A pageant of poets and other poems By James Chapman Woods |
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TO THE VANISHED MUSE |
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 | A pageant of poets and other poems |  |
33
TO THE VANISHED MUSE
Why hast thou fled into thy secret isle,
Dear Muse of Song, whom oft of old I found
Loitering by any copse or wayside stile
On Youth's enchanted ground?
Now, though I search along the moss-grown wall,
And beat the brake through which each streamlet flows,
I find thee not, nor hear thy honey call
In dusk of dreams, nor start to know thee close,
Brushing my window with a drowsy rose.
Thus once it was—not now. What have I done
To thee or left undone, that thou should'st fade
Out of my ken like glint of fairy gold—
A shadow from the pathway of the sun—
A rustle from the umbrage of the glade—
Is it that thou art false since I am old?
Dear Muse of Song, whom oft of old I found
Loitering by any copse or wayside stile
On Youth's enchanted ground?
Now, though I search along the moss-grown wall,
And beat the brake through which each streamlet flows,
I find thee not, nor hear thy honey call
In dusk of dreams, nor start to know thee close,
Brushing my window with a drowsy rose.
Thus once it was—not now. What have I done
To thee or left undone, that thou should'st fade
Out of my ken like glint of fairy gold—
A shadow from the pathway of the sun—
A rustle from the umbrage of the glade—
Is it that thou art false since I am old?
Well mayst thou shun, Parnassian-born, to mate
The clarity and magic of thy strain
With halting measures half-articulate,
And threnodies of pain,
Thou rider of the rainbow and the wave,
Voice of the winds and mountain solitudes,
And tutor to the nightingales who rave
Beside their sombre eggs and tawny broods
Their hearts out in the midnight of the woods.
Yet, since thy fingers once caressed my hand,
Then, beckoning ever, lured me down the track
Thy footsteps followed on the darkening wold
Toward the dim confines of this tragic land,
Whence no path leadeth through or turneth back,
Should'st thou forsake me now that I am old?
The clarity and magic of thy strain
With halting measures half-articulate,
And threnodies of pain,
Thou rider of the rainbow and the wave,
Voice of the winds and mountain solitudes,
And tutor to the nightingales who rave
Beside their sombre eggs and tawny broods
Their hearts out in the midnight of the woods.
Yet, since thy fingers once caressed my hand,
Then, beckoning ever, lured me down the track
Thy footsteps followed on the darkening wold
Toward the dim confines of this tragic land,
Whence no path leadeth through or turneth back,
Should'st thou forsake me now that I am old?
34
Old, and thy smiles are all for Youth's disport
Who hath the steeds of Morning at his call
To scour the world, yet fills his amorous Court
With masks of Carnival,
Battles of blossoms, pageantry and wine,
Jongleurs and Mimes who troll lascivious lays,
While emulous harlots round their temples twine
Bespattered chaplets of Apollo's bays.
Ah then, Farewell, if such command thy praise—
If thou art won by tawdry boys like these:
Henceforth toward other shrines my steps shall wend
Leaving thy secret altar mute and cold,
Seeking a woodland cell and hermit's frieze
Wherein to move some queen of tears to spend
Her frigid alms upon me, being old.
Who hath the steeds of Morning at his call
To scour the world, yet fills his amorous Court
With masks of Carnival,
Battles of blossoms, pageantry and wine,
Jongleurs and Mimes who troll lascivious lays,
While emulous harlots round their temples twine
Bespattered chaplets of Apollo's bays.
Ah then, Farewell, if such command thy praise—
If thou art won by tawdry boys like these:
Henceforth toward other shrines my steps shall wend
Leaving thy secret altar mute and cold,
Seeking a woodland cell and hermit's frieze
Wherein to move some queen of tears to spend
Her frigid alms upon me, being old.
Listen! Is that the carol of a bird
Cradling in air, frenzied with wind and light,
Who, on his nest, in ecstasy unblurred
Dreamed of his song all night?—
Nay, 'tis the Muse returns; at last she comes,
Waking the brimming laughter of the wells.
Midsummer-dors sail out and thrash their drums;
Tip-toe campanulas rock their peals of bells
And ringdoves croon delirious in the dells.
Mad hedgerows burst with roses; poppies spring
To flame in the last pathway of the plough;
Staid sheep-bells riot round the mountain fold;
Larks leave their sedges on more vibrant wing;
New, vivid mosses splash the sapless bough,
And I, to-day, forget that I am old.
Cradling in air, frenzied with wind and light,
Who, on his nest, in ecstasy unblurred
Dreamed of his song all night?—
Nay, 'tis the Muse returns; at last she comes,
Waking the brimming laughter of the wells.
Midsummer-dors sail out and thrash their drums;
Tip-toe campanulas rock their peals of bells
And ringdoves croon delirious in the dells.
Mad hedgerows burst with roses; poppies spring
To flame in the last pathway of the plough;
Staid sheep-bells riot round the mountain fold;
Larks leave their sedges on more vibrant wing;
New, vivid mosses splash the sapless bough,
And I, to-day, forget that I am old.
| A pageant of poets and other poems | |