 | Collected poems |  |
611
ADDITIONS AND TRANSLATIONS
612
[(Too hard it is to sing]
(Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times,
When only coin can ring,
And no one cares for rhymes!
In these untuneful times,
When only coin can ring,
And no one cares for rhymes!
Alas! for him who climbs
To Aganippe's spring:
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!
To Aganippe's spring:
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!
His kindred clip his wing;
His feet the critic limes;
If Fame her laurel bring,
Old age his forehead rimes:
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!)
His feet the critic limes;
If Fame her laurel bring,
Old age his forehead rimes:
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!)
613
ROSE, IN THE HEDGEROW GROWN
Rose, in the hedgerow grown,
Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay
Comes up from the fields new-mown,
You know it—you know it—alone,
So I gather you here to-day.
Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay
Comes up from the fields new-mown,
You know it—you know it—alone,
So I gather you here to-day.
For here—was it not here, say?—
That she came by the woodland way,
And my heart with a hope unknown
Rose?
That she came by the woodland way,
And my heart with a hope unknown
Rose?
Ah yes!—with her bright hair blown,
And her eyes like the skies of May,
And her steps like the rose-leaves strown
When the winds in the rose-trees play—
It was here—O my love!—my own
Rose!
And her eyes like the skies of May,
And her steps like the rose-leaves strown
When the winds in the rose-trees play—
It was here—O my love!—my own
Rose!
1876.
614
JULY
(Virelai Nouveau)
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
In the street the flower-girls cry;
In the street the water-carts ply;
And a fluter, with features awry,
Plays fitfully “Scots wha hae”—
And the throat of that fluter is dry;
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
In the street the water-carts ply;
And a fluter, with features awry,
Plays fitfully “Scots wha hae”—
And the throat of that fluter is dry;
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
And over the roof-tops high
Comes a waft like a dream of the May;
And a lady-bird lit on my tie,
And a cock-chafer came with the tray;
And a butterfly (no one knows why)
Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray;
And “next door” and “over the way”
The neighbours take wing and fly;
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
Comes a waft like a dream of the May;
And a lady-bird lit on my tie,
And a cock-chafer came with the tray;
And a butterfly (no one knows why)
Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray;
And “next door” and “over the way”
The neighbours take wing and fly;
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
To Buxton, the waters to try,
To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh;
And the Captain to Homburg and play
Will carry his cane and his eye;
And even Miss Morgan Lefay
Is flitting—to far Peckham Rye;
And my Grocer has gone—in a “Shay,”
And my Tailor has gone—in a “Fly”:
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh;
And the Captain to Homburg and play
Will carry his cane and his eye;
And even Miss Morgan Lefay
615
And my Grocer has gone—in a “Shay,”
And my Tailor has gone—in a “Fly”:
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
And it's O for the sea and the sky!
And it's O for the boat and the bay!
For the white foam whirling by,
And the sharp salt edge of the spray!
For the wharf where the black nets fry,
And the wrack and the oar-weed sway!
For the stroll when the moon is high
To the nook by the Flag-house gray!
For the risus ab angulo shy
From the Someone we designate “Di!”
For the moment of silence, the sigh!
“How I dote on a Moon!” “So do I!”
For the token we snatch on the sly!
(With nobody there to say Fie!)
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
And it's O for the boat and the bay!
For the white foam whirling by,
And the sharp salt edge of the spray!
For the wharf where the black nets fry,
And the wrack and the oar-weed sway!
For the stroll when the moon is high
To the nook by the Flag-house gray!
For the risus ab angulo shy
From the Someone we designate “Di!”
For the moment of silence, the sigh!
“How I dote on a Moon!” “So do I!”
For the token we snatch on the sly!
(With nobody there to say Fie!)
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
So Phyllis, the fawn-footed, hie
For a Hansom. Ere close of the day
Between us a “world” must lie:
Good-bye to the Town! Good-bye!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
For a Hansom. Ere close of the day
Between us a “world” must lie:
Good-bye to the Town! Good-bye!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
1876.
616
A FABLE (IN THE MANNER OF MR. JOHN GAY)
How much would end in mode abrupt,
If listeners might but interrupt!
Once in a corner of the lawn,
When none was stirring with the dawn,
Save Betty, who not less, alas!
Still lingered at her looking-glass,
A Tortoise of didactic habits
Addressed some half-a-dozen Rabbits.
If listeners might but interrupt!
Once in a corner of the lawn,
When none was stirring with the dawn,
Save Betty, who not less, alas!
Still lingered at her looking-glass,
A Tortoise of didactic habits
Addressed some half-a-dozen Rabbits.
It was a Tortoise who, 'tis said,
Contrived to break a wise man's head;
Since then the sect, report avers,
Have set up for Philosophers.
Contrived to break a wise man's head;
Since then the sect, report avers,
Have set up for Philosophers.
No harm in this one could be found;
He weighed so much; was so much round;
Not slower than his kin, or quicker
(Although his shell was somewhat thicker)
And wearing just that look of thought
Which speaks profundity,—or nought,
He weighed so much; was so much round;
Not slower than his kin, or quicker
(Although his shell was somewhat thicker)
And wearing just that look of thought
Which speaks profundity,—or nought,
“My text (he said) is Promptitude.”
He stretched his throat, and thus pursued:
“In this discourse I hope to bring
Before you Promptitude the Thing;
Next, if my limits space afford,
I shall take Promptitude the Word;
Lastly, to make my meaning better,
I shall examine every Letter.
He stretched his throat, and thus pursued:
“In this discourse I hope to bring
Before you Promptitude the Thing;
Next, if my limits space afford,
I shall take Promptitude the Word;
Lastly, to make my meaning better,
I shall examine every Letter.
617
“And first, my Friends, however viewed,
How beautiful is Promptitude!
How are we quickened, roused, renewed,
By dwelling upon Promptitude!
In short, how much may we discover
By simply saying the word over!
How beautiful is Promptitude!
How are we quickened, roused, renewed,
By dwelling upon Promptitude!
In short, how much may we discover
By simply saying the word over!
“How much, too, in this vale below,
To this one quality we owe!
'Twas Promptitude the battles won
Of Cæsar, and Napoleon;
By Promptitude to-day we boast
The blessings of the Penny Post;
By Promptitude (I dare affirm)
The early bird secures the worm. . . .”
To this one quality we owe!
'Twas Promptitude the battles won
Of Cæsar, and Napoleon;
By Promptitude to-day we boast
The blessings of the Penny Post;
By Promptitude (I dare affirm)
The early bird secures the worm. . . .”
The Rabbits are a docile race,
And patient under commonplace;
But here, one rather puzzle-pated
In Gallic style “interpellated”:
“If Promptitude so much can do,
Why don't you try the practice, too?”
And patient under commonplace;
But here, one rather puzzle-pated
In Gallic style “interpellated”:
“If Promptitude so much can do,
Why don't you try the practice, too?”
This was, as Hamlet says, “a hit”;
Clergy was posed by Mother-wit.
The Tortoise the horizon scanned;
He had no repartee at hand;
So, finding inspiration fail,
He drew his head in, then his tail.
His audience scampered off in glee:
Risu solvuntur tabulae.
Clergy was posed by Mother-wit.
The Tortoise the horizon scanned;
He had no repartee at hand;
So, finding inspiration fail,
He drew his head in, then his tail.
His audience scampered off in glee:
Risu solvuntur tabulae.
1877.
618
ON A PICTURE BY HOPPNER
(MRS. GWYN—GOLDSMITH'S “JESSAMY BRIDE”)
“And you went once with myrtle crowned!”
You once were she, for whom
Poor Goldsmith's gentle genius found
That name of jasmine-bloom!
You once were she, for whom
Poor Goldsmith's gentle genius found
That name of jasmine-bloom!
How strange it seems! You whom he loved,
You who were breathing, vital,
Not feigned in books, for us have proved
Scarce but a fragrant title;
You who were breathing, vital,
Not feigned in books, for us have proved
Scarce but a fragrant title;
A shade too shadowy far to stand
Beside the girl Primroses—
Beside the dear old Vicar, and
Our more-than-brother, Moses!
Beside the girl Primroses—
Beside the dear old Vicar, and
Our more-than-brother, Moses!
We cannot guess your voice, who know
Scamp Tony's view-halloo;
For us e'en thin Beau Tibbs must show
More palpable than you!
Scamp Tony's view-halloo;
For us e'en thin Beau Tibbs must show
More palpable than you!
Yet some scant news we have. You came,
When that kind soul had fled;
You begged his hair; you kept his name
Long on your lips, 'tis said;
When that kind soul had fled;
You begged his hair; you kept his name
Long on your lips, 'tis said;
619
You lived—and died. Or when, or how,
Who asks! This age of ours
But marks your grass-grown headstone now
By Goldsmith's jasmine flowers!
Who asks! This age of ours
But marks your grass-grown headstone now
This is a poetical license, for there is a “quite typical tablet” to the “Jessamy Bride” in Weybridge Parish Church, where she lies with her mother and sister, “Little Comedy.” I take this information from a very interesting paper on “The Hornecks,” by H. P. K. Skipton, in the Connoisseur for September, 1910.
By Goldsmith's jasmine flowers!
1883.
620
ON THE BELFRY TOWER
A SKETCH
“Look down the road. You see that mound
Rise on the right, its grassy round
Broken as by a scar?”
Rise on the right, its grassy round
Broken as by a scar?”
(We stood,
Where every landscape-lover should,
High on the gray old belfry's lead,
Scored with rude names, and to the tread
Waved like a sea. Below us spread
Cool grave-stones, watched by one great yew.
To right were ricks; thatched roofs a few;
Next came the rectory, with its lawn
And nestling schoolhouse; next, withdrawn
Beyond a maze of apple boughs,
The long, low-latticed Manor-house.
The wide door showed an antlered hall;
Then, over roof and chimney stack,
You caught the fish-pond at the back,
The roses, and the old red wall.
Behind, the Dorset ridges go
With straggling, wind-clipped trees, and so
The eye came down the slope to follow
The white road winding in the hollow
Beside the mound of which he spoke.)
Where every landscape-lover should,
High on the gray old belfry's lead,
Scored with rude names, and to the tread
Waved like a sea. Below us spread
Cool grave-stones, watched by one great yew.
To right were ricks; thatched roofs a few;
Next came the rectory, with its lawn
And nestling schoolhouse; next, withdrawn
Beyond a maze of apple boughs,
The long, low-latticed Manor-house.
The wide door showed an antlered hall;
Then, over roof and chimney stack,
You caught the fish-pond at the back,
The roses, and the old red wall.
Behind, the Dorset ridges go
With straggling, wind-clipped trees, and so
The eye came down the slope to follow
The white road winding in the hollow
Beside the mound of which he spoke.)
621
“There,” said the Rector, “from the town
The Roundheads rode across the down.
Sir Miles—'twas then Sir Miles's day—
Was posted farther south, and lay
Watching at Weymouth; but his son—
Rupert by name—an only one,
The veriest youth, it would appear,
Scrambling about for jackdaws here,
Spied them a league off. People say,
Scorning the tedious turret-way
(Or else because the butler's care
Had turned the key to keep him there),
He slid down by the rain-pipe. Then,
Arming the hinds and serving-men
With half-pike and with harquebuss,
Snatched from the wainscot's overplus,
Himself in rusty steel cap clad,
With flapping ear-pieces, the lad
Led them by stealth around the ridge,
So flanked the others at the bridge.
They were just six to half a score,
And yet five crop-ears, if not more,
Sleep in that mound. But, sad to tell,
The boy, by some stray petronel,
Or friend's or foe's—report is vague—
Was killed; and then, for fear of plague,
Buried within twelve hours or so.
The Roundheads rode across the down.
Sir Miles—'twas then Sir Miles's day—
Was posted farther south, and lay
Watching at Weymouth; but his son—
Rupert by name—an only one,
The veriest youth, it would appear,
Scrambling about for jackdaws here,
Spied them a league off. People say,
Scorning the tedious turret-way
(Or else because the butler's care
Had turned the key to keep him there),
He slid down by the rain-pipe. Then,
Arming the hinds and serving-men
With half-pike and with harquebuss,
Snatched from the wainscot's overplus,
Himself in rusty steel cap clad,
With flapping ear-pieces, the lad
Led them by stealth around the ridge,
So flanked the others at the bridge.
They were just six to half a score,
And yet five crop-ears, if not more,
Sleep in that mound. But, sad to tell,
The boy, by some stray petronel,
Or friend's or foe's—report is vague—
Was killed; and then, for fear of plague,
Buried within twelve hours or so.
“Such is the story. Shall we go?
I have his portrait here below:
Grave, olive-cheeked, a Southern face.
His mother, who was dead, had been
Something, I think, about the Queen,
Long ere the day of that disgrace,
Saddest our England yet has seen.
Poor child! The last of all his race.”
I have his portrait here below:
Grave, olive-cheeked, a Southern face.
622
Something, I think, about the Queen,
Long ere the day of that disgrace,
Saddest our England yet has seen.
Poor child! The last of all his race.”
1887.
623
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH
The author of Dorothy, a Country Story, and the friend
of R. D. Blackmore, Arthur Joseph Munby, to whom
these verses were inscribed, died at Buttercup Farm,
Pyrford, near Ripley, in Surrey, on Saturday, January 29,
1910, aged 81. He lies in the quiet little churchyard of
Pyrford Church, of which there is a picture (by Mr. Hugh
Thomson) in Mr. Eric Parker's Highways and Byways
in Surrey, 1908, p. 232. “Ah! molliter ossa quiescant!”
The author of Dorothy, a Country Story, and the friend of R. D. Blackmore, Arthur Joseph Munby, to whom these verses were inscribed, died at Buttercup Farm, Pyrford, near Ripley, in Surrey, on Saturday, January 29, 1910, aged 81. He lies in the quiet little churchyard of Pyrford Church, of which there is a picture (by Mr. Hugh Thomson) in Mr. Eric Parker's Highways and Byways in Surrey, 1908, p. 232. “Ah! molliter ossa quiescant!”
BY A SUMMER-DAY STOIC
(To ARTHUR MUNBY)
“Cultivons notre jardin.”
—Voltaire
Across my Neighbour's waste of whins
For roods the rabbit burrows;
You scarce can see where first begins
His range of steaming furrows;
I am not sad that he is great,
He does not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
For roods the rabbit burrows;
You scarce can see where first begins
His range of steaming furrows;
I am not sad that he is great,
He does not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
I envy not my Neighbour's trees;
To me it nowise matters
Whether in east or western breeze
His “dry-tongued laurel patters.”
Me too the bays become; but still,
I sleep without narcotics,
Though he should bind his brows at will
With odorous exotics.
To me it nowise matters
Whether in east or western breeze
His “dry-tongued laurel patters.”
Me too the bays become; but still,
I sleep without narcotics,
Though he should bind his brows at will
With odorous exotics.
Let Goodman Greenfat, glad to dine,
With true bon-vivant's benison,
Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine—
His virtue and his venison:
I care not! Still for me the gorse
Will blaze about the thicket;
The Common's purblind pauper horse
Will peer across my wicket;
With true bon-vivant's benison,
Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine—
His virtue and his venison:
624
Will blaze about the thicket;
The Common's purblind pauper horse
Will peer across my wicket;
For me the geese will thread the furze,
In hissing file, to follow
The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs
Across the breezy hollow;
And look, where smoke of gipsy huts
Curls blue against the bushes—
That little copse is famed for nuts,
For nightingales and thrushes!
In hissing file, to follow
The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs
Across the breezy hollow;
And look, where smoke of gipsy huts
Curls blue against the bushes—
That little copse is famed for nuts,
For nightingales and thrushes!
But hark! I hear my Neighbour's drums!
Some dreary deputation
Of Malice or of Wonder comes
In guise of Adulation.
Poor Neighbour! Though you “call the tune,”
One little pinch of care is
Enough to clog a whole balloon
Of aura popularis;
Some dreary deputation
Of Malice or of Wonder comes
In guise of Adulation.
Poor Neighbour! Though you “call the tune,”
One little pinch of care is
Enough to clog a whole balloon
Of aura popularis;
Not amulets, nor epiderm
As tough as armadillo's,
Can shield you if Suspicion worm
Between your poppied pillows;
And though on ortolans you sup,
Beside you shadowy sitters
Can pour in your ungenial cup
Unstimulating bitters.
As tough as armadillo's,
Can shield you if Suspicion worm
Between your poppied pillows;
And though on ortolans you sup,
Beside you shadowy sitters
Can pour in your ungenial cup
Unstimulating bitters.
625
Let Envy crave, and Avarice save;
Let Folly ride her circuit;
I hold that—on this side the grave—
To find one's vein and work it,
To keeps one's wants both fit and few,
To cringe to no condition,
To count a truthful friend or two—
May bound a man's ambition.
Let Folly ride her circuit;
I hold that—on this side the grave—
To find one's vein and work it,
To keeps one's wants both fit and few,
To cringe to no condition,
To count a truthful friend or two—
May bound a man's ambition.
Swell, South-wind, swell my Neighbour's sails;
Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers;
If Fate has made his rôle the whale's,
And me the minnow's offers,
I am not sad that he is great;
He need not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers;
If Fate has made his rôle the whale's,
And me the minnow's offers,
I am not sad that he is great;
He need not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
1887.
626
THE HOLOCAUST
“Heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen.”
—Maud.
Above my mantelshelf there stands
A little bronze sarcophagus,
Carved by its unknown artist's hands,
With this one word—Amoribus!
A little bronze sarcophagus,
Carved by its unknown artist's hands,
With this one word—Amoribus!
Along the lid a Love lies dead—
Across his breast his broken bow;
Elsewhere they dig his tiny bed,
And round it women wailing go:
Across his breast his broken bow;
Elsewhere they dig his tiny bed,
And round it women wailing go:
A trick, a toy—mere “Paris ware,”
Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim,
Wrought in a fit of mock despair,
With sight, it may be something dim,
Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim,
Wrought in a fit of mock despair,
With sight, it may be something dim,
Because the love of yesterday,
Had left the grenier, light Musette,
And she who made the morrow gay,
Lutine or Mimi, was not yet—
Had left the grenier, light Musette,
And she who made the morrow gay,
Lutine or Mimi, was not yet—
A toy. But ah! what hopes deferred,
(O friend, with sympathetic eye!)
What vows (now decently interred)
Within that “narrow compass” lie!
(O friend, with sympathetic eye!)
What vows (now decently interred)
Within that “narrow compass” lie!
627
For there, last night, not sadly, too,
With one live ember I cremated
A nest of cooing billets-doux,
That just two decades back were dated.
With one live ember I cremated
A nest of cooing billets-doux,
That just two decades back were dated.
1889.
628
THE SONG OF THE SEA WIND
How it sings, sings, sings,
Blowing sharply from the sea-line,
With an edge of salt that stings;
How it laughs aloud, and passes,
As it cuts the close cliff-grasses;
How it sings again, and whistles
As it shakes the stout sea-thistles—
How it sings!
Blowing sharply from the sea-line,
With an edge of salt that stings;
How it laughs aloud, and passes,
As it cuts the close cliff-grasses;
How it sings again, and whistles
As it shakes the stout sea-thistles—
How it sings!
How it shrieks, shrieks, shrieks,
In the crannies of the headland,
In the gashes of the creeks;
How it shrieks once more, and catches
Up the yellow foam in patches:
How it whirls it out and over
To the corn-field and the clover—
How it shrieks!
In the crannies of the headland,
In the gashes of the creeks;
How it shrieks once more, and catches
Up the yellow foam in patches:
How it whirls it out and over
To the corn-field and the clover—
How it shrieks!
How it roars, roars, roars,
In the iron under-caverns,
In the hollows of the shores;
How it roars anew, and thunders,
As the strong hull splits and sunders:
And the spent ship, tempest driven,
On the reef lies rent and riven—
How it roars!
In the iron under-caverns,
In the hollows of the shores;
How it roars anew, and thunders,
As the strong hull splits and sunders:
And the spent ship, tempest driven,
On the reef lies rent and riven—
How it roars!
629
How it wails, wails, wails,
In the tangle of the wreckage,
In the flapping of the sails;
How it sobs away, subsiding,
Like a tired child after chiding;
And across the ground-swell rolling,
You can hear the bell-buoy tolling—
How it wails!
In the tangle of the wreckage,
In the flapping of the sails;
How it sobs away, subsiding,
Like a tired child after chiding;
And across the ground-swell rolling,
You can hear the bell-buoy tolling—
How it wails!
630
HILL AND VALLEY
He.
“Come, let us climb to the height,
Peak after peak in the sun,
As the rays brighten, grow rosy and lighten,
Now that the thunder has done.”
Peak after peak in the sun,
As the rays brighten, grow rosy and lighten,
Now that the thunder has done.”
She.
“Nay; through the leafage, the light
Gentlier glimmers below;
See through the valley the rivulets sally,
Singing aloud as they go.”
He.
“Grandly, ah! grandly the hill
Broke the black storm on its crest;
All the cliff under went leaping the thunder,
Growling away in the west.”
She.
“Here it is restful and still;
Only the drops from the trees,
Where the shades darkle, fall slowly and sparkle,—
Here there is solace and ease.”
631
“Child, but the eagle above,
Now that the mists are withdrawn,
Never wing-weary, sails up from his eyrie,
E'en to the eye of the dawn.”
She.
“Ah, but below us the dove,
Crooning for joy on the nest,
Fills with soft slumber the leaves without number;
Shadow and quiet are best.”
632
A BALLAD OF THE QUEEN'S MAJESTY
(JUNE 22, 1897)
Name that has been thy nation's shield
On many an alien shore and sea;
Name that in many a fateful field
Has taught the stubborn foe to flee;
Promise and proof of virtues three,
Valour unvaunting, vigour, verve,
We hail thy white-winged Sovereignty,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
On many an alien shore and sea;
Name that in many a fateful field
Has taught the stubborn foe to flee;
Promise and proof of virtues three,
Valour unvaunting, vigour, verve,
We hail thy white-winged Sovereignty,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
Monarchs there are to whom men yield
Obeisance—in a bondman's key;
Monarchs whose sceptred might doth wield
Only the rod of Tyranny;
We, in free homage, being free,—
We joy that naught can shake or curve
Thy rectitude of Royalty,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
Obeisance—in a bondman's key;
Monarchs whose sceptred might doth wield
Only the rod of Tyranny;
We, in free homage, being free,—
We joy that naught can shake or curve
Thy rectitude of Royalty,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
Therefore from all our towers be pealed
The note of greeting; therefore be,
As from a thousand springs unsealed,
Outpoured the tide of mirth and glee;
For surely not to-day shall we
From sixty years' allegiance swerve,
Or shame thy twice-told Jubilee,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
The note of greeting; therefore be,
As from a thousand springs unsealed,
Outpoured the tide of mirth and glee;
633
From sixty years' allegiance swerve,
Or shame thy twice-told Jubilee,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
Envoy.
Queen!—to whom true men bend the knee,Our island heart and brain and nerve
Are loyal—loyal unto thee,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
1897.
634
TO A FRIEND (ON RECEIVING HIS “COMPLETE POEMS”)
Not yet “complete,” old Friend, not yet!
What Imp of the Perverse could set
That fateful epithet before
A reader who must wish for more!
What Imp of the Perverse could set
That fateful epithet before
A reader who must wish for more!
“Complete,” in truth, each piece may be
Seen in its several symmetry;
Complete as are the stones that gem
The rondure of the diadem.
Seen in its several symmetry;
Complete as are the stones that gem
The rondure of the diadem.
But who of men shall so forecast
His latest as to call it last?
Or, if he make an end, be sure
'Tis not profanely premature?
His latest as to call it last?
Or, if he make an end, be sure
'Tis not profanely premature?
None. For while yet we breathe and speak,
The Unachieved is still to seek;
Nor may the quest relax while Hope
Still hides in every horoscope!
The Unachieved is still to seek;
Nor may the quest relax while Hope
Still hides in every horoscope!
1909.
635
THE SONNET OF THE MOUNTAIN
(AFTER MELLIN DE SAINT GELLAIS)
When from afar these mountain tops I view,
I do but mete mine own distress thereby:
High is their head, and my desire is high;
Firm is their foot, my faith is certain too.
I do but mete mine own distress thereby:
High is their head, and my desire is high;
Firm is their foot, my faith is certain too.
E'en as the winds about their summits blue,
From me escapes betimes the wistful sigh;
And as from them the brooks and streamlets hie,
So from mine eyes the tears run down anew.
From me escapes betimes the wistful sigh;
And as from them the brooks and streamlets hie,
So from mine eyes the tears run down anew.
A thousand flocks upon them feed and stray;
As many loves within me see the day,
And all my heart for pasture ground divide.
As many loves within me see the day,
And all my heart for pasture ground divide.
No fruit have they, my lot as fruitless is;
And 'twixt us now nought diverse is but this—
In them the snows, in me the fires abide.
And 'twixt us now nought diverse is but this—
In them the snows, in me the fires abide.
1886.
636
REGRETS
(AFTER JOACHIM DU BELLAY)
Happy the man, like wise Ulysses tried,
Or him of yore that gat the Fleece of Gold,
Who comes at last, from travels manifold,
Among his kith and kindred to abide!
Or him of yore that gat the Fleece of Gold,
Who comes at last, from travels manifold,
Among his kith and kindred to abide!
When shall I see, from my small hamlet-side,
Once more the blue and curling smoke unrolled?
When the poor boundaries of my house behold—
Poor, but to me as any province wide?
Once more the blue and curling smoke unrolled?
When the poor boundaries of my house behold—
Poor, but to me as any province wide?
Ah, more than these imperious piles of Rome
Laugh the low portals of my boyhood's home!
More than their marble must its slate-roof be!
Laugh the low portals of my boyhood's home!
More than their marble must its slate-roof be!
More than the Tiber's flood my Loire is still!
More than the Palatine my native hill,
And the soft air of Anjou than the sea!
More than the Palatine my native hill,
And the soft air of Anjou than the sea!
1886.
637
REGRETS
(AFTER JOACHIM DU BELLAY)
Alas! where now doth scorn of fortune hide?
And where the heart that still must conqueror be;
Where the strong hope of immortality,
And that fine flame to common souls denied?
And where the heart that still must conqueror be;
Where the strong hope of immortality,
And that fine flame to common souls denied?
Where is the joyance which, at eventide,
Through the brown night the silver moon could see,
With all the Nine, whenas, in fancy free,
I led them dance, some sacred stream beside?
Through the brown night the silver moon could see,
With all the Nine, whenas, in fancy free,
I led them dance, some sacred stream beside?
Dame Fortune now is mistress of my soul,
And this my heart that I would fain control
Is grown the thrall of many a fear and sigh.
And this my heart that I would fain control
Is grown the thrall of many a fear and sigh.
For after-time no more have I desire;
No more within I feel that ancient fire,
And the sweet Muses turn from me, and fly.
No more within I feel that ancient fire,
And the sweet Muses turn from me, and fly.
1886.
638
TO MONSIEUR DE LA MOTHE LE VAYER, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SON
From pp. 266–7 of Sonnets of Europe, I transcribe
Mr. Waddington's note: “François de la Mothe le
Vayer, member of the French Academy, and preceptor of
Louis XIV., lost his son in 1664, and Molière, in forwarding
him this sonnet, observes,—‘Vous voyez bien, Monsieur,
que je m'écarte fort du chemin qu'on suit d'ordinaire en
pareille rencontre, que le Sonnet que je vous envoye n'est rien
moins qu'une consolation; mais j'ay cru qu'il falloit en user
de la sorte avec vous & que c'est consoler un Philosophe que
de luy justifier ses larmes, & de mettre sa douleur en liberté. Si je n'ay pas trouvé d'assez fortes raisons pour
affranchir vostre tendresse des sévères leçons de la Philosophie,
& pour vous obliger à pleurer sans contrainte, il
en faut accuser le peu d'éloquence d'un homme qui ne
sçauroit persuader ce qu'il sçait si bien faire.’”
From pp. 266–7 of Sonnets of Europe, I transcribe Mr. Waddington's note: “François de la Mothe le Vayer, member of the French Academy, and preceptor of Louis XIV., lost his son in 1664, and Molière, in forwarding him this sonnet, observes,—‘Vous voyez bien, Monsieur, que je m'écarte fort du chemin qu'on suit d'ordinaire en pareille rencontre, que le Sonnet que je vous envoye n'est rien moins qu'une consolation; mais j'ay cru qu'il falloit en user de la sorte avec vous & que c'est consoler un Philosophe que de luy justifier ses larmes, & de mettre sa douleur en liberté. Si je n'ay pas trouvé d'assez fortes raisons pour affranchir vostre tendresse des sévères leçons de la Philosophie, & pour vous obliger à pleurer sans contrainte, il en faut accuser le peu d'éloquence d'un homme qui ne sçauroit persuader ce qu'il sçait si bien faire.’”
(AFTER MOLIÈRE)
Let thy tears flow, Le Vayer, let them flow:—
None of scant cause thy sorrowing can accuse,
Since, losing that which thou for aye dost lose,
E'en the most wise might find a ground for woe.
None of scant cause thy sorrowing can accuse,
Since, losing that which thou for aye dost lose,
E'en the most wise might find a ground for woe.
Vainly we strive with precepts to forgo
The drops of pity that are Pity's dues;
And Nature's self, indignant, doth refuse
To count for fortitude that heartless show.
The drops of pity that are Pity's dues;
And Nature's self, indignant, doth refuse
To count for fortitude that heartless show.
No grief, alas! can now bring back again
The son too dear, by Death untimely ta'en;
Yet, not the less, his loss is hard to bear,
The son too dear, by Death untimely ta'en;
Yet, not the less, his loss is hard to bear,
Graced as he was by all the world reveres,
Large heart, keen wit, a lofty soul and rare,—
—Surely these claim immitigable tears!
Large heart, keen wit, a lofty soul and rare,—
—Surely these claim immitigable tears!
1886.
639
“ALBI, NE DOLEAS”
(HOR., 1. 33)
Love mocks us all. Then cast aside
These tuneful plaints, my Albius tried
For heartless Glycera, from thee
Fled to a younger lover. See,
Low-browed Lycoris burns denied
These tuneful plaints, my Albius tried
For heartless Glycera, from thee
Fled to a younger lover. See,
Low-browed Lycoris burns denied
For Cyrus; he—though goats shall bide
With wolves ere she in him confide—
Turns, with base suit, to Pholoë:—
Love mocks us all!
With wolves ere she in him confide—
Turns, with base suit, to Pholoë:—
Love mocks us all!
So Venus wills, and joys to guide
'Neath brazen yoke pairs ill-allied
In form and mind. So linked she me
(Whom worthier wooed) to Myrtale,
Fair, but less kind than Hadria's tide:—
Love mocks us all!
'Neath brazen yoke pairs ill-allied
In form and mind. So linked she me
(Whom worthier wooed) to Myrtale,
Fair, but less kind than Hadria's tide:—
Love mocks us all!
1887.
640
AD LYRAM
(HOR., 1. 32)
The Muses call! Now, Shell, inspire
If aught, to last this year and more,
Lightly, we two have wrought before;—
Come now, a song like this whose fire
If aught, to last this year and more,
Lightly, we two have wrought before;—
Come now, a song like this whose fire
First touched thee, from th' Aonian choir
Catching, thro' camp and tempest's roar,
The Muses' call,—
Catching, thro' camp and tempest's roar,
The Muses' call,—
Singing the Queen of all desire,
Bacchus, and Cupid flutt'ring o'er,
And Lycus: thou, that Phoebus bore,
Dear to Jove's feast—O aid me, Lyre!
The Muses call!
Bacchus, and Cupid flutt'ring o'er,
And Lycus: thou, that Phoebus bore,
Dear to Jove's feast—O aid me, Lyre!
The Muses call!
1887.
641
THE BALLAD OF BITTER FRUIT
(AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE)
In the wood with its wide arms overspread,
Where the wan morn strives with the waning night,
The dim shapes strung like a chaplet dread
Shudder, and sway to the left, the right;
The soft rays touch them with fingers white
As they swing in the leaves of the oak-tree browned,
Fruits that the Turk and the Moor would fright—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Where the wan morn strives with the waning night,
The dim shapes strung like a chaplet dread
Shudder, and sway to the left, the right;
The soft rays touch them with fingers white
As they swing in the leaves of the oak-tree browned,
Fruits that the Turk and the Moor would fright—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
All of these poor folk, stark and sped,
Dreaming (who knows!) of what dead despight,
In the freshening breeze by the morning fed
Twirl and spin to the mad wind's might;
Over them wavers the warm sun bright;
Look on them, look on them, skies profound,
Look how they dance in the morning light!—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Dreaming (who knows!) of what dead despight,
In the freshening breeze by the morning fed
Twirl and spin to the mad wind's might;
Over them wavers the warm sun bright;
Look on them, look on them, skies profound,
Look how they dance in the morning light!—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Dead, these dead, in a language dead,
Cry to their fellows in evil plight,
Day meanwhile thro' the lift o'erhead
Dazzles and flames at the blue vault's height;
Into the air the dews take flight;
Ravens and crows with a jubilant sound
Over them, over them, hover and light;—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Cry to their fellows in evil plight,
Day meanwhile thro' the lift o'erhead
Dazzles and flames at the blue vault's height;
642
Ravens and crows with a jubilant sound
Over them, over them, hover and light;—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Envoy.
Prince, we wot of no sorrier sightUnder the whispering leafage found,
Bodies that hang like a hideous blight;—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
1889.
643
TO MAECENAS
WITH AN INVITATION
(HOR., 1. 20)
But common Sabine on the board
In homely ware you'll find. Yet stored
And sealed in Grecian jar 'twas first,
Dear Knight, what time your praises burst
From the full circus' serried ranks,
And your own Tiber from his banks,
And the great Mount, rang back reply.
In homely ware you'll find. Yet stored
And sealed in Grecian jar 'twas first,
Dear Knight, what time your praises burst
From the full circus' serried ranks,
And your own Tiber from his banks,
And the great Mount, rang back reply.
No Caecuban like yours have I;
No press of Cales yet for me
Crushed the fat grape. These cups of mine
Neither the hills of Formiae
Have tempered, nor Falernian vine.
No press of Cales yet for me
Crushed the fat grape. These cups of mine
Neither the hills of Formiae
Have tempered, nor Falernian vine.
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