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89
Memorial Verses
91
IN POETS' CORNER
When first the clamorous poets sang, and when,
Acclaim'd by hosts of men,
While music filled with silver light and shade
Cloister and colonnade,
With pomp of catafalque and laureate crown
We laid him softly down
To sleep until the world's last morning come,
My stricken lips were dumb.
Acclaim'd by hosts of men,
While music filled with silver light and shade
Cloister and colonnade,
With pomp of catafalque and laureate crown
We laid him softly down
To sleep until the world's last morning come,
My stricken lips were dumb.
But now that all is silent round his grave,
Dim, from the glimmering nave,
And in the shadow thrown by plinth and bust
His garlands gather dust,
Here, in the hush, I feel the chords unstrung
Tighten in throat and tongue;
At last, at last, the voice comes back,—I raise
A whisper in his praise.
Dim, from the glimmering nave,
And in the shadow thrown by plinth and bust
His garlands gather dust,
Here, in the hush, I feel the chords unstrung
Tighten in throat and tongue;
At last, at last, the voice comes back,—I raise
A whisper in his praise.
92
Thanks for the music that through thirty years
Quicken'd my pulse to tears,
The eye that colour'd nature, the wise hand,
The brain that nobly plann'd;
Thanks for the anguish of the perfect phrase,
Tingling the blood ablaze!
Organ of God, with multitudinous swell
Of various tone, farewell!
Quicken'd my pulse to tears,
The eye that colour'd nature, the wise hand,
The brain that nobly plann'd;
Thanks for the anguish of the perfect phrase,
Tingling the blood ablaze!
Organ of God, with multitudinous swell
Of various tone, farewell!
93
BALLADE
FOR THE FUNERAL OF THE LAST OF THE JOYOUS POETS
One ballade more before we say good-night,
O dying Muse, one mournful ballade more!
Then let the new men fall to their delight,
The Impressionist, the Decadent, a score
Of other fresh fanatics, who adore
Quaint demons, and disdain thy golden shrine;
Ah! faded goddess, thou wert held divine
When we were young! But now each laurelled head
Has fallen, and fallen the ancient glorious line;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
O dying Muse, one mournful ballade more!
Then let the new men fall to their delight,
The Impressionist, the Decadent, a score
Of other fresh fanatics, who adore
Quaint demons, and disdain thy golden shrine;
Ah! faded goddess, thou wert held divine
When we were young! But now each laurelled head
Has fallen, and fallen the ancient glorious line;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
Peace, peace a moment, dolorous Ibsenite!
Pale Tolstoist, moaning from the Euxine shore!
Psychology, to dreamland take thy flight!
And, fell Heredity, forbear to pour
Drop after drop thy dose of hellebore,
For we look back to-night to ruddier wine
And gayer singing than these moans of thine!
Our skies were azure once, our roses red,
Our poets once were crowned with eglantine;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
Pale Tolstoist, moaning from the Euxine shore!
Psychology, to dreamland take thy flight!
94
Drop after drop thy dose of hellebore,
For we look back to-night to ruddier wine
And gayer singing than these moans of thine!
Our skies were azure once, our roses red,
Our poets once were crowned with eglantine;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
With flutes and lyres and many a lovely rite
Through the mad woodland of our youth they bore
Verse, like pure ichor in a chrysolite,
Secret yet splendid, and the world forswore,
For one brief space, the mocking mask it wore.
Then failed, then fell those children of the vine,—
Sons of the sun,—and sank in slow decline;
Pulse after pulse their radiant lives were shed;
To silence we their vocal names consign;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
Through the mad woodland of our youth they bore
Verse, like pure ichor in a chrysolite,
Secret yet splendid, and the world forswore,
For one brief space, the mocking mask it wore.
Then failed, then fell those children of the vine,—
Sons of the sun,—and sank in slow decline;
Pulse after pulse their radiant lives were shed;
To silence we their vocal names consign;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
ENVOI
Prince-jeweller, whose facet-rhymes combineAll hues that glow, all rays that shift and shine,
Farewell! thy song is sung, thy splendour fled!
No bards to Aganippe's wave incline;
The last is gone, since Banville too is dead.
95
ANNE CLOUGH
Feb. 28, 1892
Esteem'd, admir'd, belov'd,—farewell!
Alas! what need hadst thou of peace?
Our bitterest winter tolls the knell,
And tolls, and tolls, and will not cease.
Alas! what need hadst thou of peace?
Our bitterest winter tolls the knell,
And tolls, and tolls, and will not cease.
It tolls and tolls with iron tongue
For empty lives and hearts unbless'd,
And tolls for thee, whose heart was young,
Whose life was stored with hope and rest.
For empty lives and hearts unbless'd,
And tolls for thee, whose heart was young,
Whose life was stored with hope and rest.
Thy meditative quaint replies,
Cast out like arrows on the air,
The humour in thy dark blue eyes,
The wisdom in thy silver hair,—
Cast out like arrows on the air,
The humour in thy dark blue eyes,
The wisdom in thy silver hair,—
Tho' these grow faint, shade after shade,
As those who loved thee droop and pass,
Thy being was not wholly made
To shrink like breath upon a glass.
As those who loved thee droop and pass,
96
To shrink like breath upon a glass.
Thou with new graces didst maintain
The old, outworn scholastic seat,
Throned, simply, with an ardent train
Of studious beauty round thy feet.
The old, outworn scholastic seat,
Throned, simply, with an ardent train
Of studious beauty round thy feet.
Those girls, grown mothers soon, will teach
Their sons to praise thy sacred name,
Thy hand that taught their hands to reach
The broader thought, the brighter flame.
Their sons to praise thy sacred name,
Thy hand that taught their hands to reach
The broader thought, the brighter flame.
So thou, tho' sunk amidst the gloom
That gathers round our reedy shore,
Shalt with diffusèd light illume
A thousand hearths unlit before.
That gathers round our reedy shore,
Shalt with diffusèd light illume
A thousand hearths unlit before.
97
BEATRICE
Thro' Dante's hands, in dreamy vigil clasp'd,
A pale green bud shot skyward from the sod;
He bowed and sighed; then laid the prize he grasp'd,
A folded lily, at the feet of God.
A pale green bud shot skyward from the sod;
He bowed and sighed; then laid the prize he grasp'd,
A folded lily, at the feet of God.
There she hath slowly open'd, age by age,
And grown a star to light Man's heart to heaven;
Her perfume his divinest heritage,
Her love the noblest gift God's self hath given.
And grown a star to light Man's heart to heaven;
Her perfume his divinest heritage,
Her love the noblest gift God's self hath given.
98
BLAKE
They win who never near the goal,
They run who halt on wounded feet;
Art hath its martyrs like the soul,
Its victors in defeat.
They run who halt on wounded feet;
Art hath its martyrs like the soul,
Its victors in defeat.
This seer's ambition soar'd too far;
He sank, on pinions backward blown;
But, tho' he touched nor sun nor star,
He made a world his own.
He sank, on pinions backward blown;
But, tho' he touched nor sun nor star,
He made a world his own.
99
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
All pomps and gorgeous rites, all visions old,
Nursed by the ancient Spouse of Christ serene
Within the solemn precincts of her fold,
To him were dear, as angel-wings once seen
Across a ruin'd minster's spires of gold
To some old priest in exile might have been.
Nursed by the ancient Spouse of Christ serene
Within the solemn precincts of her fold,
To him were dear, as angel-wings once seen
Across a ruin'd minster's spires of gold
To some old priest in exile might have been.
The gloom, the splendour of the apse, the cloud
Of streaming incense swung aloft the choir,
The murmuring organ, muffled now, now loud,
The great rose-window like a flower on fire,
The choral shout, the countless faces bowed,—
These were the plectrum and his soul the lyre.
Of streaming incense swung aloft the choir,
The murmuring organ, muffled now, now loud,
The great rose-window like a flower on fire,
The choral shout, the countless faces bowed,—
These were the plectrum and his soul the lyre.
In leaving these he wrought his instinct wrong,—
He sprang from no protesting ancestry;
Those ancient signs of worship waked his song,
And though a pagan he might feign to be,
In Arcady he never wandered long,
Nor truly loved the goddess of the sea.
He sprang from no protesting ancestry;
100
And though a pagan he might feign to be,
In Arcady he never wandered long,
Nor truly loved the goddess of the sea.
His mighty spirit was an outlaw yet
In this bright garish modern life of ours;
His statue should with gothic kings' be set,
Engarlanded with saints and carven flowers,
Or on some dim Italian altar, wet
With votive tears and sprinkled hyssop-showers.
In this bright garish modern life of ours;
His statue should with gothic kings' be set,
Engarlanded with saints and carven flowers,
Or on some dim Italian altar, wet
With votive tears and sprinkled hyssop-showers.
He is made one with all the Easter fires,
With all the perfume and the rainbow-light,
His voice is mingled with the ascending choir's,
Broken and spent through traceries infinite;
Above the rich triforium, past the spires,
The answering music melts into the night.
With all the perfume and the rainbow-light,
His voice is mingled with the ascending choir's,
Broken and spent through traceries infinite;
Above the rich triforium, past the spires,
The answering music melts into the night.
Farewell! though time hath vanquished our desire,
We shall not be as though he had not been;
Some love of mystic thought in strange attire,
Of things unseen reflected in the seen,
Of heights towards which the sons of flesh aspire,
Shall haunt us with a yearning close and keen.
We shall not be as though he had not been;
Some love of mystic thought in strange attire,
Of things unseen reflected in the seen,
Of heights towards which the sons of flesh aspire,
Shall haunt us with a yearning close and keen.
101
Farewell! upon the marble of his tomb
Let some great sculptor carve a knight in prayer,
Who dreams he sees the holy vision come.
Now let the night-wind pass across his hair;
Him can no more vain backward hope consume,
Nor the world vex him with her wasting care.
Let some great sculptor carve a knight in prayer,
Who dreams he sees the holy vision come.
Now let the night-wind pass across his hair;
Him can no more vain backward hope consume,
Nor the world vex him with her wasting care.
Easter Sunday, 1882.
102
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN
August 11, 1890
Peace to the virgin heart, the crystal brain!
Truce for one hour thro' all the camps of thought!
Our subtlest mind hath rent the veil of pain,
Hath found the truth he sought.
Truce for one hour thro' all the camps of thought!
Our subtlest mind hath rent the veil of pain,
Hath found the truth he sought.
Who knows what script those opening eyes have read?
If this set creed, or that, or none be best?
Let no strife jar above this snow-white head!
Peace for a saint at rest!
If this set creed, or that, or none be best?
Let no strife jar above this snow-white head!
Peace for a saint at rest!
103
TO JENNY LIND
They call thee Nightingale, who know thee not!But Philomel's light voice within her tree
Betrays an instinct of her transient lot;
As flowers to gems are, so are birds to thee.
104
LECONTE DE LISLE
July 17, 1894
His verse was carved in ivory forms, undying
As those that deck the marble Phidian frieze.
Over his plaintive hearse to-night is flying
A phantom genius from the Cyclades.
As those that deck the marble Phidian frieze.
Over his plaintive hearse to-night is flying
A phantom genius from the Cyclades.
It hovers till our idle rites be over;
And then will bear him in its arms away
To islands cinctured by the sun, their lover,
And spicy woodlands thrilled with fiery day.
And then will bear him in its arms away
To islands cinctured by the sun, their lover,
And spicy woodlands thrilled with fiery day.
There his dark hours of toil shall drop, forgotten;
There all he loved, simple and calm and grand—
All the white creatures by his Muse begotten—
Shall cluster round him in a stately band.
There all he loved, simple and calm and grand—
All the white creatures by his Muse begotten—
Shall cluster round him in a stately band.
105
Then shall he smile, appeased by sovereign beauty,
Contented that he strove and waited long,
Since in those worlds where loveliness is duty
His bronze and marble leap to life and song.
Contented that he strove and waited long,
Since in those worlds where loveliness is duty
His bronze and marble leap to life and song.
106
MADRIGAL
[_]
SET FORTH TO BE SUNG TO THE BASS VIOL IN PRAISE OF MR. BULLEN HIS EDITION OF THE WORKS OF DR. THOMAS CAMPION
He comes again!
The latest, not the least desired!
Too long in mouldering tomes retired,
We sought in vain
Those breathing airs
Which, from his instrument,
Like vocal winds of perfume, blent
To soothe man's piercing cares.
The latest, not the least desired!
Too long in mouldering tomes retired,
We sought in vain
Those breathing airs
Which, from his instrument,
Like vocal winds of perfume, blent
To soothe man's piercing cares.
Bullen, well done!
Where Campion lies in London-land,
Lulled by the thunders of the Strand,
Screened from the sun,
Surely there must
Now pass some pleasant gleam
Across his music-haunted dream
Whose brain and lute are dust.
Where Campion lies in London-land,
Lulled by the thunders of the Strand,
107
Surely there must
Now pass some pleasant gleam
Across his music-haunted dream
Whose brain and lute are dust.
108
WITH A COPY OF SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
This is the holy missal Shakespeare wrote,For friends to ponder when they grieve alone;
Within these collects his great heart would note
Its joy and fear, its ecstasy and moan;
Our strength and weakness each was felt by him;
He yearned and shrank, rejoiced and hoped and bled;
Nor ever will his sacred song be dim,
Though he himself, the Friend of Friends, is dead.
Then, on sad evenings when you think of me,
Or when the morn seems blithe, yet I not near,
Open this book, and read, and I shall be
The metre murmuring at your bended ear:
I cannot write my love with Shakespeare's art,
But the same burden weighs upon my heart.
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