 | The Sisters' Tragedy with Other Poems Lyrical and Dramatic |  |
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INTERLUDES
ECHO-SONG
I
WHO can say where Echo dwells?
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
II
Phantom of the crystal Air,
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair—
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo!
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
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Myrtle brings he for thy hair—
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo!
III
Echo, lift thy drowsy head,
And repeat each charmëd word
Thou must needs have overheard
Yestere'en ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled—
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
And repeat each charmëd word
Thou must needs have overheard
Yestere'en ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled—
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
IV
Breathe the vows she since denies!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now—
Thou didst hear her perjuries.
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now—
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Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
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A MOOD
A BLIGHT, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my
gladness—
Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of mad-
ness;
A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's in-
sistence;
A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone exist-
ence;
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has
spoken—
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed
bough is broken.
gladness—
Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of mad-
ness;
A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's in-
sistence;
A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone exist-
ence;
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has
spoken—
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed
bough is broken.
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GUILIELMUS REX
THE folk who lived in Shakespeare's day
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way—
They little knew what man he was.
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way—
They little knew what man he was.
The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw or might have seen—
But not the light behind the brow!
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw or might have seen—
But not the light behind the brow!
The doublet's modest gray or brown,
The slender sword-hilt's plain device,
What sign had these for prince or clown?
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice.
The slender sword-hilt's plain device,
What sign had these for prince or clown?
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice.
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Yet 'twas the king of England's kings!
The rest with all their pomps and trains
Are mouldered, half-remembered things—
'Tis he alone that lives and reigns!
The rest with all their pomps and trains
Are mouldered, half-remembered things—
'Tis he alone that lives and reigns!
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"PILLARED ARCH AND SCULPTURED TOWER"
PILLARED arch and sculptured tower
Of Ilium have had their hour;
The dust of many a king is blown
On the winds from zone to zone;
Many a warrior sleeps unknown.
Time and Death hold each in thrall,
Yet is Love the lord of all;
Still does Helen's beauty stir
Because a poet sang of her!
Of Ilium have had their hour;
The dust of many a king is blown
On the winds from zone to zone;
Many a warrior sleeps unknown.
Time and Death hold each in thrall,
Yet is Love the lord of all;
Still does Helen's beauty stir
Because a poet sang of her!
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THRENODY
I
Upon your hearse this flower I lay.
Brief be your sleep! You shall be known
When lesser men have had their day:
Fame blossoms where true seed is sown,
Or soon or late, let Time wrong what it may.
Brief be your sleep! You shall be known
When lesser men have had their day:
Fame blossoms where true seed is sown,
Or soon or late, let Time wrong what it may.
II
Unvext by any dream of fame,
You smiled, and bade the world pass by:
But I—I turned, and saw a name
Shaping itself against the sky—
White star that rose amid the battle's flame!
You smiled, and bade the world pass by:
But I—I turned, and saw a name
Shaping itself against the sky—
White star that rose amid the battle's flame!
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III
Brief be your sleep, for I would see
Your laurels—ah, how trivial now
To him must earthly laurel be
Who wears the amaranth on his brow!
How vain the voices of mortality!
Your laurels—ah, how trivial now
To him must earthly laurel be
Who wears the amaranth on his brow!
How vain the voices of mortality!
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SESTET
SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A VOLUME OF TENNYSON
WOULDST know the clash of knightly steel on steel?
Or list the throstle singing loud and clear?
Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere
In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel
Life's pulse at highest—hark, the minster's peal! . . .
Turn but the page, that various world is here!
Or list the throstle singing loud and clear?
Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere
In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel
Life's pulse at highest—hark, the minster's peal! . . .
Turn but the page, that various world is here!
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A TOUCH OF NATURE
WHEN first the crocus thrusts its point of gold
Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould,
And folded green things in dim woods unclose
Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes
Into my veins and makes me kith and kin
To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,
Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,
Far from the brambly paths I used to know,
Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine
Where the Neponset alders take their glow,
I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar
And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould,
And folded green things in dim woods unclose
Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes
Into my veins and makes me kith and kin
To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,
Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,
Far from the brambly paths I used to know,
Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine
Where the Neponset alders take their glow,
I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar
And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
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MEMORY
MY mind lets go a thousand things,
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour—
'Twas noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May—
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour—
'Twas noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May—
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
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"I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW"
I'LL not confer with Sorrow
Till to-morrow;
But Joy shall have her way
This very day.
Till to-morrow;
But Joy shall have her way
This very day.
Ho, eglantine and cresses
For her tresses!—
Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.
For her tresses!—
Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.
Tears if you will—but after
Mirth and laughter;
Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.
Mirth and laughter;
Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.
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A DEDICATION
TAKE these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.
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NO SONGS IN WINTER
THE sky is gray as gray may be,
There is no bird upon the bough,
There is no leaf on vine or tree.
There is no bird upon the bough,
There is no leaf on vine or tree.
In the Neponset marshes now
Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,
Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,
Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
So too 'tis winter in my mind,
No light-winged fancy comes and stays:
A season churlish and unkind.
No light-winged fancy comes and stays:
A season churlish and unkind.
Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days,
The black ink crusts upon the pen—
Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays
And golden orioles come again!
The black ink crusts upon the pen—
Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays
And golden orioles come again!
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"LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND"
LIKE Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand
And seeing a human footprint on the sand,
Have I this day been startled, finding here,
Set in brown mould and delicately clear,
Spring's footprint—the first crocus of the year!
O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude!
Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood
Flock from all sides with much ado and stir,
And make of me most willing prisoner!
And seeing a human footprint on the sand,
Have I this day been startled, finding here,
Set in brown mould and delicately clear,
Spring's footprint—the first crocus of the year!
O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude!
Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood
Flock from all sides with much ado and stir,
And make of me most willing prisoner!
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THE LETTER
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I HELD his letter in my hand,
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice
Was speaking from the page
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
Was speaking from the page
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died!
The man himself was here,
His modesty, his scholar's pride,
His soul serene and clear.
The man himself was here,
His modesty, his scholar's pride,
His soul serene and clear.
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These neither death nor time shall dim,
Still this sad thing must be—
Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
Still this sad thing must be—
Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
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SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS"
THAT face which no man ever saw
And from his memory banished quite,
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light,
Looks from this frame. A master's hand
Has set the master-player here,
In the fair temple that he planned
Not for himself. To us most dear
This image of him! "It was thus
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;
With that same grace he greeted us—
Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!"
Sad words that shall be said some day—
Far fall the day! O cruel Time,
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,
Spare long this image of his prime,
That others standing in the place
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,
May know what sweet majestic face
The gentle Prince of Players wore!
And from his memory banished quite,
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light,
Looks from this frame. A master's hand
Has set the master-player here,
In the fair temple that he planned
Not for himself. To us most dear
This image of him! "It was thus
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;
With that same grace he greeted us—
Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!"
Sad words that shall be said some day—
Far fall the day! O cruel Time,
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,
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That others standing in the place
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,
May know what sweet majestic face
The gentle Prince of Players wore!
| The Sisters' Tragedy with Other Poems Lyrical and Dramatic | |