 | Youthful Verses by Francis Thompson |  |
2
Lyric to have been inserted in “HELIAS.”
My window is open for thee, sweet love,
My window is open for thee,
The bindweed rope on the tree doth move,
As the breezes come and flee;
Wert thou here, wert thou here, I would cast away fear,
And descend to the garden to thee.
My window is open for thee,
The bindweed rope on the tree doth move,
As the breezes come and flee;
Wert thou here, wert thou here, I would cast away fear,
And descend to the garden to thee.
For my heart craves still for love, sweet life,
And my thought to seek thee flies;
Though the moon like a silver dove, sweet life,
Broods in tender light o'er the skies,
And the stars shine bright, in my heart there is night
For the want of the light of thine eyes,
Of thy face more fair than the silver moon,
And the starlike light of thine eyes.
And my thought to seek thee flies;
Though the moon like a silver dove, sweet life,
Broods in tender light o'er the skies,
And the stars shine bright, in my heart there is night
For the want of the light of thine eyes,
Of thy face more fair than the silver moon,
And the starlike light of thine eyes.
And so my casement is wide,
And there comes into my room
From the copse by the basement's side
The lilac's sweet perfume,
The rich geranium scent,
And the breath of the rose in bloom;
'Tis the spirit of love from heaven lent
That floats into my room,
'Tis the spirit of love from the heaven above
Floats in on the wings of that soft perfume.
And there comes into my room
From the copse by the basement's side
The lilac's sweet perfume,
The rich geranium scent,
And the breath of the rose in bloom;
'Tis the spirit of love from heaven lent
That floats into my room,
'Tis the spirit of love from the heaven above
Floats in on the wings of that soft perfume.
The laden laburnum stoops
In clusters gold as thy hair,
The maiden lily droops
—The fairest where all are fair,
The thick-massed fuchsias show
In red and in white—thy hue!
In a pendant cloud they spread and glow
Of crimson, and white, and crimson and blue.
In clusters gold as thy hair,
The maiden lily droops
—The fairest where all are fair,
The thick-massed fuchsias show
In red and in white—thy hue!
In a pendant cloud they spread and glow
Of crimson, and white, and crimson and blue.
3
But thou art alone my beautiful,
The darling, the joy of my soul!
And here have I stood in the night-air's lull
While into my heart there stole
A whisper, a thought, with joy full-fraught,
Which made that sick heart whole.
The darling, the joy of my soul!
And here have I stood in the night-air's lull
While into my heart there stole
A whisper, a thought, with joy full-fraught,
Which made that sick heart whole.
For I said, “Perchance my darling
Stands out in her garden tonight,
And the sleeping flowers around her
Have opened their eyes at the sight;
And the wren and the thrush have looked out from the bush,
For oh well, and oh well they know
Her footfall so light, so soft, so faint,
That the harebell she trod on sprang up without taint,
And the violet scarce bent low.
Stands out in her garden tonight,
And the sleeping flowers around her
Have opened their eyes at the sight;
And the wren and the thrush have looked out from the bush,
For oh well, and oh well they know
Her footfall so light, so soft, so faint,
That the harebell she trod on sprang up without taint,
And the violet scarce bent low.
And I lean far out of my window,
Thinking, sweet, of thee,
And a message I say to the winds that play
On the garden and over the lea:
“Breathe low, soft winds,
Waft these from me,
To her whom well you know to tell,
Waft these from me.”
Thinking, sweet, of thee,
And a message I say to the winds that play
On the garden and over the lea:
“Breathe low, soft winds,
Waft these from me,
To her whom well you know to tell,
Waft these from me.”
But see where the dawn breaks yonder
And the light runs over the skies;
Too long was't delayed, too long have I stayed,
Now by that brighter light of thine eyes
I will come with the speed of wonder
And take thee by surprise!
And the light runs over the skies;
Too long was't delayed, too long have I stayed,
Now by that brighter light of thine eyes
I will come with the speed of wonder
And take thee by surprise!
For our night is gone, our night is done,
Our night is over and flies,
Our night is away, mount, mount, fair Sun,
Shine out where my true love lies;
For the pale Moon slopes, now arise, bright hopes,
Bright dawning hopes arise!
Now the morn's bird crows, and the daisy opes,
Our night is over and flies,
Our night is away, mount, mount, fair Sun,
Shine out where my true love lies;
For the pale Moon slopes, now arise, bright hopes,
Bright dawning hopes arise!
Now the morn's bird crows, and the daisy opes,
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Now the Marigolds ope their eyes:
Come away, come away, my darling,
Come away where thy true-love sighs,
Come away, come away, my light, my day,
Where the heart of thy true-love sighs
To be joined to thy heart, never, never to part,
To be joined by unending ties,
To be bound to thy heart, never, never to part,
By the bond of a love that shall never more start,
Till death shall come with his fatal dart,
And the one heart withers and dies.
Come away, come away, my darling,
Come away where thy true-love sighs,
Come away, come away, my light, my day,
Where the heart of thy true-love sighs
To be joined to thy heart, never, never to part,
To be joined by unending ties,
To be bound to thy heart, never, never to part,
By the bond of a love that shall never more start,
Till death shall come with his fatal dart,
And the one heart withers and dies.
FINCHALE.
I sing the tale of that which once hath been
And is no longer, what my mind has seen
In quiet musing, but a vision torn
From the dim past, ere yet the shade forlorn
Of desolation settled on the land,
When all yet dreamed not of the spoiler's hand.
I sing the past. Ye fair, wise sisterhood,
From whose bright hands comes aught of joy or good
Which singer yet has sung, make quick my thoughts.
And thou, O Pan, whose dwelling must be sought
Deep in some vast-grown forest, where the trees
Are wet with cold, large dew-drops, in the breeze
Where hangs dark moss in rain-steeped tresses long,
Aid me, O aid, to body forth in song
A scene as fair as thou in all thy days
Hast gazed upon, or ever yet wilt gaze.
And is no longer, what my mind has seen
In quiet musing, but a vision torn
From the dim past, ere yet the shade forlorn
Of desolation settled on the land,
When all yet dreamed not of the spoiler's hand.
I sing the past. Ye fair, wise sisterhood,
From whose bright hands comes aught of joy or good
Which singer yet has sung, make quick my thoughts.
And thou, O Pan, whose dwelling must be sought
Deep in some vast-grown forest, where the trees
Are wet with cold, large dew-drops, in the breeze
Where hangs dark moss in rain-steeped tresses long,
Aid me, O aid, to body forth in song
A scene as fair as thou in all thy days
Hast gazed upon, or ever yet wilt gaze.
Full in a spot which the glad sunlight laves,
There spreads a wood, whose undulating waves
Of foliage thick shine in the moving light
Which shifts from tree to tree along their height:
And on one side a bright, chill stream runs by,
From which sometimes a salmon will shoot high
—A bar of light—the spray from off it thrown,
Makes transient rainbows in the morning sun,
Then sinks with pleasant pattering— [OMITTED]
There spreads a wood, whose undulating waves
Of foliage thick shine in the moving light
Which shifts from tree to tree along their height:
And on one side a bright, chill stream runs by,
From which sometimes a salmon will shoot high
—A bar of light—the spray from off it thrown,
Makes transient rainbows in the morning sun,
Then sinks with pleasant pattering— [OMITTED]
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SONG OF THE NEGLECTED POET.
Still, be still within my breast, thou ever, ever wailing heart;
Hush, O hush within my bosom, beating, beating heart of mine!
Lay aside thy useless grief and brood not o'er thy aching smart.
Wherefore but for sick hearts, healing, came down Poesy divine?
Hush, O hush within my bosom, beating, beating heart of mine!
Lay aside thy useless grief and brood not o'er thy aching smart.
Wherefore but for sick hearts, healing, came down Poesy divine?
Mourn not, soul, o'er hopes departed, efforts spent, and spent in vain;
On a glorious strife we entered, and 'twas for a priceless stake;
Well 'twas foughten, well we've struggled, and, though all our hopes are slain,
Yet, my soul, we have a treasure not the banded world can take.
On a glorious strife we entered, and 'twas for a priceless stake;
Well 'twas foughten, well we've struggled, and, though all our hopes are slain,
Yet, my soul, we have a treasure not the banded world can take.
Poesy, that glorious treasure! Poesy, my own for e'er!
Mine and thine, my soul, for ever, ours though all else may be gone;
Like the Sun it shone upon us when our life began so fair,
Like the Moon it stays to cheer us now our night is almost done.
Mine and thine, my soul, for ever, ours though all else may be gone;
Like the Sun it shone upon us when our life began so fair,
Like the Moon it stays to cheer us now our night is almost done.
Think, my Soul, how we were happy with it in the days of yore,
When upon the golden mountains we saw throned the mighty Sun,
When the gracious Moon at night time taught us deep and mystic lore,
And the holy, wise old forests spoke to us and us alone.
When upon the golden mountains we saw throned the mighty Sun,
When the gracious Moon at night time taught us deep and mystic lore,
And the holy, wise old forests spoke to us and us alone.
When the streamlet tinkled gladness all to us, and none beside;
When for us the sweet birds flooded air with gurgling rapture wild:
When there was no living creature that would from our presence glide,
For they knew the Poet brother unto Nature's every child.
When for us the sweet birds flooded air with gurgling rapture wild:
When there was no living creature that would from our presence glide,
For they knew the Poet brother unto Nature's every child.
Yes, I loved them! And not least I loved to look on Ocean's face,
When he lay in peace sublime and evening's shades were stealing on,
When his child, the King of Light, from Heaven stooped to his embrace,
And his locks were tangled with the golden tresses of the Sun,
When he lay in peace sublime and evening's shades were stealing on,
When his child, the King of Light, from Heaven stooped to his embrace,
And his locks were tangled with the golden tresses of the Sun,
Such thoughts, Soul, are now our treasures, such the joys that we have left;
O my Soul, and who shall dare to call us wretched and forlorn?
What though honours, riches, pleasures, human hopes, all,—all are reft?
'Midst the past years' garnered memories we can laugh the world to scorn.
O my Soul, and who shall dare to call us wretched and forlorn?
What though honours, riches, pleasures, human hopes, all,—all are reft?
'Midst the past years' garnered memories we can laugh the world to scorn.
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THE STORMING OF CORINTH.
Now streamed the boding Crescent on the wind;
Serried, and dark, and eager, poured behind
The turbaned multitudes of Turkish war,
Scenting the destined slaughter from afar.
As when amidst the burning Ethiop land
The locust-swarms, innumerous as the sand,
Whir onwards on the desert's parching blast,
Serried, and dark, and eager, poured behind
The turbaned multitudes of Turkish war,
Scenting the destined slaughter from afar.
As when amidst the burning Ethiop land
The locust-swarms, innumerous as the sand,
Whir onwards on the desert's parching blast,
Hide the strong sun and bare the country past,
And falling still, and still advancing more,
Pass, dealing ruin, to the ocean's shore,—
So countless, so destructive, rushed to fight
The Turkish hosts, resistless in their might.
Far other stood upon the crumbling wall,
The Christians left to meet that tempest's fall.
How few, and yet how faithful! Battered, worn,
Their armour hacked and stained, their plumes all torn.
And falling still, and still advancing more,
Pass, dealing ruin, to the ocean's shore,—
So countless, so destructive, rushed to fight
The Turkish hosts, resistless in their might.
Far other stood upon the crumbling wall,
The Christians left to meet that tempest's fall.
How few, and yet how faithful! Battered, worn,
Their armour hacked and stained, their plumes all torn.
SPRING.
The rugged winter, clad in snow and gloomHas fled reluctant to his northern home:
Merrily, lightly, trips in blithesome Spring,
The woods are stirring, meadows, hedgerows ring.
The glorious sky spreads boundless overhead,
Flecked with bright clouds, the east yet faintly red;
The wavy hills are laughing in the sun,
The changeful beams along their summits run,
And chequer them with tracks of shade and light,
One square deep shade, the rest all silvery white,
Another yellow, green, or russet brown,
And so the shadows chase each other down.
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WAR.
Hark, hear ye not the echoing clang of arms,The trumpet's summoning, and the drum's alarms?
So! countless squadrons crowd the glittering plain,
The exulting charger snorts, and tugs the rein,
The soaring banners flout the clouded sky,
The cannon roars, the trembling hills reply,
Thick-thronging thousands shake the gory ground,
And fallen hundreds lie in death around.
Say, whence arise these scenes of blood and woe,
From what dread source do all these evils flow?
War, only war! the cause of misery
From snow-capped Andes to the Chinese Sea;
War, only war, has been to wretched man
A baneful curse since first the world began.
Not only war is ruin to the small,
His very favourites fare the worst of all.
A SONG OF HOMILDON.
Now every man from hill and plain
Follow the banner of Percy;
For into Northumberland, trampling o'er slain,
The doughty Earl Douglas hath forayed amain,
And scorneth all ruth or mercy!
Follow the banner of Percy;
For into Northumberland, trampling o'er slain,
The doughty Earl Douglas hath forayed amain,
And scorneth all ruth or mercy!
Hotspur hath girded his harness on,
And plucked his sword from the scabbard;
He led his army to Homildon,
There, ere the ruddy moon be done,
The lion must yield to the libbard.
And plucked his sword from the scabbard;
He led his army to Homildon,
There, ere the ruddy moon be done,
The lion must yield to the libbard.
DIRGE OF DOUGLAS.
Let no ruthful burying song
Lament the Earl of Douglas,
But let his praises loud and long
Echo the rocks and hills among,
Poured from the lips of warriors strong,
The doughty Earl of Douglas!
Lament the Earl of Douglas,
But let his praises loud and long
Echo the rocks and hills among,
Poured from the lips of warriors strong,
The doughty Earl of Douglas!
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Well the Southrons know his might,
The dreadful chief of Douglas!
The English yeoman turned white
When he saw the flaming homesteads' light
Gird with a fiery ring the night;—
“'Tis the Black Earl James of Douglas!”
The dreadful chief of Douglas!
The English yeoman turned white
When he saw the flaming homesteads' light
Gird with a fiery ring the night;—
“'Tis the Black Earl James of Douglas!”
There was not a man on English ground
But feared the name of Douglas!
There was not a heart in England found
From the basest churl to the monarch crowned,
But hated as hell the very sound
Of the awful name of Douglas!
But feared the name of Douglas!
There was not a heart in England found
From the basest churl to the monarch crowned,
But hated as hell the very sound
Of the awful name of Douglas!
But the Southron kite it knew full well
The roll of the drum and the long low swell,
Of the clarion sounding the English knell
That told the march of Douglas:
And the wolf that howls as she battens on dead
Loveth the hand that oft hath fed
Herself and her cubs with a banquet red,
The weighty hand of Douglas.
The roll of the drum and the long low swell,
Of the clarion sounding the English knell
That told the march of Douglas:
And the wolf that howls as she battens on dead
Loveth the hand that oft hath fed
Herself and her cubs with a banquet red,
The weighty hand of Douglas.
Long from afar will look the kite
For the gleaming spears of Douglas!
Long, long the wolf may strain his sight
To see the banner of Scotland's fight
Tossing adown the mountain height
Proclaim the march of Douglas!
For the gleaming spears of Douglas!
Long, long the wolf may strain his sight
To see the banner of Scotland's fight
Tossing adown the mountain height
Proclaim the march of Douglas!
Bear him to his grave with a warlike pace,
Sing no sad requiem o'er him;
The mightiest he of all his race,
He is gone, and none can fill his place!
Let the champion lie in his warrior's grace
Where his forefathers lay before him.
Sing no sad requiem o'er him;
The mightiest he of all his race,
He is gone, and none can fill his place!
Let the champion lie in his warrior's grace
Where his forefathers lay before him.
And it shall ring from pole to pole,
This burying of Douglas!
For villages shall burn, and the drums shall roll,
And the clangour of arms his knell shall toll,
And the shriek of many a parting soul
Shall sing the Dirge of Douglas!
This burying of Douglas!
For villages shall burn, and the drums shall roll,
And the clangour of arms his knell shall toll,
And the shriek of many a parting soul
Shall sing the Dirge of Douglas!
| Youthful Verses by Francis Thompson | |