 | In Russet & Silver |  |
55
Lyrics
57
ALERE FLAMMAM
To A. C. B.
In ancient Rome, the secret fire,—
An intimate and holy thing,—
Was guarded by a tender choir
Of kindred maidens in a ring;
Deep, deep within the home it lay,
No stranger ever gazed thereon,
But, flickering still by night and day,
The beacon of the house, it shone;
Thro' birth and death, from age to age,
It passed, a quenchless heritage;
An intimate and holy thing,—
Was guarded by a tender choir
Of kindred maidens in a ring;
Deep, deep within the home it lay,
No stranger ever gazed thereon,
But, flickering still by night and day,
The beacon of the house, it shone;
Thro' birth and death, from age to age,
It passed, a quenchless heritage;
And there were hymns of mystic tone
Sung round about the family flame,
Beyond the threshold all unknown,
Fast-welded to an ancient name;
There sacrificed the sire as priest,
Before that altar, none but he,
Alone he spread the solemn feast
For a most secret deity;
He knew the god had once been sire,
And served the same memorial fire.
Sung round about the family flame,
Beyond the threshold all unknown,
Fast-welded to an ancient name;
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Before that altar, none but he,
Alone he spread the solemn feast
For a most secret deity;
He knew the god had once been sire,
And served the same memorial fire.
Ah! so, untouched by windy roar
Of public issues loud and long,
The Poet holds the sacred door,
And guards the glowing coal of song;
Not his to grasp at praise or blame,
Red gold, or crowns beneath the sun,
His only pride to tend the flame
That Homer and that Virgil won,
Retain the rite, preserve the act,
And pass the worship on intact.
Of public issues loud and long,
The Poet holds the sacred door,
And guards the glowing coal of song;
Not his to grasp at praise or blame,
Red gold, or crowns beneath the sun,
His only pride to tend the flame
That Homer and that Virgil won,
Retain the rite, preserve the act,
And pass the worship on intact.
Before the shrine at last he falls;
The crowd rush in, a chattering band;
But, ere he fades in death, he calls
Another priest to ward the brand;
He, with a gesture of disdain,
Flings back the ringing brazen gate,
Reproves, repressing, the profane,
And feeds the flame in primal state;
Content to toil and fade in turn
If still the sacred embers burn.
The crowd rush in, a chattering band;
But, ere he fades in death, he calls
Another priest to ward the brand;
He, with a gesture of disdain,
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Reproves, repressing, the profane,
And feeds the flame in primal state;
Content to toil and fade in turn
If still the sacred embers burn.
60
THE SWAN
The awakening swan grows tired at last
Of weltering pastures where he feeds;
With wings and feet behind him cast,
He cleaves the labyrinth of reeds.
Of weltering pastures where he feeds;
With wings and feet behind him cast,
He cleaves the labyrinth of reeds.
He arches out his sparkling plumes,
He wades and plunges, till he finds
Beneath his breast the azure glooms
Where the great river brims and winds.
He wades and plunges, till he finds
Beneath his breast the azure glooms
Where the great river brims and winds.
Then, with white sails set to the breeze,
The current cold about his feet,
He fares to those Hesperides
Where morning and his comrades meet.
The current cold about his feet,
He fares to those Hesperides
Where morning and his comrades meet.
Nor—since within his kindling veins
A livelier ichor stirs at last—
Regrets the gross and juicy stains,
The saps and savours of the past;
A livelier ichor stirs at last—
Regrets the gross and juicy stains,
The saps and savours of the past;
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But through the august and solemn void
Of misty waters holds his way,
By some ecstatic thirst decoyed
Towards raptures of the radiant day.
Of misty waters holds his way,
By some ecstatic thirst decoyed
Towards raptures of the radiant day.
So sails the soul, and cannot rest,
Inglorious, in the marsh of peace,
But leaves the good, to seek the best,
Though all its calms and comforts cease,—
Inglorious, in the marsh of peace,
But leaves the good, to seek the best,
Though all its calms and comforts cease,—
Though what it seemed to hold be lost,
Though that grow far which once was nigh,—
By torturing hope in anguish tossed,
The awakened soul must sail or die.
Though that grow far which once was nigh,—
By torturing hope in anguish tossed,
The awakened soul must sail or die.
62
THE WALL-PAPER
When I was only five years old,
My mother, who was soon to die,
Raised me with fingers soft and cold,
On high;
My mother, who was soon to die,
Raised me with fingers soft and cold,
On high;
Until, against the parlour wall,
I reached a golden paper flower.
How proud was I, and ah! how tall,
That hour!
I reached a golden paper flower.
How proud was I, and ah! how tall,
That hour!
“This shining tulip shall be yours,
Your own, your very own,” she said;
The mark that made it mine endures
In red.
Your own, your very own,” she said;
The mark that made it mine endures
In red.
I scarce could see it from the floor;
I craned to touch the scarlet sign;
No gift so precious had before
Been mine.
I craned to touch the scarlet sign;
No gift so precious had before
Been mine.
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A paper tulip on a wall!
A boon that ownership defied!
Yet this was dearer far than all
Beside.
A boon that ownership defied!
Yet this was dearer far than all
Beside.
Real toys, real flowers that lavish love
Had strewn before me, all and each
Grew pale beside this gift above
My reach.
Had strewn before me, all and each
Grew pale beside this gift above
My reach.
Ah! now that time has worked its will,
And fooled my heart, and dazed my eyes,
Delusive tulips prove me still
Unwise.
And fooled my heart, and dazed my eyes,
Delusive tulips prove me still
Unwise.
Still, still the eluding flower that glows
Above the hands that yearn and clasp
Seems brighter than the genuine rose
I grasp.
Above the hands that yearn and clasp
Seems brighter than the genuine rose
I grasp.
So has it been since I was born;
So will it be until I die;
Stars, the best flowers of all, adorn
The sky.
So will it be until I die;
Stars, the best flowers of all, adorn
The sky.
64
THE NAUTILUS
Venus, take this shell,
Offering of a bride!
Once it rose and fell
On thy mooney tide;
Let its pearly bulwarks dwell
By thy side.
Offering of a bride!
Once it rose and fell
On thy mooney tide;
Let its pearly bulwarks dwell
By thy side.
Rigged with gossamer,
O'er thy seas it flew;
Never a wind would stir
Cord or sail or crew;
Halycon-like, this mariner
Cleft the blue.
O'er thy seas it flew;
Never a wind would stir
Cord or sail or crew;
Halycon-like, this mariner
Cleft the blue.
Blithe even so was I,
Gay, light-hearted maid;
Now my sails are dry,
My fond crew afraid;
Goddess, goddess; come, I cry,
To my aid!
Gay, light-hearted maid;
Now my sails are dry,
My fond crew afraid;
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To my aid!
Is it bliss or woe,
Nevermore to flee
O'er the full heart's flow,
Indolent and free,
As this shell strayed long ago
O'er the sea?
Nevermore to flee
O'er the full heart's flow,
Indolent and free,
As this shell strayed long ago
O'er the sea?
Venus, take this shell,
Pearly like a tear!
Ah! I cannot tell
What I wish or fear;
Guard me through the miracle,
Dread and dear.
Pearly like a tear!
Ah! I cannot tell
What I wish or fear;
Guard me through the miracle,
Dread and dear.
66
A DREAM OF NOVEMBER
To A. S.
Far, far away, I know not where, I know not how,
The skies are grey, the boughs are bare, bare boughs in flower:
Long lilac silk is softly drawn from bough to bough,
With flowers of milk and buds of fawn, a broidered shower.
The skies are grey, the boughs are bare, bare boughs in flower:
Long lilac silk is softly drawn from bough to bough,
With flowers of milk and buds of fawn, a broidered shower.
Beneath that tent an Empress sits, with slanted eyes,
And wafts of scent from censers flit, a lilac flood;
Around her throne bloom peach and plum in lacquered dyes,
And many a blown chrysanthemum, and many a bud.
And wafts of scent from censers flit, a lilac flood;
Around her throne bloom peach and plum in lacquered dyes,
And many a blown chrysanthemum, and many a bud.
She sits and dreams, while bonzes twain strike some rich bell,
Whose music seems a metal rain of radiant dye;
In this strange birth of various blooms, I cannot tell
Which sprang from earth, which slipped from looms, which sank from sky.
Whose music seems a metal rain of radiant dye;
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Which sprang from earth, which slipped from looms, which sank from sky.
Beneath her wings of lilac dim, in robes of blue,
The Empress sings a wordless hymn that thrills her bower;
My trance unweaves, and winds, and shreds, and weaves anew
Dark bronze, bright leaves, pure silken threads, in triple flower.
The Empress sings a wordless hymn that thrills her bower;
My trance unweaves, and winds, and shreds, and weaves anew
Dark bronze, bright leaves, pure silken threads, in triple flower.
68
ON YES TOR
Beneath our feet, the shuddering bogs
Made earthquakes of their own,
For greenish-grizzled furtive frogs
And lizards lithe and brown.
Made earthquakes of their own,
For greenish-grizzled furtive frogs
And lizards lithe and brown.
And high to east and south and west,
Girt round the feet with gorse,
Lay, summering, breast by giant breast,
The titan brood of tors;
Girt round the feet with gorse,
Lay, summering, breast by giant breast,
The titan brood of tors;
Golden and phantom-pale they lay,
Calm in the cloudless light,
Like gods that, slumbering, still survey
The obsequious infinite.
Calm in the cloudless light,
Like gods that, slumbering, still survey
The obsequious infinite.
Plod, plod, through herbage thin or dense,
Past chattering rills of quartz,
Across brown bramble-coverts, whence
The shy black ouzel darts,
Past chattering rills of quartz,
Across brown bramble-coverts, whence
The shy black ouzel darts,
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Through empty leagues of broad, bare lands,
Beneath the empty skies,
Clutched in the grip of those vast hands,
Cowed by those golden eyes,
Beneath the empty skies,
Clutched in the grip of those vast hands,
Cowed by those golden eyes,
We fled beneath their scornful stare,
Like terror-hunted dogs,
More timid than the lizards were,
And shyer than the frogs.
Like terror-hunted dogs,
More timid than the lizards were,
And shyer than the frogs.
70
TO A CHILD OF FIFTEEN
Jasmine of girlhood, thou whose star—
Unlike those planets poised afar—
Hangs near, as thou art, sweet and pure
In household foliage warm, demure;
Unlike those planets poised afar—
Hangs near, as thou art, sweet and pure
In household foliage warm, demure;
Take this dusk heart beneath thy sway!
Bend, graceful Jasmine, bend my way!
Thy trumpet-note of perfume blow
Across the path by which I go.
Bend, graceful Jasmine, bend my way!
Thy trumpet-note of perfume blow
Across the path by which I go.
Too dry would be the dust, too harsh
The herbage of the holt and marsh,
Were there no bowers, the dewy shrine
Of homely-scented stars like thine.
The herbage of the holt and marsh,
Were there no bowers, the dewy shrine
Of homely-scented stars like thine.
Then let me by thine innocence
Be weaned from too-sagacious sense;
Let him on whom thy flower hath smiled
Grow milkier-hearted than a child.
Be weaned from too-sagacious sense;
Let him on whom thy flower hath smiled
Grow milkier-hearted than a child.
71
TO THE ALMOND
Priest in the masque of pleasure!
The wind's rude hand disposes
Thy fair brow's ruffled treasure,
Thy wrecked and scattered crown of pale pink roses.
The wind's rude hand disposes
Thy fair brow's ruffled treasure,
Thy wrecked and scattered crown of pale pink roses.
The soft west wind comes sighing
With weight of scents that load her;
Spring wakes as thou art dying,
Thou harbinger of sunlight, warmth, and odour.
With weight of scents that load her;
Spring wakes as thou art dying,
Thou harbinger of sunlight, warmth, and odour.
Thy flower might seem the fuel
That feeds the Spring's green taper,
So quickly doth its jewel
From thy black branches fade away in vapour.
That feeds the Spring's green taper,
So quickly doth its jewel
From thy black branches fade away in vapour.
So bright thy bloom and fleeting,
So sweet and transitory,
Our parting blends with greeting,
As fame or love with death in human story.
So sweet and transitory,
Our parting blends with greeting,
As fame or love with death in human story.
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Then ave atque vale!
Though thus so briefly blowing,
Such wonders crowd us daily,
We have no heart, fair flower, to weep thy going.
Though thus so briefly blowing,
Such wonders crowd us daily,
We have no heart, fair flower, to weep thy going.
Farewell! with all thy graces!
Till thou hast flickered by us,
Their florid full embraces
Laburnum, chestnut, lilac, thorn, deny us.
Till thou hast flickered by us,
Their florid full embraces
Laburnum, chestnut, lilac, thorn, deny us.
73
PHILOMEL IN LONDON
To G. A. A.
Not within a granite pass,
Dim with flowers and soft with grass—
Nay but doubly, trebly sweet
In a poplared London street,
While below my windows go
Noiseless barges, to and fro,
Through the night's calm deep,
Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep?
Dim with flowers and soft with grass—
Nay but doubly, trebly sweet
In a poplared London street,
While below my windows go
Noiseless barges, to and fro,
Through the night's calm deep,
Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep?
No steps on the pavement fall,
Soundless swings the dark canal;
From a church-tower out of sight
Clangs the central hour of night.
Hark! the Dorian nightingale!
Pan's voice melted to a wail!
Such another bird
Attic Tereus never heard.
Soundless swings the dark canal;
From a church-tower out of sight
Clangs the central hour of night.
Hark! the Dorian nightingale!
Pan's voice melted to a wail!
Such another bird
Attic Tereus never heard.
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Hung above the gloom and stain—
London's squalid cope of pain—
Pure as starlight, bold as love,
Honouring our scant poplar-grove,
That most heavenly voice of earth
Thrills in passion, grief or mirth,
Laves our poison'd air
Life's best song-bath crystal-fair.
London's squalid cope of pain—
Pure as starlight, bold as love,
Honouring our scant poplar-grove,
That most heavenly voice of earth
Thrills in passion, grief or mirth,
Laves our poison'd air
Life's best song-bath crystal-fair.
While the starry minstrel sings
Little matters what he brings,
Be it sorrow, be it pain;
Let him sing and sing again,
Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice,
Wakening, once to hear his voice,
Ere afar he flies,
Bound for purer woods and skies.
Little matters what he brings,
Be it sorrow, be it pain;
Let him sing and sing again,
Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice,
Wakening, once to hear his voice,
Ere afar he flies,
Bound for purer woods and skies.
75
THE IRIS
Frail iris, from whose fragile sheath,
In lilac and in primrose hue,
The beakéd bud just pushes through
To greet the blackbirds and the blue,
What news from hollow worlds beneath?
In lilac and in primrose hue,
The beakéd bud just pushes through
To greet the blackbirds and the blue,
What news from hollow worlds beneath?
In strata of the kindling sod
What murmur reached you of the spring?
What proof of warmth and weft and wing
Broke through your blank imagining,
And thrilled your core with hopes of God?
What murmur reached you of the spring?
What proof of warmth and weft and wing
Broke through your blank imagining,
And thrilled your core with hopes of God?
Wak'd to a rapture unaware,
Your rootlet, iris, stirr'd with faith;
You caught the voice of Him who saith
“Spring is the vapour of my breath,
And sap the sound of answered prayer.”
Your rootlet, iris, stirr'd with faith;
You caught the voice of Him who saith
“Spring is the vapour of my breath,
And sap the sound of answered prayer.”
76
SONG FOR MUSIC
Count the flashes in the surf,
Count the crystals in the snow,
Or the blades above the turf,
Or the dead that sleep below!
These ye count—yet shall not know,—
While I wake or while I slumber,—
Where my thoughts and wishes go,
What her name, and what their number.
Count the crystals in the snow,
Or the blades above the turf,
Or the dead that sleep below!
These ye count—yet shall not know,—
While I wake or while I slumber,—
Where my thoughts and wishes go,
What her name, and what their number.
Ask the cold and midnight sea,
Ask the silent-falling frost,
Ask the grasses on the lea,
Or the mad maid, passion-crost!
They may tell of posies tost
To the waves where blossoms blow not,
Tell of hearts that staked and lost,—
But of me and mine they know not.
Ask the silent-falling frost,
Ask the grasses on the lea,
Or the mad maid, passion-crost!
They may tell of posies tost
To the waves where blossoms blow not,
Tell of hearts that staked and lost,—
But of me and mine they know not.
77
HOPE DEFERRED
Faint lines of grey are in that hair
That was one year ago so fair,
So curl'd in gold, so wav'd with light,
And still the feathery hours flit by,
And we grow older, you and I,
And still I wait for your reply,
And all your answer still is flight.
That was one year ago so fair,
So curl'd in gold, so wav'd with light,
And still the feathery hours flit by,
And we grow older, you and I,
And still I wait for your reply,
And all your answer still is flight.
You touch my hand a little while,
You pierce me with your flashing smile,
You dart away, away, away!
O for the skill to hold you fast,
O for the art to win at last
One sunset hour ere life be past,
One thrill before the nerves decay.
You pierce me with your flashing smile,
You dart away, away, away!
O for the skill to hold you fast,
O for the art to win at last
One sunset hour ere life be past,
One thrill before the nerves decay.
78
TO A TRAVELLER
From the Greek
After many a dusty mile,
Wanderer, linger here awhile;
Stretch your limbs in dewy grass';
Through these pines a wind shall pass
That shall cool you with its wing;
Grasshoppers shall shout and sing;
While the shepherd on the hill,
Near a fountain warbling still,
Modulates, when noon is mute,
Summer songs along his flute;
Underneath a spreading tree,
None so easy-limbed as he,
Sheltered from the dog-star's heat.
Wanderer, linger here awhile;
Stretch your limbs in dewy grass';
Through these pines a wind shall pass
That shall cool you with its wing;
Grasshoppers shall shout and sing;
While the shepherd on the hill,
Near a fountain warbling still,
Modulates, when noon is mute,
Summer songs along his flute;
Underneath a spreading tree,
None so easy-limbed as he,
Sheltered from the dog-star's heat.
Rest; and then, on freshened feet,
You shall pass the forest through.
It is Pan that counsels you.
You shall pass the forest through.
It is Pan that counsels you.
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THE FIELDFARE'S NEST
To E. B.
Though all should smile denying, I believe
These elms have borne the Fieldfare's fabulous nest.
Why else in England should he build and rest,
Quitting the flock in which his brethren leave
These elms have borne the Fieldfare's fabulous nest.
Why else in England should he build and rest,
Quitting the flock in which his brethren leave
Our shores forsaken on an April eve,
Save, on these lawns, to preen a speckled breast,
And hear your feathery friends proclaim you blest?
Where else so safe a bower could fieldfare weave?
Save, on these lawns, to preen a speckled breast,
And hear your feathery friends proclaim you blest?
Where else so safe a bower could fieldfare weave?
Ah! might he borrow notes as sweet as those
With which the Mavis pays you all day long
(Our delicate Mavis with her slighted song),
You would not doubt the enchanted Fieldfare knows
This magic garden's secret of repose,
And reads her heart to whom these glades belong.
With which the Mavis pays you all day long
(Our delicate Mavis with her slighted song),
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This magic garden's secret of repose,
And reads her heart to whom these glades belong.
81
SHUT OF EVE
Our long, long day of warmth is done;
Take courage to depart;
The world is chill without the sun,
My heart, without thy heart.
Take courage to depart;
The world is chill without the sun,
My heart, without thy heart.
In vaporous air the willows waved,
Like sea-weeds in the sea;
No other boon my spirit craved
Than life, warm life with thee.
Like sea-weeds in the sea;
No other boon my spirit craved
Than life, warm life with thee.
The glimmering corner of our lake
Still glows with amber light;
The cold soft tops of grasses break
Our long low line of sight.
Still glows with amber light;
The cold soft tops of grasses break
Our long low line of sight.
But all in vain; like dying eyes
That watch in hopeless hope,
We think to change with prayers and sighs
Our fatal horoscope.
That watch in hopeless hope,
We think to change with prayers and sighs
Our fatal horoscope.
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An hour of sun, an hour of breeze,
An hour of passionate love;
And then the night, and moaning trees,
And folded skies above.
An hour of passionate love;
And then the night, and moaning trees,
And folded skies above.
So let us sigh “Farewell! bright day,
Warm fern, and grassy dell;
The day is done, then let's away!
Day, life, hope, love, farewell!”
Warm fern, and grassy dell;
The day is done, then let's away!
Day, life, hope, love, farewell!”
83
THE POPLAR TREE
Here, underneath this poplar tree,
Long years ago,
My life flowed fast, as rivers flow
To sea.
Long years ago,
My life flowed fast, as rivers flow
To sea.
That day, when thought and passion flew
On eagle wings,
The smooth sky, tuned to calmer things,
Was blue.
On eagle wings,
The smooth sky, tuned to calmer things,
Was blue.
To-day, while numb with dull distress,
My pulse sinks dead;
The heavens are azure overhead
Not less.
My pulse sinks dead;
The heavens are azure overhead
Not less.
O shivering, laughing poplar tree,
Till I came here
The world held less of hope and fear
For me!
Till I came here
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For me!
Ye silvery heavens, cease to shine!
Sigh, poplar, sigh!
The body of death that passeth by
Is mine.
Sigh, poplar, sigh!
The body of death that passeth by
Is mine.
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CIRCLING FANCIES
Around this tree the floating flies
Weave their mysterious webs of light;
The scent of my acacia lies
Within the circle of their flight;
They never perch nor drop from sight,
But, flashing, wheel in curves of air,
As if the perfume's warm delight
In magic bondage held them there.
Weave their mysterious webs of light;
The scent of my acacia lies
Within the circle of their flight;
They never perch nor drop from sight,
But, flashing, wheel in curves of air,
As if the perfume's warm delight
In magic bondage held them there.
I watch them till I half confound
Their motions with these thoughts of mine
That no less subtle bonds have bound
Within a viewless ring divine;
Clasped by a chain that makes no sign
My hopes and wheeling fancies live;
Desires, like odours, still confine
The heart that else were fugitive.
Their motions with these thoughts of mine
That no less subtle bonds have bound
Within a viewless ring divine;
Clasped by a chain that makes no sign
My hopes and wheeling fancies live;
Desires, like odours, still confine
The heart that else were fugitive.
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Then flash and float thro' tides of June,
Ye summer phantoms of my love!
Let all the woodlands join in tune
While on your gauzy wings ye move!
With odour round, and light above,
Your aery symbol-circle keep,
Till night descends; then may I prove
More constant, circling still in sleep.
Ye summer phantoms of my love!
Let all the woodlands join in tune
While on your gauzy wings ye move!
With odour round, and light above,
Your aery symbol-circle keep,
Till night descends; then may I prove
More constant, circling still in sleep.
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LOVE-LETTERS
I've learned, in dream or legend dark,
That all love-letters purged with fire,
Drawn in one constellated spark,
To heaven aspire.
That all love-letters purged with fire,
Drawn in one constellated spark,
To heaven aspire.
To-night there streams across the sky
An unfamiliar reef of stars;
Are those the letters you and I
Thrust through the bars?
An unfamiliar reef of stars;
Are those the letters you and I
Thrust through the bars?
In tears of joy they once were read,
In tears of suffering slowly burned;
And now to stars hung overhead
Can each be turned?
In tears of suffering slowly burned;
And now to stars hung overhead
Can each be turned?
O leaves too warm to be discreet,
O panting words that throbbed too loud,
With starry laughter now you meet
Behind a cloud!
O panting words that throbbed too loud,
With starry laughter now you meet
Behind a cloud!
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You watch us sleeping all night long,
Until grey morning bids you fade;
You charge us, with your choral song,
Be undismayed!
Until grey morning bids you fade;
You charge us, with your choral song,
Be undismayed!
Alas! the Magians knew your names,
Ye ancient lamps of amber light;
'Tis vanity of passion claims
So rare delight.
Ye ancient lamps of amber light;
'Tis vanity of passion claims
So rare delight.
We might as well lay claim to Mars!—
And yet—I surely understand
That softest yellow flashing star's
Italian hand?
And yet—I surely understand
That softest yellow flashing star's
Italian hand?
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