to God's abode,
But rising perfumes pave the smoothest road.
But rising perfumes pave the smoothest road.
Hail! Soul of all things, parted, yet not lost,
One sea of myriad breakers torn and tost,
One river eastward, westward, northward bent
And branching through a monstrous continent,
Yet drawn at last by every winding road
Down to that noiseless marish which is God!
Thou art the wind that like a player's hand
Strikes out harp-music where these columns stand,
Thou art the small hushed cry of crisp dry life
The terebinth gives beneath the carver's knife,
And the soft alabaster sighs for thee
When the pale sculptor shreds it on his knee.
One sea of myriad breakers torn and tost,
One river eastward, westward, northward bent
And branching through a monstrous continent,
Yet drawn at last by every winding road
Down to that noiseless marish which is God!
Thou art the wind that like a player's hand
Strikes out harp-music where these columns stand,
Thou art the small hushed cry of crisp dry life
The terebinth gives beneath the carver's knife,
And the soft alabaster sighs for thee
When the pale sculptor shreds it on his knee.
I pluck these fig-leaves, broad, and smooth as silk,
And godhead weeps from them in tears of milk;
I catch those fish of glimmering fin and tail,
And godhead sparkles from each fading scale.
I draw the Indian curtain from my bed,
And Thou the lustrous arch above my head;
It falls in folds, and this one beam I see,
O tender heavenly Light, is trebly Thee!
And godhead weeps from them in tears of milk;
I catch those fish of glimmering fin and tail,
And godhead sparkles from each fading scale.
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And Thou the lustrous arch above my head;
It falls in folds, and this one beam I see,
O tender heavenly Light, is trebly Thee!
Ah! Thou, invoked by many a mystic sign,
Bend hither from thy secret crystalline,
O'er thy twin angels' arms be seen to move,
Let Light and Perfume teach me Thou art Love.
In this dusk world of scentless, hueless man
My soul once heard thee, and to light it ran,
Shot leaf and bud from out its watery bed,
And in adoring fragrance thee-ward spread.
Then thy soft ray, ineffable, divine,
Flushed my cold petals with ecstatic wine,
The pistils trembled, and the stamens flew
Straight to the centre, where their god they knew,
Clung quivering there, enkindled and a-glow,
Sank, big with blessing, on the leaves below;
I bowed,—and, deep within my soul I found
A fount of balm for dying worlds around.
Bend hither from thy secret crystalline,
O'er thy twin angels' arms be seen to move,
Let Light and Perfume teach me Thou art Love.
In this dusk world of scentless, hueless man
My soul once heard thee, and to light it ran,
Shot leaf and bud from out its watery bed,
And in adoring fragrance thee-ward spread.
Then thy soft ray, ineffable, divine,
Flushed my cold petals with ecstatic wine,
The pistils trembled, and the stamens flew
Straight to the centre, where their god they knew,
Clung quivering there, enkindled and a-glow,
Sank, big with blessing, on the leaves below;
I bowed,—and, deep within my soul I found
A fount of balm for dying worlds around.
And now, within the temple they have built,
I live to expiate a nation's guilt;
To me they blindly pray, I handing on
To Thee the essence of each orison.
I live to expiate a nation's guilt;
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To Thee the essence of each orison.
I bask within one narrow'd beam all day,
And sleep all night within this single ray;
While, like the sound of many an instrument,
Floats round me ever this rich tide of scent.
So may I live till all my dreams are o'er,
Then on a shaft of radiance upward soar,
Fade as a thread of dew the sun draws up,
And, kindled high in heaven's inverted cup,
Like some aroma melt into the sense
Of Thy supine and cold omnipotence.
And sleep all night within this single ray;
While, like the sound of many an instrument,
Floats round me ever this rich tide of scent.
So may I live till all my dreams are o'er,
Then on a shaft of radiance upward soar,
Fade as a thread of dew the sun draws up,
And, kindled high in heaven's inverted cup,
Like some aroma melt into the sense
Of Thy supine and cold omnipotence.
38
THE NEW MEMNON
To A. L.
When with hammers of iron Cambyses had broken
The statue of Memnon that sang to the sun,
And the desolate marble no longer gave token
That twilight was ended and dawn had begun,
The priesthood who long had been punctual and choral
To wait on their god as the stars waned away,
Drowsed on in their beds while the clouds flushed auroral,
Or droned in the desecrate temple of Day.
The statue of Memnon that sang to the sun,
And the desolate marble no longer gave token
That twilight was ended and dawn had begun,
The priesthood who long had been punctual and choral
To wait on their god as the stars waned away,
Drowsed on in their beds while the clouds flushed auroral,
Or droned in the desecrate temple of Day.
So the slow wave of fashion ebbed down from the wonder,
And worshippers failed at the bountiful shrine,—
Where never the shock of the sun aroused thunder,
Or music welled forth from the stone un-divine;
Yet, when all had deserted, one chieftain came creeping
Through reeds and through grasses where Memnon lay bare,
Night after dull night, when the priests were all sleeping,
Came yearning and dreaming, and dared not despair.
And worshippers failed at the bountiful shrine,—
Where never the shock of the sun aroused thunder,
Or music welled forth from the stone un-divine;
39
Through reeds and through grasses where Memnon lay bare,
Night after dull night, when the priests were all sleeping,
Came yearning and dreaming, and dared not despair.
To him, so the tale runs, one morning when slender
The naked beam flushed on the shattered white stone,
A word came in message, so thrilling, so tender,
It sobbed like a harp-string that dies in a moan;
“My son! all is done, all is done!” and so ended;
He fell on his face, and, by gift of the god,
In the growing blue blaze of day, African, splendid,
His heart sank as cold as the granite he trod.
The naked beam flushed on the shattered white stone,
A word came in message, so thrilling, so tender,
It sobbed like a harp-string that dies in a moan;
“My son! all is done, all is done!” and so ended;
He fell on his face, and, by gift of the god,
In the growing blue blaze of day, African, splendid,
His heart sank as cold as the granite he trod.
So be it with all of my being that's mortal,
If ever that tyrant, the World, should destroy
The wonderful image which stands at my portal
And sings to my spirit of hope and of joy;
When the rose-flame of thought on that marble illusion
Rings music no more from its sensitive heart,
When I've waited and watched, and the faithful delusion
Sighs forth a farewell, and I feel it depart;—
If ever that tyrant, the World, should destroy
The wonderful image which stands at my portal
And sings to my spirit of hope and of joy;
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Rings music no more from its sensitive heart,
When I've waited and watched, and the faithful delusion
Sighs forth a farewell, and I feel it depart;—
Ah! then in the gloom of my broken ideal,
In the concave moon-shadow away from the sun,
When the horrors of earth are grown rugged and real,
By some fortunate stroke may my coil be undone;
Ah! better to pass to the sullen dumb hollows
Where sounds never jar on the ear of the dead,
Than to learn that the air which my destiny follows
By some trick of a huckster was fostered and fed.
In the concave moon-shadow away from the sun,
When the horrors of earth are grown rugged and real,
By some fortunate stroke may my coil be undone;
Ah! better to pass to the sullen dumb hollows
Where sounds never jar on the ear of the dead,
Than to learn that the air which my destiny follows
By some trick of a huckster was fostered and fed.
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CHATTAFIN
I
My orchard blooms with high September light,Opal and topaz star the burning grass;
The hedgerow-fluted meadows climb the height,
And into gulfs of silver'd azure pass;
The glittering hawk-weed turns to golden glass
The dew'd enamel of the rough pale field;
With laden boughs, a lichen-hoary mass,
Rolls the arch'd canopy of autumn's yield,
And hides a liquid gloom beneath its leafy shield.
II
Come to me now, while all the winds are dumb,And, floating in this earthly hyaline,
Bring me no whisper of the harsh world's hum,
But, with an indolence attuned to mine,
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Like those twin brooks that stir our field below
Whose sparkles meet in music; they divine
No first nor second place, but all they know
Is that with doubled strength they seaward leap and flow.
III
Come to me now; come from the mart of men,To this monastic court of apple-trees.
See, the grey heron rises from the fen,
And mark! his slower mate by long degrees
Follows and flaps to stiller shades than these;
They wing their lonesome meditative way
To some hush'd elbow of the reedy leas;
O let us lose ourselves in flight, as they
Their heart's sequestered law thus tenderly obey.
IV
Here all is gained we waste our lives demanding;Here all things meet that, feverish, we pursue;
The peace of God that passeth understanding
Falls on this place, and, like a chrism of dew,
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Here hopes are pure, and aims are cool and high;
Here Pisgah-glints of Heaven may greet our view;
O come and in green light of glory lie,
And talk of song and death, without or flush or sigh.
44
THE WOUNDED GULL
To P. H. G., Jr.
Along a grim and granite shore
With children and with wife I went,
And in our face the stiff breeze bore
Salt savours and a samphire scent.
With children and with wife I went,
And in our face the stiff breeze bore
Salt savours and a samphire scent.
So wild the place and desolate,
That on a rock before us stood—
All upright, silent and sedate—
Of dark-grey gulls a multitude.
That on a rock before us stood—
All upright, silent and sedate—
Of dark-grey gulls a multitude.
The children could not choose but shout
To see these lovely birds so near,
Whereat they spread their pinions out,
Yet rather in surprise than fear.
To see these lovely birds so near,
Whereat they spread their pinions out,
Yet rather in surprise than fear.
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They rose and wheeled around the cape,
They shrieked and vanished in a flock;
But lo! one solitary shape
Still sentinelled the lonely rock.
They shrieked and vanished in a flock;
But lo! one solitary shape
Still sentinelled the lonely rock.
The children laughed, and called it tame!
But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wing
Hung by its side; the gull was lame,
A suffering and deserted thing.
But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wing
Hung by its side; the gull was lame,
A suffering and deserted thing.
With painful care it downward crept;
Its eye was on the rolling sea;
Close to our very feet, it stept
Upon the wave, and then—was free.
Its eye was on the rolling sea;
Close to our very feet, it stept
Upon the wave, and then—was free.
Right out into the east it went,
Too proud, we thought, to flap or shriek;
Slowly it steered, in wonderment
To find its enemies so meek.
Too proud, we thought, to flap or shriek;
Slowly it steered, in wonderment
To find its enemies so meek.
Calmly it steered, and mortal dread
Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume;
It could but die, and being dead,
The open sea should be its tomb.
Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume;
It could but die, and being dead,
The open sea should be its tomb.
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We watched it till we saw it float
Almost beyond our furthest view;
It flickered like a paper boat,
Then faded in the dazzling blue.
Almost beyond our furthest view;
It flickered like a paper boat,
Then faded in the dazzling blue.
It could but touch an English heart,
To find an English bird so brave;
Our life-blood glowed to see it start
Thus boldly on the leaguered wave;
To find an English bird so brave;
Our life-blood glowed to see it start
Thus boldly on the leaguered wave;
And we shall hold, till life departs,
For flagging days when hope grows dull,
Fresh as a spring within our hearts,
The courage of the wounded gull.
For flagging days when hope grows dull,
Fresh as a spring within our hearts,
The courage of the wounded gull.
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THE PRODIGAL
When life is young, and all the world seems waiting
To crown the bright prince Self, his bondage done,
The callow eager heart feels no debating,
But takes affection as flowers drink the sun.
To crown the bright prince Self, his bondage done,
The callow eager heart feels no debating,
But takes affection as flowers drink the sun.
A little while, he saith, and men must know me;
A few feet more, and I must reach the light;
The private love these homely bosoms show me
Perchance may lift me into public sight.
A few feet more, and I must reach the light;
The private love these homely bosoms show me
Perchance may lift me into public sight.
But ah! time slowly strips the vain illusion,
And decks the fairy prince in common clothes;
The breathless ages prove a boy's delusion,
And nought so faithless as the Muses' oaths.
And decks the fairy prince in common clothes;
The breathless ages prove a boy's delusion,
And nought so faithless as the Muses' oaths.
When battling hopes that made the fresh pulse martial,
Spring up no more behind the fife and drum,
Success may come, yet cropped and tame and partial,
And joys,—but life has faded ere they come;
Spring up no more behind the fife and drum,
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And joys,—but life has faded ere they come;
Then in that pause, when pride has lost its splendour,
When foiled ambition smiles itself to sleep,
Back rush old thoughts, familiar thoughts and tender,
That slumber'd in the conscience, dumb and deep.
When foiled ambition smiles itself to sleep,
Back rush old thoughts, familiar thoughts and tender,
That slumber'd in the conscience, dumb and deep.
Then all the withered loves that once fell fading,
Stir like long weeds below a tidal sea;
Then all the thankless past returns upbraiding,—
Then all my memory turns in shame to thee.
Stir like long weeds below a tidal sea;
Then all the thankless past returns upbraiding,—
Then all my memory turns in shame to thee.
The trustful bird close to thy window flutters,
The squirrel takes his breakfast from thy hand,
And every accent that thy whisper utters
Thrills the meek subjects of thy garden-land.
The squirrel takes his breakfast from thy hand,
And every accent that thy whisper utters
Thrills the meek subjects of thy garden-land.
Thou hast the crafty voice, the magic fingers
That round the woodland pulse have art to twine,
Yet oft I think, among thy serfs and singers,
The wildest capture was this heart of mine.
That round the woodland pulse have art to twine,
Yet oft I think, among thy serfs and singers,
The wildest capture was this heart of mine.
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Ah! take me home; my pride of pinion broken,
My song untuned, my morning-light decayed!
I bring thee back thine own old love for token
That I am he for whom it toiled and prayed.
My song untuned, my morning-light decayed!
I bring thee back thine own old love for token
That I am he for whom it toiled and prayed.
Undone the toil, and vain the intercession!
But ah! beneath thy fire for my success
There lurked a hungry sense of lost possession
And for my failure thou'lt not love me less.
But ah! beneath thy fire for my success
There lurked a hungry sense of lost possession
And for my failure thou'lt not love me less.
Dear! for my sake the streets will ne'er be lighted;
The Senate never ring with cheers for me!
Open thy garden-gate to one benighted,
And take me safely back to peace and thee.
The Senate never ring with cheers for me!
Open thy garden-gate to one benighted,
And take me safely back to peace and thee.
50
AN ENGLISH VILLAGE
(SNOWSHILL)
There lies a vale in Cotswold still as death
And empty as the sky, a grey cold dale,
That pours its labour forth at break of day,
And hears no sound nor beating at its heart
Till toil creeps back at sundown.
And empty as the sky, a grey cold dale,
That pours its labour forth at break of day,
And hears no sound nor beating at its heart
Till toil creeps back at sundown.
Walls of stone
Of immemorial age, yet unembossed
With lichen or with rue-wort, nurse its hearths
Of trembling embers. O'er its box-tree walks
The twinkling martins cut their subtle rings.
Of immemorial age, yet unembossed
With lichen or with rue-wort, nurse its hearths
Of trembling embers. O'er its box-tree walks
The twinkling martins cut their subtle rings.
Here yellow apples glow, like myriad lamps,
On strained and drooping branches, tier by tier,
Drawn up the wold in wasting orchards grey.
On strained and drooping branches, tier by tier,
Drawn up the wold in wasting orchards grey.
Nothing is here that was not here and thus
When Milton shook his long ambrosial curls
O'er Cromwell's rough state-papers, nothing here
The chanting Roundhead hath not seen and felt
Riding from Worcester to his woodland home
On Evenlode or Windrush.
When Milton shook his long ambrosial curls
51
The chanting Roundhead hath not seen and felt
Riding from Worcester to his woodland home
On Evenlode or Windrush.
Here at least
Nature and Man have grown so like each other,
In close perennial concert, that the voice
Of one is as the other's.
Nature and Man have grown so like each other,
In close perennial concert, that the voice
Of one is as the other's.
Miles away
I hear faint bayings of the Broadway hounds:
The hunt is up,—it will not reach us here!
Here are no louder sounds than, drop by drop,
The patient trickling that a water-thread
Makes down the clouded well. No bird, no boy,
No whirring insect with a strident wing,
Transgresses the rich vow of tongueless peace.
Here even a hermit's heart might break at last;
All is too still; and Solitude herself
Would chafe against so cold a chain of stone.
I hear faint bayings of the Broadway hounds:
The hunt is up,—it will not reach us here!
Here are no louder sounds than, drop by drop,
The patient trickling that a water-thread
Makes down the clouded well. No bird, no boy,
No whirring insect with a strident wing,
Transgresses the rich vow of tongueless peace.
Here even a hermit's heart might break at last;
All is too still; and Solitude herself
Would chafe against so cold a chain of stone.
Even as I gaze, it grows intolerable!
October lingered in one last red rose,
But as the light breeze rises, at my feet
Lo! these last petals in a crimson shower
Lie fallen. Winter, like a felon ghost,
That with its viewless presence chills the blood,
Has slipped upon us from the hoary wold;
I fly, and leave the vale beneath his sway
As tranquil as a sea without a wave.
October lingered in one last red rose,
But as the light breeze rises, at my feet
Lo! these last petals in a crimson shower
52
That with its viewless presence chills the blood,
Has slipped upon us from the hoary wold;
I fly, and leave the vale beneath his sway
As tranquil as a sea without a wave.
53
NEURASTHESIA
Non malattia mortale,
Mà fu celeste forza;
Non propria ellitione,
Mà un impeto fatal.
Sperone.
Mà fu celeste forza;
Non propria ellitione,
Mà un impeto fatal.
Sperone.
Curs'd from the cradle and awry they come,
Masking their torment from a world at ease;
On eyes of dark entreaty, vague and dumb,
They bear the stigma of their souls' disease.
Masking their torment from a world at ease;
On eyes of dark entreaty, vague and dumb,
They bear the stigma of their souls' disease.
Bewildered by the shadowy ban of birth,
They learn that they are not as others are,
Till some go mad, and some sink prone to earth,
And some push stumbling on without a star;
They learn that they are not as others are,
Till some go mad, and some sink prone to earth,
And some push stumbling on without a star;
And some, of sterner mould, set hard their hearts,
To act the dreadful comedy of life,
And wearily grow perfect in their parts;—
But all are wretched and their years are strife.
To act the dreadful comedy of life,
And wearily grow perfect in their parts;—
But all are wretched and their years are strife.
54
The common cheer that animates mankind,
The tender general comfort of the race,
To them is colour chattered to the blind,
A book held up against a sightless face.
The tender general comfort of the race,
To them is colour chattered to the blind,
A book held up against a sightless face.
Like sailors drifting under cliffs of steel,
Whose fluttering magnets leap with lying poles,
They doubt the truth of every law they feel,
And Death yawns for them if they trust their souls.
Whose fluttering magnets leap with lying poles,
They doubt the truth of every law they feel,
And Death yawns for them if they trust their souls.
The loneliest creatures in the wash of air,
They search the world for solace, but in vain;
No priest rewards their confidence with prayer,
And no physician remedies their pain.
They search the world for solace, but in vain;
No priest rewards their confidence with prayer,
And no physician remedies their pain.
Ah! let us spare our wrath for these, forlorn,
Nor chase a bubble on the intolerant wave;
Let pity quell the gathering storm of scorn,
And God, who made them so, may soothe and save.
Nor chase a bubble on the intolerant wave;
Let pity quell the gathering storm of scorn,
And God, who made them so, may soothe and save.
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