The Project Gutenberg EBook of Grass of Parnassus, by Andrew Lang (#7 in our series by Andrew Lang) Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Grass of Parnassus Author: Andrew Lang Release Date: October, 1997 [EBook #1060] [This file was first posted on October 8, 1997] [Most recently updated: June 28, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: US-ASCII
Transcribed by David Price, email [email protected]
Contents:
Grass of Parnassus
Deeds
of men:
Seekers for a city
The
white Pacha
Midnight, January
25, 1886
Advance, Australia
Colonel
Burnaby
Melville and Coghill
Rhodocleia:
To
Rhodocleia—on her melancholy singing
Ave:
Clevedon
church
Twilight on Tweed *
Metempsychosis
*
Lost in Hades *
A
star in the night *
A sunset
on yarrow *
Another way
Hesperothen:
The
seekers for Phæacia
A
song of Phæacia
The departure
from Phæacia
A ballad
of departure
They hear the
sirens for the second time
Circe’s
Isle revisited
The limit of
lands
Verses:
Martial
in town
April on Tweed
Tired
of towns
Scythe song
Pen
and ink
A dream
The
singing rose
A review in rhyme
Colinette
*
A sunset of Watteau *
Nightingale
weather *
Love and wisdom *
Good-bye
*
An old prayer *
À
la belle Hélène *
Sylvie
et Aurélie *
A lost
path *
The shade of Helen *
Sonnets:
She
Herodotus
in Egypt
Gérard de Nerval
*
Ronsard *
Love’s
miracle *
Dreams *
Two
sonnets of the sirens *
Translations:
Hymn
to the winds *
Moonlight *
The
grave and the rose *
A vow
to heavenly Venus *
Of his
lady’s old age *
Shadows
of his lady *
April *
An
old tune *
Old loves *
A
lady of high degree *
Iannoula
*
The milk-white doe *
Heliodore
The
prophet
Lais
Clearista
The
fisherman’s tomb
Of his
death
Rhodope
To
a girl
To the ships
A
late convert
The limit of life
To
Daniel Elzevir
The Last Chance
To E. M. S.
Primâ dicta mihi, summâ dicenda Camenâ.
The years will pass, and hearts will range,
You conquer
Time, and Care, and Change.
Though Time doth still delight to shed
The
dust on many a younger head;
Though Care, oft coming, hath the
guile
From younger lips to steal the smile;
Though Change
makes younger hearts wax cold,
And sells new loves for loves of
old,
Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art
To fleck
your hair, to chill your heart,
To touch your tresses with the
snow,
To mar your mirth of long ago.
Change, Care, nor Time,
while life endure,
Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure,
The
love which flows from sacred springs,
In ‘old unhappy far-off
things,’
From sympathies in grief and joy,
Through all
the years of man and boy.
Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung
When even this ‘brindled’
head was young
I bring, and later rhymes I bring
That flit
upon as weak a wing,
But still for you, for yours, they sing!
Many of the verses and translations in this volume were published first in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France (1872). Though very sensible that they have the demerits of imitative and even of undergraduate rhyme, I print them again because people I like have liked them. The rest are of different dates, and lack (though doubtless they need) the excuse of having been written, like some of the earlier pieces, during College Lectures. I would gladly have added to this volume what other more or less serious rhymes I have written, but circumstances over which I have no control have bound them up with Ballades, and other toys of that sort.
It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said in verse, that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in the marshes at the foot of the Muses’ Hill, and other hills, not at the top by any means.
Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been published in the Fortnightly Review, and the sonnet on Colonel Burnaby appeared in Punch. These, with pieces from other serials, are reprinted by the courteous permission of the Editors.
The verses that were published in Ballades and Lyrics, and in Ballads and Verses Vain (Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York), are marked in the contents with an asterisk.
Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway,
In wet green places
’twixt the depth and height
Dost keep thine hour while Autumn
ebbs away,
When now the moors have doffed the heather bright,
Grass
of Parnassus, flower of my delight,
How gladly with the unpermitted
bay—
Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay—
How
gladly would I twine thee if I might!
The bays are out of reach! But far below
The peaks forbidden
of the Muses’ Hill,
Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow
Between
September and October chill
Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago,
And
these kind faces that are with me still.
αειδε δ’ αρα κλεα ανδρων
To you, who know the face of war,
You, that for England wander
far,
You that have seen the Ghazis fly
From English lads not
sworn to die,
You that have lain where, deadly chill,
The
mist crept o’er the Shameful Hill,
You that have conquered,
mile by mile,
The currents of unfriendly Nile,
And cheered
the march, and eased the strain
When Politics made valour vain,
Ian,
to you, from banks of Ken,
We send our lays of Englishmen!
“Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither. . . But the number and variety of the ways! For you know, There is but one road that leads to Corinth.”
HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater’s Version).
“The Poet says, dear city of Cecrops, and wilt thou not say, dear city of Zeus?”
M. ANTONINUS.
“To Corinth leads one road,” you say:
Is
there a Corinth, or a way?
Each bland or blatant preacher hath
His
painful or his primrose path,
And not a soul of all of these
But
knows the city ’twixt the seas,
Her fair unnumbered homes
and all
Her gleaming amethystine wall!
Blind are the guides who know the way,
The guides who write,
and preach, and pray,
I watch their lives, and I divine
They
differ not from yours and mine!
One man we knew, and only one,
Whose seeking for a city’s
done,
For what he greatly sought he found,
A city girt with
fire around,
A city in an empty land
Between the wastes of
sky and sand,
A city on a river-side,
Where by the folk he
loved, he died. {1}
Alas! it is not ours to tread
That path wherein his life he
led,
Not ours his heart to dare and feel,
Keen as the fragrant
Syrian steel;
Yet are we not quite city-less,
Not wholly left
in our distress—
Is it not said by One of old,
“Sheep
have I of another fold?”
Ah! faint of heart, and weak of
will,
For us there is a city still!
“Dear city of Zeus,” the Stoic says, {2}
The
Voice from Rome’s imperial days,
In Thee meet all things,
and disperse,
In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!
To me all’s
fruit thy seasons bring,
Alike thy summer and thy spring;
The
winds that wail, the suns that burn,
From Thee proceed, to Thee
return.
“Dear city of Zeus,” shall we not say,
Home
to which none can lose the way!
Born in that city’s flaming
bound,
We do not find her, but are found.
Within her wide
and viewless wall
The Universe is girdled all.
All joys and
pains, all wealth and dearth,
All things that travail on the earth,
God’s
will they work, if God there be,
If not, what is my life to me?
Seek we no further, but abide
Within this city great and wide,
In
her and for her living, we
Have no less joy than to be free;
Nor
death nor grief can quite appal
The folk that dwell within her
wall,
Nor aught but with our will befall!
Vain is the dream! However Hope may rave,
He perished
with the folk he could not save,
And though none surely told us
he is dead,
And though perchance another in his stead,
Another,
not less brave, when all was done,
Had fled unto the southward
and the sun,
Had urged a way by force, or won by guile
To
streams remotest of the secret Nile,
Had raised an army of the
Desert men,
And, waiting for his hour, had turned again
And
fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know
GORDON is dead, and these
things are not so!
Nay, not for England’s cause, nor to restore
Her
trampled flag—for he loved Honour more—
Nay, not for
Life, Revenge, or Victory,
Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned
to die.
He will not come again, whate’er our need,
He
will not come, who is happy, being freed
From the deathly flesh
and perishable things,
And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings.
Nay,
somewhere by the sacred River’s shore
He sleeps like those
who shall return no more,
No more return for all the prayers of
men—
Arthur and Charles—they never come again!
They
shall not wake, though fair the vision seem:
Whate’er sick
Hope may whisper, vain the dream!
To-morrow is a year since Gordon died!
A year ago to-night,
the Desert still
Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill
Of
lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied,
And paltered,
and evaded, and denied;
Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,
And
craven heart, and calculated skill
In long delays, of their great
homicide.
A year ago to-night ’twas not too late.
The thought comes
through our mirth, again, again;
Methinks I hear the halting foot
of Fate
Approaching and approaching us; and then
Comes cackle
of the House, and the Debate!
Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.
On the offer of help from the Australians after the fall of Khartoum.
Sons of the giant Ocean isle
In sport our friendly foes for
long,
Well England loves you, and we smile
When you outmatch
us many a while,
So fleet you are, so keen and strong.
You, like that fairy people set
Of old in their enchanted sea
Far
off from men, might well forget
An elder nation’s toil and
fret,
Might heed not aught but game and glee.
But what your fathers were you are
In lands the fathers never
knew,
’Neath skies of alien sign and star
You rally
to the English war;
Your hearts are English, kind and true.
And now, when first on England falls
The shadow of a darkening
fate,
You hear the Mother ere she calls,
You leave your ocean-girdled
walls,
And face her foemen in the gate.
συ δ’ εν στροφαλιγγι
κονιης
κεισο
μεγας μεγαλωστι,
λελασμενος
ιπποσυναων
Thou that on every field of earth and sky
Didst hunt for Death,
who seemed to flee and fear,
How great and greatly fallen dost
thou lie
Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear:
‘Not
here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here
Nor in this
quarrel was it meet to die,
But in that dreadful battle drawing
nigh
To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer:
Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood,
And in some
glen have stayed the stream of flight,
The bulwark of thy people
and their shield,
When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood,
Till
back into the Northland and the Night
The smitten Eagles scattered
from the field.’
(The place of the little hand.)
Dead, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their
feet,
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though
the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the
wilderness beat.
Dead, for they chose to die
When that wild race was run;
Dead,
for they would not fly,
Deeming their work undone,
Nor cared
to look on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.
Honour we give them and tears,
And the flag they died to save,
Rent
from the rain of the spears,
Wet from the war and the wave,
Shall
waft men’s thoughts through the dust of the years,
Back to
their lonely grave!
(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek Anthology.)
Still, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead,
Still singing of the
meads of asphodel,
Lands desolate of delight?
Say, hast thou
dreamed of, or rememberèd,
The shores where shadows dwell,
Nor
know the sun, nor see the stars of night?
There, ’midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze
As a girl
pines for home,
Looking along the way that she hath come,
Sick
to return, and counts the weary days!
So wouldst thou flee
Back
to the multitude whose days are done,
Wouldst taste the fruit that
lured Persephone,
The sacrament of death; and die, and be
No
more in the wind and sun!
Thou hast not dreamed it, but rememberèd
I know thou
hast been there,
Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead
Rise
in the twilight air,
And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits
tread,
And climbed the golden stair!
Nay, by thy cloudy hair
And lips that were so fair,
Sad
lips now mindful of some ancient smart,
And melancholy eyes, the
haunt of Care,
I know thee who thou art!
That Rhodocleia,
Glory of the Rose,
Of Hellas, ere her close,
That Rhodocleia
who, when all was done
The golden time of Greece, and fallen her
sun,
Swayed her last poet’s heart.
With roses did he woo thee, and with song,
With thine own rose,
and with the lily sweet,
The dark-eyed violet,
Garlands of
wind-flowers wet,
And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night
long
Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies,
Praising
thy golden eyes,
And feet more silvery than Thetis’ feet!
But thou didst die and flit
Among the tribes outworn,
The
unavailing myriads of the past:
Oft he beheld thy face in dreams
of morn,
And, waking, wept for it,
Till his own time came
at last,
And then he sought thee in the dusky land!
Wide are
the populous places of the dead
Where souls on earth once wed
May
never meet, nor each take other’s hand,
Each far from the
other fled!
So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou
Didst never taste
of the Lethaean stream,
Nor that forgetful fruit,
The mystic
pom’granate;
But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now,
The
fugitive of Fate,
Thou farest in our life as in a dream,
Still
wandering with thy lute,
Like that sweet paynim lady of old song,
Who
sang and wandered long,
For love of her Aucassin, seeking him!
So
with thy minstrelsy
Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim,
Below
the veilèd sky!
There doth thy lover dwell,
Singing, and seeking still to find
thy face
In that forgetful place:
Thou shalt not meet him
here,
Not till thy singing clear
Through all the murmur of
the streams of hell
Wins to the Maiden’s ear!
May she,
perchance, have pity on thee and call
Thine eager spirit to sit
beside her feet,
Passing throughout the long unechoing hall
Up
to the shadowy throne,
Where the lost lovers of the ages meet;
Till
then thou art alone!
‘Our Faith and Troth
All time and space controules
Above
the highest sphere we meet
Unseen, unknowne, and greet as Angels
greet’
Col. Richard Lovelace. 1649
[In memoriam H. B.]
Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales,
The low sky silver
grey,
The turbid Channel with the wandering sails
Moans through
the winter day.
There is no colour but one ashen light
On
tower and lonely tree,
The little church upon the windy height
Is
grey as sky or sea.
But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love
Slept
through these fifty years,
There is the grave that has been wept
above
With more than mortal tears.
And far below I hear the
Channel sweep
And all his waves complain,
As Hallam’s
dirge through all the years must keep
Its monotone of pain.
* * * * *
Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies,
My heart flits
forth from these
Back to the winter rose of northern skies,
Back
to the northern seas.
And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat
Below
the minster grey,
Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet,
And
knees of them that pray.
And I remember me how twain were one
Beside
that ocean dim,
I count the years passed over since the sun
That
lights me looked on him,
And dreaming of the voice that, save in
sleep,
Shall greet me not again,
Far, far below I hear the
Channel sweep
And all his waves complain.
Three crests against the saffron sky,
Beyond the purple plain,
The
kind remembered melody
Of Tweed once more again.
Wan water from the border hills,
Dear voice from the old years,
Thy
distant music lulls and stills,
And moves to quiet tears.
Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood
Fleets through the dusky
land;
Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,
My feet returning
stand.
A mist of memory broods and floats,
The Border waters flow;
The
air is full of ballad notes,
Borne out of long ago.
Old songs that sung themselves to me,
Sweet through a boy’s
day dream,
While trout below the blossom’d tree
Plashed
in the golden steam.
* * * * *
Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,
Fair and too fair you
be;
You tell me that the voice is still
That should have welcomed
me.
1870.
I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know
Perchance, the grey
eyes in another’s eyes,
Shall guess thy curls in gracious
locks that flow
On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise
Shall
follow and track, and find thee in disguise
Of all sad things,
and fair, where sunsets glow,
When through the scent of heather,
faint and low,
The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.
From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme,
Thine eyes and
lips are light and song to me;
The shadows of the beauty of all
time,
In song or story are but shapes of thee;
Alas, the shadowy
shapes! ah, sweet my dear,
Shall life or death bring all thy being
near?
I dreamed that somewhere in the shadowy place,
Grief of farewell
unspoken was forgot
In welcome, and regret remembered not;
And
hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise
On lips that had
been songless many days;
Hope had no more to hope for, and desire
And
dread were overpast, in white attire
New born we walked among the
new world’s ways.
Then from the press of shades a spirit threw
Towards me such
apples as these gardens bear;
And turning, I was ’ware of
her, and knew
And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,—
Followed,
and found her not, and seeking you
I found you never, dearest,
anywhere.
The perfect piteous beauty of thy face
Is like a star the dawning
drives away;
Mine eyes may never see in the bright day
Thy
pallid halo, thy supernal grace;
But in the night from forth the
silent place
Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray
Star
of the starry flock that in the grey
Is seen, and lost, and seen
a moment’s space.
And as the earth at night turns to a star,
Loved long ago, and
dearer than the sun,
So in the spiritual place afar,
At night
our souls are mingled and made one,
And wait till one night fall,
and one dawn rise,
That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.
The wind and the day had lived together,
They died together,
and far away
Spoke farewell in the sultry weather,
Out of
the sunset, over the heather,
The dying wind and the dying day.
Far in the south, the summer levin
Flushed, a flame in the grey
soft air:
We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;
You saw
within, but to me ’twas given
To see your face, as an angel’s,
there.
Never again, ah surely never
Shall we wait and watch, where
of old we stood,
The low good-night of the hill and the river,
The
faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,
Twain grown one in
the solitude.
Come to me in my dreams, and then,
One saith, I shall be well
again,
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless
longing of the day.
Nay, come not thou in dreams, my sweet,
With shadowy
robes, and silent feet,
And with the voice, and with the eyes
That
greet me in a soft surprise.
Last night, last night, in dreams we met,
And how, to-day, shall
I forget,
Or how, remembering, restrain
Mine incommunicable
pain?
Nay, where thy land and people are,
Dwell thou remote, apart,
afar,
Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep
The melancholy
ways of Sleep.
But if, perchance, the shadows break,
If dreams depart, and
men awake,
If face to face at length we see,
Be thine the
voice to welcome me.
By the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phæacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the Vanity of Melancholy. And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place of Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe’s Isle, the place of bodily delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness of that age. Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, under the similitude of the Isle of the Macraeones.
There is a land in the remotest day,
Where the soft night is
born, and sunset dies;
The eastern shore sees faint tides fade
away,
That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs
Make
life,—the lands below the blue of common skies.
But in the west is a mysterious sea,
(What sails have seen it,
or what shipmen known?)
With coasts enchanted where the Sirens
be,
With islands where a Goddess walks alone,
And in the cedar
trees the magic winds make moan.
Eastward the human cares of house and home,
Cities, and ships,
and unknown gods, and loves;
Westward, strange maidens fairer than
the foam,
And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves,
Wherein
a god may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.
The gods are careless of the days and death
Of toilsome men,
beyond the western seas;
The gods are heedless of their painful
breath,
And love them not, for they are not as these;
But
in the golden west they live and lie at ease.
Yet the Phæacians well they love, who live
At the light’s
limit, passing careless hours,
Most like the gods; and they have
gifts to give,
Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers,
And
song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers.
It is a quiet midland; in the cool
Of the twilight comes the
god, though no man prayed,
To watch the maids and young men beautiful
Dance,
and they see him, and are not afraid,
For they are neat of kin
to gods, and undismayed.
Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh
The dreamy
isles that the Immortals keep!
But with a mist they hide them wondrously,
And
far the path and dim to where they sleep,—
The loved, the
shadowy lands, along the shadowy deep.
The languid sunset, mother of roses,
Lingers, a light on the
magic seas,
The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses,
Heavy
with odour, and loose to the breeze.
The red rose clouds, without law or leader,
Gather and float
in the airy plain;
The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar,
The
cedar scatters his scent to the main.
The strange flowers’ perfume turns to singing,
Heard afar
over moonlit seas:
The Siren’s song, grown faint in winging,
Falls
in scent on the cedar trees.
As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying,
Purple, and rosy,
and grey, the birds
Brighten the air with their wings; their crying
Wakens
a moment the weary herds.
Butterflies flit from the fairy garden,
Living blossoms of flying
flowers;
Never the nights with winter harden,
Nor moons wax
keen in this land of ours.
Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden,
Gleam in the green,
and droop and fall;
Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden,
Swing,
and cling to the garden wall.
Deep in the woods as twilight darkens,
Glades are red with the
scented fire;
Far in the dells the white maid hearkens,
Song
and sigh of the heart’s desire.
Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning,
Maiden’s song in
the matin grey,
Faints as the first bird’s note, a warning,
Wakes
and wails to the new-born day.
The waking song and the dying measure
Meet, and the waxing and
waning light
Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure,
The
rose of the sea and the sky is white.
The Phæacians.
Why from the dreamy meadows,
More fair than any dream,
Why
seek ye for the shadows
Beyond the ocean stream?
Through straits of storm and peril,
Through firths unsailed
before,
Why make you for the sterile,
The dark Kimmerian shore?
There no bright streams are flowing,
There day and night are
one,
No harvest time, no sowing,
No sight of any sun;
No sound of song or tabor,
No dance shall greet you there;
No
noise of mortal labour
Breaks on the blind chill air.
Are ours not happy places,
Where gods with mortals trod?
Saw
not our sires the faces
Of many a present god?
The Seekers.
Nay, now no god comes hither,
In shape that men may see;
They
fare we know not whither,
We know not what they be.
Yea, though the sunset lingers
Far in your fairy glades,
Though
yours the sweetest singers,
Though yours the kindest maids,
Yet here be the true shadows,
Here in the doubtful light;
Amid
the dreamy meadows
No shadow haunts the night.
We seek a city splendid,
With light beyond the sun;
Or
lands where dreams are ended,
And works and days are done.
Fair white bird, what song art thou singing
In wintry weather
of lands o’er sea?
Dear white bird, what way art thou winging,
Where
no grass grows, and no green tree?
I looked at the far-off fields and grey,
There grew no tree
but the cypress tree,
That bears sad fruits with the flowers of
May,
And whoso looks on it, woe is he.
And whoso eats of the fruit thereof
Has no more sorrow, and
no more love;
And who sets the same in his garden stead,
In
a little space he is waste and dead.
The weary sails a moment slept,
The oars were silent for a space,
As
past Hesperian shores we swept,
That were as a remembered face
Seen
after lapse of hopeless years,
In Hades, when the shadows meet,
Dim
through the mist of many tears,
And strange, and though a shadow,
sweet.
So seemed the half-remembered shore,
That slumbered, mirrored
in the blue,
With havens where we touched of yore,
And ports
that over well we knew.
Then broke the calm before a breeze
That
sought the secret of the west;
And listless all we swept the seas
Towards
the Islands of the Blest.
Beside a golden sanded bay
We saw the Sirens, very fair
The
flowery hill whereon they lay,
The flowers set upon their hair.
Their
old sweet song came down the wind,
Remembered music waxing strong,—
Ah
now no need of cords to bind,
No need had we of Orphic song.
It once had seemed a little thing
To lay our lives down at their
feet,
That dying we might hear them sing,
And dying see their
faces sweet;
But now, we glanced, and passing by,
No care
had we to tarry long;
Faint hope, and rest, and memory
Were
more than any Siren’s song.
Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried;
Ah, Circe, Circe! but
no voice replied;
No voice from bowers o’ergrown and ruinous
As
fallen rocks upon the mountain side.
There was no sound of singing in the air;
Faded or fled the
maidens that were fair,
No more for sorrow or joy were seen of
us,
No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair.
The perfume, and the music, and the flame
Had passed away; the
memory of shame
Alone abode, and stings of faint desire,
And
pulses of vague quiet went and came.
Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place,
Our dead youth came
and looked on us a space,
With drooping wings, and eyes of faded
fire.
And wasted hair about a weary face.
Why had we ever sought the magic isle
That seemed so happy in
the days erewhile?
Why did we ever leave it, where we met
A
world of happy wonders in one smile?
Back to the westward and the waning light
We turned, we fled;
the solitude of night
Was better than the infinite regret,
In
fallen places of our dead delight.
Between the circling ocean sea
And the poplars of Persephone
There
lies a strip of barren sand,
Flecked with the sea’s last
spray, and strown
With waste leaves of the poplars, blown
From
gardens of the shadow land.
With altars of old sacrifice
The shore is set, in mournful wise
The
mists upon the ocean brood;
Between the water and the air
The
clouds are born that float and fare
Between the water and the wood.
Upon the grey sea never sail
Of mortals passed within our hail,
Where
the last weak waves faint and flow;
We heard within the poplar
pale
The murmur of a doubtful wail
Of voices loved so long
ago.
We scarce had care to die or live,
We had no honey cake to give,
No
wine of sacrifice to shed;
There lies no new path over sea,
And
now we know how faint they be,
The feasts and voices of the dead.
Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow!
Glad life, sad life
we did forego
To dream of quietness and rest;
Ah, would the
fleet sweet roses here
Poured light and perfume through the drear
Pale
year, and wan land of the west.
Sad youth, that let the spring go by
Because the spring is swift
to fly,
Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love,
Behold how
sadder far is this,
To know that rest is nowise bliss,
And
darkness is the end thereof.
Last night, within the stifling train,
Lit by the foggy lamp
o’erhead,
Sick of the sad Last News, I read
Verse of
that joyous child of Spain,
Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold,
Within the Roman din and
smoke.
And like my heart to me they spoke,
These accents of
his heart of old:-
“Brother, had we but time to live,
And fleet the careless
hours together,
With all that leisure has to give
Of perfect
life and peaceful weather,
“The Rich Man’s halls, the anxious faces,
The
weary Forum, courts, and cases
Should know us not; but quiet nooks,
But
summer shade by field and well,
But county rides, and talk of books,
At
home, with these, we fain would dwell!
“Now neither lives, but day by day
Sees the suns wasting
in the west,
And feels their flight, and doth delay
To lead
the life he loveth best.”
So from thy city prison broke,
Martial, thy wail for life misspent,
And
so, through London’s noise and smoke
My heart replies to
the lament.
For dear as Tagus with his gold,
And swifter Salo, were to thee,
So
dear to me the woods that fold
The streams that circle Fernielea!
As birds are fain to build their nest
The first soft sunny day,
So
longing wakens in my breast
A month before the May,
When now
the wind is from the West,
And Winter melts away.
The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill,
But soft the breezes blow.
If
melting snows the waters fill,
We nothing heed the snow,
But
we must up and take our will,—
A fishing will we go!
Below the branches brown and bare,
Beneath the primrose lea,
The
trout lies waiting for his fare,
A hungry trout is he;
He’s
hooked, and springs and splashes there
Like salmon from the sea!
Oh, April tide’s a pleasant tide,
However times may fall,
And
sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride,
You hear the mavis call;
But
all adown the water-side
The Spring’s most fair of all.
‘When we spoke to her of the New Jerusalem, she said she would rather go to a country place in Heaven.’
Letters from the Black Country.
I’m weary of towns, it seems a’most a pity
We didn’t
stop down i’ the country and clem,
And you say that I’m
bound for another city,
For the streets o’ the New Jerusalem.
And the streets are never like Sheffield, here,
Nor the smoke
don’t cling like a smut to them;
But the water o’
life flows cool and clear
Through the streets o’ the New
Jerusalem.
And the houses, you say, are of jasper cut,
And the gates are
gaudy wi’ gold and gem;
But there’s times I could wish
as the gates was shut—
The gates o’ the New Jerusalem.
For I come from a country that’s over-built
Wi’
streets that stifle, and walls that hem,
And the gorse on a common’s
worth all the gilt
And the gold of your New Jerusalem.
And I hope that they’ll bring me, in Paradise,
To green
lanes leafy wi’ bough and stem—
To a country place
in the land o’ the skies,
And not to the New Jerusalem.
Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks
ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades
of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something,
still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings
the Scythe to the flowers and grass?
Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed
not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses
swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush—’tis
the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and heed not, for all
things pass,
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over
the clover, over the grass!
Ye wanderers that were my sires,
Who read men’s fortunes
in the hand,
Who voyaged with your smithy fires
From waste
to waste across the land,
Why did you leave for garth and town
Your
life by heath and river’s brink,
Why lay your gipsy freedom
down
And doom your child to Pen and Ink?
You wearied of the wild-wood meal
That crowned, or failed to
crown, the day;
Too honest or too tame to steal
You broke
into the beaten way;
Plied loom or awl like other men,
And
learned to love the guineas’ chink—
Oh, recreant sires,
who doomed me then
To earn so few—with Pen and Ink!
Where it hath fallen the tree must lie.
’Tis over late
for me to roam,
Yet the caged bird who hears the cry
Of
his wild fellows fleeting home,
May feel no sharper pang than mine,
Who
seem to hear, whene’er I think,
Spate in the stream, and
wind in pine,
Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink.
For then the spirit wandering,
That slept within the blood,
awakes;
For then the summer and the spring
I fain would meet
by streams and lakes;
But ah, my Birthright long is sold,
But
custom chains me, link on link,
And I must get me, as of old,
Back
to my tools, to Pen and Ink.
Why will you haunt my sleep?
You know it may not be,
The
grave is wide and deep,
That sunders you and me;
In bitter
dreams we reap
The sorrow we have sown,
And I would I were
asleep,
Forgotten and alone!
We knew and did not know,
We saw and did not see,
The nets
that long ago
Fate wove for you and me;
The cruel nets that
keep
The birds that sob and moan,
And I would we were asleep,
Forgotten
and alone!
‘La Rose qui chante et l’herbe qui égare.’
White Rose on the grey garden wall,
Where now no night-wind
whispereth,
Call to the far-off flowers, and call
With murmured
breath and musical
Till all the Roses hear, and all
Sing to
my Love what the White Rose saith.
White Rose on the grey garden wall
That long ago we sung!
Again
you come at Summer’s call,—
Again beneath my windows
all
With trellised flowers is hung,
With clusters of the roses
white
Like fragrant stars in a green night.
Once more I hear the sister towers
Each unto each reply,
The
bloom is on those limes of ours,
The weak wind shakes the bloom
in showers,
Snow from a cloudless sky;
There is no change
this happy day
Within the College Gardens grey!
St. Mary’s, Merton, Magdalen—still
Their sweet bells
chime and swing,
The old years answer them, and thrill
A wintry
heart against its will
With memories of the Spring—
That
Spring we sought the gardens through
For flowers which ne’er
in gardens grew!
For we, beside our nurse’s knee,
In fairy tales had heard
Of
that strange Rose which blossoms free
On boughs of an enchanted
tree,
And sings like any bird!
And of the weed beside the
way
That leadeth lovers’ steps astray!
In vain we sought the Singing Rose
Whereof old legends tell,
Alas,
we found it not mid those
Within the grey old College close,
That
budded, flowered, and fell,—
We found that herb called ‘Wandering’
And
meet no more, no more in Spring!
Yes, unawares the unhappy grass
That leadeth steps astray,
We
trod, and so it came to pass
That never more we twain, alas,
Shall
walk the self-same way.
And each must deem, though neither knows,
That
neither found the Singing Rose!
A little of Horace, a little of Prior,
A sketch of a Milkmaid,
a lay of the Squire—
These, these are ‘on draught’
‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’
A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself,
A talk of the
Books on the Sheraton shelf,
A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the
Guelph,
A lai, a pantoum, a ballade, a rondeau,
A
pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau,
And the chimes of the
rhymes that sing sweet as they go,
A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove,
’Neath a dance
by Laguerre on the ceiling above,
And a dream of the days when
the bard was in love,
A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun,
A toss of old powder,
a glint of the sun,
They meet in the volume that Dobson has done!
If there’s more that the heart of a man can desire,
He
may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire;
If he’s
wise—he’ll alight ‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’
For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, R.A.
France your country, as we know;
Room enough for guessing yet,
What
lips now or long ago,
Kissed and named you—Colinette.
In
what fields from sea to sea,
By what stream your home was set,
Loire
or Seine was glad of thee,
Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with maidens ten,
Fairer maids were never seen,
When
the young king and his men
Passed among the orchards green?
Nay,
old ballads have a note
Mournful, we would fain forget;
No
such sad old air should float
Round your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you,
Shepherdess, to lull his pain,
When
the court went wandering through
Rose pleasances of Touraine?
Ronsard
and his famous Rose
Long are dust the breezes fret;
You, within
the garden close,
You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay,
With a patched and perfumed beau,
Dancing
through the summer day,
Misty summer of Watteau?
Nay, so sweet
a maid as you
Never walked a minuet
With the splendid courtly
crew;
Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze’s canvases
Do you cast a glance, a smile;
You
are not as one of these,
Yours is beauty without guile.
Round
your maiden brows and hair
Maidenhood and Childhood met
Crown
and kiss you, sweet and fair,
New art’s blossom, Colinette.
LUI.
The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake,
Arise and tempt the
seas;
Our ocean is the Palace lake,
Our waves the ripples
that we make
Among the mirrored trees.
ELLE.
Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song,
And dear the languid
dream;
The music mingled all day long
With paces of the dancing
throng,
And murmur of the stream.
An hour ago, an hour ago,
We rested in the shade;
And now,
why should we seek to know
What way the wilful waters flow?
There
is no fairer glade.
LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,
And seek him everywhere;
Perchance
in sunset’s golden pale
He listens to the nightingale,
Amid
the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you,
And I no more am I;
Delight
is changeful as the hue
Of heaven, that is no longer blue
In
yonder sunset sky.
ELLE.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find,
If we knock none openeth;
Nay,
see, the sunset fades behind
The mountains, and the cold night
wind
Blows from the house of Death.
‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?
Semi-je nonnette? je crois
que non.
Derrière chez mon père
Il est un bois
taillis,
Le rossignol y chante
Et le jour et la nuit.
Il
chante pour les filles
Qui n’ont pas d’ami;
Il
ne chant pas pour moi,
J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—Old
French.
I’ll never be a nun, I trow,
While apple bloom is white
as snow,
But far more fair to see;
I’ll never wear nun’s
black and white
While nightingales make sweet the night
Within
the apple tree.
Ah, listen! ’tis the nightingale,
And in the wood he makes
his wail,
Within the apple tree;
He singeth of the sore distress
Of
many ladies loverless;
Thank God, no song for me.
For when the broad May moon is low,
A gold fruit seen where
blossoms blow
In the boughs of the apple tree,
A step I know
is at the gate;
Ah love, but it is long to wait
Until night’s
noon bring thee!
Between lark’s song and nightingale’s
A silent space,
while dawning pales,
The birds leave still and free
For words
and kisses musical,
For silence and for sighs that fall
In
the dawn, ’twixt him and me.
‘When last we gathered roses in the garden
I found my
wits, but truly you lost yours.’
The Broken Heart.
July and June brought flowers and love
To you, but I would none
thereof,
Whose heart kept all through summer time
A flower
of frost and winter rime.
Yours was true wisdom—was it not?
Even
love; but I had clean forgot,
Till seasons of the falling leaf,
All
loves, but one that turned to grief.
At length at touch of autumn
tide
When roses fell, and summer died,
All in a dawning deep
with dew,
Love flew to me, Love fled from you.
The roses drooped
their weary heads,
I spoke among the garden beds;
You would
not hear, you could not know,
Summer and love seemed long ago,
As
far, as faint, as dim a dream,
As to the dead this world may seem.
Ah
sweet, in winter’s miseries,
Perchance you may remember this,
How
Wisdom was not justified
In summer time or autumn tide,
Though
for this once below the sun,
Wisdom and Love were made at one;
But
Love was bitter-bought enough,
And Wisdom light of wing as Love.
Kiss me, and say good-bye;
Good-bye, there is no word to say
but this,
Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,
Nor any tears
to shed, when these tears dry;
Kiss me, and say, good-bye.
Farewell, be glad, forget;
There is no need to say ‘forget,’
I know,
For youth is youth, and time will have it so,
And
though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,
Farewell, you must
forget.
You shall bring home your sheaves,
Many, and heavy, and with
blossoms twined
Of memories that go not out of mind;
Let this
one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves
When you bring home your
sheaves.
In garnered loves of thine,
The ripe good fruit of many hearts
and years,
Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears;
It
grew too near the sea wind, and the brine
Of life, this love of
mine.
This sheaf was spoiled in spring,
And over-long was green, and
early sere,
And never gathered gold in the late year
From
autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,
But failed in frosts of spring.
Yet was it thine, my sweet,
This love, though weak as young
corn withered,
Whereof no man may gather and make bread;
Thine,
though it never knew the summer heat;
Forget not quite, my sweet.
Χαιρε μοι, ω βασιλεια,
διαμπερες, εις
ο κε γηρας
Ελθη
και θανατος,
τα τ’ επ’ ανθρωποισι
πελονται.
Odyssey, XIII.
My prayer an old prayer borroweth,
Of ancient love and memory—
‘Do
thou farewell, till Eld and Death,
That come to all men, come to
thee.’
Gently as winter’s early breath,
Scarce
felt, what time the swallows flee,
To lands whereof no man knoweth
Of
summer, over land and sea;
So with thy soul may summer be,
Even
as the ancient singer saith,
‘Do thou farewell, till Eld
and Death,
That come to all men, come to thee.’
After Ronsard.
More closely than the clinging vine
About the wedded tree,
Clasp
thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine!
About the heart of me.
Or
seem to sleep, and stoop your face
Soft on my sleeping eyes,
Breathe
in your life, your heart, your grace,
Through me, in kissing wise.
Bow
down, bow down your face, I pray,
To me, that swoon to death,
Breathe
back the life you kissed away,
Breathe back your kissing breath.
So
by your eyes I swear and say,
My mighty oath and sure,
From
your kind arms no maiden may
My loving heart allure.
I’ll
bear your yoke, that’s light enough,
And to the Elysian plain,
When
we are dead of love, my love,
One boat shall bear us twain.
They’ll
flock around you, fleet and fair,
All true loves that have been,
And
you of all the shadows there,
Shall be the shadow queen.
Ah,
shadow-loves and shadow-lips!
Ah, while ’tis called to-day,
Love
me, my love, for summer slips,
And August ebbs away.
In memory of Gérard De Nerval.
Two loves there were, and one was born
Between the sunset and
the rain;
Her singing voice went through the corn,
Her dance
was woven ’neath the thorn,
On grass the fallen blossoms
stain;
And suns may set, and moons may wane,
But this love
comes no more again.
There were two loves and one made white,
Thy singing lips, and
golden hair;
Born of the city’s mire and light,
The
shame and splendour of the night,
She trapped and fled thee unaware;
Not
through the lamplight and the rain
Shalt thou behold this love
again.
Go forth and seek, by wood and hill,
Thine ancient love of dawn
and dew;
There comes no voice from mere or rill,
Her dance
is over, fallen still
The ballad burdens that she knew:
And
thou must wait for her in vain,
Till years bring back thy youth
again.
That other love, afield, afar
Fled the light love, with lighter
feet.
Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are,
And flit
in dreams from star to star,
That dead love shalt thou never meet,
Till
through bleak dawn and blowing rain
Thy soul shall find her soul
again.
Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the world.
Alas, the path is lost, we cannot leave
Our bright, our clouded
life, and pass away
As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet
eve,
To heights remoter of the purer day.
The soul may not,
returning whence she came,
Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget
The
joys that fever, and the cares that fret,
Made once more one with
the eternal flame
That breathes in all things ever more the same.
She
would be young again, thus drinking deep
Of her old life; and this
has been, men say,
But this we know not, who have only sleep
To
soothe us, sleep more terrible than day,
Where dead delights, and
fair lost faces stray,
To make us weary at our wakening;
And
of that long lost path to the Divine
We dream, as some Greek shepherd
erst might sing,
Half credulous, of easy Proserpine,
And of
the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’
Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.
Why from the quiet hollows of the hills,
And extreme meeting
place of light and shade,
Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became
Clouds
among sister clouds, where fair spent beams
And dying glories of
the sun would dwell,
Why have they whom I know not, nor may know,
Strange
hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me,
And borne me from the
silent shadowy hills,
Hither, to noise and glow of alien life,
To
harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?
One speaks unto me words that would be sweet,
Made harsh, made
keen with love that knows me not,
And some strange force, within
me or around,
Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh,
And
somewhere there is fever in the halls
That troubles me, for no
such trouble came
To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.
The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry,
That house, and
wife, and lands, and all Troy town,
Are little to lose, if they
may keep me here,
And see me flit, a pale and silent shade,
Among
the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.
At other hours another life seems mine,
Where one great river
runs unswollen of rain,
By pyramids of unremembered kings,
And
homes of men obedient to the Dead.
There dark and quiet faces come
and go
Around me, then again the shriek of arms,
And all the
turmoil of the Ilian men.
What are they? even shadows such as I.
What make they?
Even this—the sport of gods—
The sport of gods, however
free they seem.
Ah, would the game were ended, and the light,
The
blinding light, and all too mighty suns,
Withdrawn, and I once
more with sister shades,
Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist,
Dwelt
in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
To H. R. H.
Not in the waste beyond the swamps and sand,
The fever-haunted
forest and lagoon,
Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand,
Thy
lonely towers beneath the lonely moon,
Not there doth Ayesha linger,
rune by rune
Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned.
The
world is disenchanted; over soon
Shall Europe send her spies through
all the land.
Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot,
In town or field,
or by the insatiate sea,
Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot,
Or
break themselves on some divine decree,
Or would o’erleap
the limits of their lot,
There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth
SHE!
He left the land of youth, he left the young,
The smiling gods
of Greece; he passed the isle
Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho
sung,
He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile,
And of their
old world, dead a weary while,
Heard the priests murmur in their
mystic tongue,
And through the fanes went voyaging, among
Dark
tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile.
He learned the tales of death Divine and birth,
Strange loves
of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth,
The marriage, and the slaying
of the Sun.
The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through,
And
mocked not at their godhead, for he knew
Behind all creeds the
Spirit that is One.
Of all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed,
Ah, light and
sacred soul!—none holds thee now;
No wall, no bar, no body
of flesh, but thou
Art free and happy in the lands unnamed,
Within
whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,
Thou still would’st
bear that mystic golden bough
The Sibyl doth to singing men allow,
Yet
thy report folk heeded not, but blamed.
And they would smile and
wonder, seeing where
Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves,
or clouds, or wind,
Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,
Caught
from the Valois peasants; dost thou find
A new life gladder than
the old times were,
A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?
Master, I see thee with the locks of grey,
Crowned by the Muses
with the laurel-wreath;
I see the roses hiding underneath,
Cassandra’s
gift; she was less dear than they.
Thou, Master, first hast roused
the lyric lay,
The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath,
Hast
sung thine answer to the lays that breathe
Through ages, and through
ages far away.
And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat,
Known Horace by
the fount Bandusian!
Their deathless line thy living strains repeat,
But
ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan,
But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet,
Thy
bees have fed on yews Sardinian!
With other helpless folk about the gate,
The gate called Beautiful,
with weary eyes
That take no pleasure in the summer skies,
Nor
all things that are fairest, does she wait;
So bleak a time, so
sad a changeless fate
Makes her with dull experience early wise,
And
in the dawning and the sunset, sighs
That all hath been, and shall
be, desolate.
Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live,
And know herself
the fairest of fair things,
Ah, if he have no healing gift to give,
Warm
from his breast, and holy from his wings,
Or if at least Love’s
shadow in passing by
Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.
He spake not truth, however wise, who said
That happy, and that
hapless men in sleep
Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep
As
countless, careless, races of the dead.
Not so, for alien paths
of dreams we tread,
And one beholds the faces that he sighs
In
vain to bring before his daylit eyes,
And waking, he remembers
on his bed;
And one with fainting heart and feeble hand
Fights a dim battle
in a doubtful land
Where strength and courage were of no avail;
And
one is borne on fairy breezes far
To the bright harbours of a golden
star
Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.
‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort.’
Pontus De Tyard, 1570
The Sirens once were maidens innocent
That through the water-meads
with Proserpine
Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content
Cool
fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine,
With lilies woven and with
wet woodbine;
Till once they sought the bright AEtnaean flowers,
And
their glad mistress fled from summer hours
With Hades, far from
olive, corn, and vine.
And they have sought her all the wide world
through
Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong
Have filled
and changed their song, and o’er the blue
Rings deadly sweet
the magic of the song,
And whoso hears must listen till he die
Far
on the flowery shores of Sicily.
So is it with this singing art of ours,
That once with maids
went maidenlike, and played
With woven dances in the poplar-shade,
And
all her song was but of lady’s bowers
And the returning swallows,
and spring flowers,
Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,
A
shadowy land; and now hath overweighed
Her singing chaplet with
the snow and showers.
Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine
She
left, and by the margin of life’s sea
Sings, and her song
is full of the sea’s moan,
And wild with dread, and love
of Proserpine;
And whoso once has listened to her, he
His
whole life long is slave to her alone.
THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS
OF CORN.
Du Bellay, 1550.
To you, troop so fleet,
That with winged wandering feet,
Through
the wide world pass,
And with soft murmuring
Toss the green
shades of spring
In woods and grass,
Lily and violet
I
give, and blossoms wet,
Roses and dew;
This branch of blushing
roses,
Whose fresh bud uncloses,
Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath,
Winnow the holt and heath,
Round
this retreat;
Where all the golden mom
We fan the gold o’
the corn,
In the sun’s heat.
Jacques Tahureau.
The high Midnight was garlanding her head
With many a shining
star in shining skies,
And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes,
And,
after sorrow, quietness was shed.
Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèd
A
thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries;
And all the woods
were pallid, in strange wise,
With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
Then came my lady to that lonely place,
And, from her palfrey
stooping, did embrace
And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over;
Wherefore
the day is far less dear than night,
And sweeter is the shadow
than the light,
Since night has made me such a happy lover.
Victor Hugo.
The Grave said to the Rose,
‘What of the dews of morn,
Love’s
flower, what end is theirs?’
‘And what of souls outworn,
Of
them whereon doth close
The tomb’s mouth unawares?’
The
Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, ‘In the shade
From the dawn’s tears
is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet.’
‘And
all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely
than the dew,
To God’s own angels new,’
The Grave
said to the Rose.
Du Bellay.
We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,
New wedded in
the village by thy fane,
Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is
We
bring these amaranths, these white lilies,
A sign, and sacrifice;
may Love, we pray,
Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;
Like
these cool lilies may our loves remain,
Perfect and pure, and know
not any stain;
And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,
Bound
each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
Ronsard.
When you are very old, at evening
You’ll sit and spin
beside the fire, and say,
Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah
well-a-day!
When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’
None
of your maidens that doth hear the thing,
Albeit with her weary
task foredone,
But wakens at my name, and calls you one
Blest,
to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
On sleep, a phantom
in the myrtle shade,
While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,
My
love, your pride, remember and regret;
Ah, love me, love! we may
be happy yet,
And gather roses, while ’t is called to-day.
Jacques Tahureau.
Within the sand of what far river lies
The gold that gleams
in tresses of my Love?
What highest circle of the Heavens above
Is
jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?
And where is the rich
sea whose coral vies
With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?
What
dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof
The fled soul lives in her
cheeks’ rosy guise?
What Parian marble that is loveliest
Can match the whiteness
of her brow and breast?
When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade?
Oh
happy rock and river, sky and sea,
Gardens, and glades Sabaean,
all that be
The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
Rémy Belleau, 1560.
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing
hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud
sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in
fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every
hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath
the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s
feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast,
Nature scatters
everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making
faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over
all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the
blest
Buds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles
of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the gods’ delight,
(From
their height
They take the happy air beneath;)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the
far-off isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad
to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and
rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty
petals to unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in
the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and
float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames,
and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the
cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish
bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid
away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and
gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her
flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise
To these days,
Named with
the glad name of Her {4}
That
from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light
on earth and air.
Gérard De Nerval.
There is an air for which I would disown
Mozart’s, Rossini’s,
Weber’s melodies,—
A sweet sad air that languishes
and sighs,
And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,
Two hundred
years are mist that rolls away;
The thirteenth Louis reigns, and
I behold
A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
The windows gay
with many-coloured glass;
Wide plains, and rivers flowing among
flowers,
That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
A lady looks
forth from her window high;
It may be that I knew and found her
fair,
In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
Henri Murger.
Louise, have you forgotten yet
The corner of the flowery land,
The
ancient garden where we met,
My hand that trembled in your hand?
Our
lips found words scarce sweet enough,
As low beneath the willow-trees
We
sat; have you forgotten, love?
Do you remember, love Louise?
Marie, have you forgotten yet
The loving barter that we made?
The
rings we changed, the suns that set,
The woods fulfilled with sun
and shade?
The fountains that were musical
By many an ancient
trysting tree—
Marie, have you forgotten all?
Do you
remember, love Marie?
Christine, do you remember yet
Your room with scents and roses
gay?
My garret—near the sky ’twas set—
The
April hours, the nights of May?
The clear calm nights—the
stars above
That whispered they were fairest seen
Through
no cloud-veil? Remember, love!
Do you remember, love Christine?
Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!
Marie a sadder path has ta’en;
And
pale Christine has passed away
In southern suns to bloom again.
Alas!
for one and all of us—
Marie, Louise, Christine forget;
Our
bower of love is ruinous,
And I alone remember yet.
I be pareld most of prise,
I ride after the wild fee.
Will ye that I should sing
Of the love of a goodly thing,
Was
no vilein’s may?
’Tis all of a knight so free,
Under
the olive tree,
Singing this lay.
Her weed was of samite fine,
Her mantle of white ermine,
Green
silk her hose;
Her shoon with silver gay,
Her sandals flowers
of May,
Laced small and close.
Her belt was of fresh spring buds,
Set with gold clasps and
studs,
Fine linen her shift;
Her purse it was of love,
Her
chain was the flower thereof,
And Love’s gift.
Upon a mule she rode,
The selle was of brent gold,
The
bits of silver made;
Three red rose trees there were
That
overshadowed her,
For a sun shade.
She riding on a day,
Knights met her by the way,
They did
her grace:
‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’
‘France
it is my countrie,
I come of a high race.
‘My sire is the nightingale,
That sings, making his wail,
In
the wild wood, clear;
The mermaid is mother to me,
That sings
in the salt sea,
In the ocean mere.’
‘Ye come of a right good race,
And are born of a high
place,
And of high degree;
Would to God that ye were
Given
unto me, being fair,
My lady and love to be.’
Romaic folk-song.
All the maidens were merry and wed
All to lovers so fair to
see;
The lover I took to my bridal bed
He is not long for
love and me.
I spoke to him and he nothing said,
I gave him bread of the
wheat so fine;
He did not eat of the bridal bread,
He did
not drink of the bridal wine.
I made him a bed was soft and deep,
I made him a bed to sleep
with me;
‘Look on me once before you sleep,
And look
on the flower of my fair body.
‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,
Dew of April and
buds of May;
Two white blossoms that bud for you,
Buds that
blossom before the day.’
French Volks-Lied.
It was a mother and a maid
That walked the woods among,
And
still the maid went slow and sad,
And still the mother sung.
‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?
Why go you pale and
wan?
Is it for a cast of bitter love,
Or for a false leman?’
‘It is not for a false lover
That I go sad to see;
But
it is for a weary life
Beneath the greenwood tree.
‘For ever in the good daylight
A maiden may I go,
But
always on the ninth midnight
I change to a milk-white doe.
‘They hunt me through the green forest
With hounds and
hunting men;
And ever it is my fair brother
That is so fierce
and keen.’
* * * * *
‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;
Where
are your hounds so good?’
‘Oh, they are hunting a white
doe
Within the glad greenwood.
‘And three times have they hunted her,
And thrice she’s
won away;
The fourth time that they follow her
That white
doe they shall slay.’
* * * * *
Then out and spoke the forester,
As he came from the wood,
‘Now
never saw I maid’s gold hair
Among the wild deer’s
blood.
‘And I have hunted the wild deer
In east lands and in
west;
And never saw I white doe yet
That had a maiden’s
breast.’
Then up and spake her fair brother,
Between the wine and bread:
‘Behold
I had but one sister,
And I have been her dead.
‘But ye must bury my sweet sister
With a stone at her
foot and her head,
And ye must cover her fair body
With the
white roses and red.
‘And I must out to the greenwood,
The roof shall never
shelter me;
And I shall lie for seven long years
On the grass
below the hawthorn tree.’
(Meleager.)
Pour wine, and cry again, again, again!
To Heliodore!
And
mingle the sweet word ye call in vain
With that ye pour!
And
bring to me her wreath of yesterday
That’s dank with myrrh;
Hesternae
Rosae, ah my friends, but they
Remember her!
Lo the kind
roses, loved of lovers, weep
As who repine,
For if on any
breast they see her sleep
It is not mine!
(Antiphilus.)
I knew it in your childish grace
The dawning of Desire,
‘Who
lives,’ I said, ‘will see that face
Set all the world
on fire!’
They mocked; but Time has brought to pass
The
saying over-true;
Prophet and martyr now, alas,
I burn for
Truth,—and you!
(Pompeius.)
Lais that bloomed for all the world’s delight,
Crowned
with all love lilies, the fair and dear,
Sleeps the predestined
sleep, nor knows the flight
Of Helios, the gold-reined charioteer:
Revel,
and kiss, and love, and hate, one Night
Darkens, that never lamp
of Love may cheer!
(Meleager.)
For Death, not for Love, hast thou
Loosened thy zone!
Flutes
filled thy bower but now,
Morning brings moan!
Maids round
thy bridal bed
Hushed are in gloom,
Torches to Love that led
Light
to the tomb!
(Leonidas of Tarentum.)
Theris the Old, the waves that harvested
More keen than birds
that labour in the sea,
With spear and net, by shore and rocky
bed,
Not with the well-manned galley laboured he;
Him not
the star of storms, nor sudden sweep
Of wind with all his years
hath smitten and bent,
But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep,
As
fades a lamp when all the oil is spent:
This tomb nor wife nor
children raised, but we
His fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea.
(Meleager.)
Ah Love, my Master, hear me swear
By all the locks of Timo’s
hair,
By Demo, and that fragrant spell
Wherewith her body
doth enchant
Such dreams as drowsy lovers haunt,
By Ilias’
mirth delectable.
And by the lamp that sheds his light
On
love and lovers all the night,
By those, ah Love, I swear that
thou
Hast left me but one breath, and now
Upon my lips it
fluttereth,
Yet this I’ll yield, my latest breath,
Even
this, oh Love, for thee to Death!
(Rufinus.)
Thou hast Hera’s eyes, thou hast Pallas’ hands,
And
the feet of the Queen of the yellow sands,
Thou hast beautiful
Aphrodite’s breast,
Thou art made of each goddess’s
loveliest!
Happy is he who sees thy face,
Happy who hears
thy words of grace,
And he that shall kiss thee is half divine,
But
a god who shall win that heart of thine!
(Asclepiades.)
Believe me, love, it is not good
To hoard a mortal maidenhood;
In
Hades thou wilt never find,
Maiden, a lover to thy mind;
Love’s
for the living! presently
Ashes and dust in death are we!
(Meleager.)
O gentle ships that skim the seas,
And cleave the strait where
Hellé fell,
Catch in your sails the Northern breeze,
And
speed to Cos, where she doth dwell,
My Love, and see you greet
her well!
And if she looks across the blue,
Speak, gentle
ships, and tell her true,
‘He comes, for Love hath brought
him back,
No sailor, on the landward tack.’
If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do,
Then may ye win the fairest
gales,
And swifter speed across the blue,
While Zeus breathes
friendly on your sails.
(Paulus Silentiarius.)
I that in youth had never been
The servant of the Paphian Queen,
I
that in youth had never felt
The shafts of Eros pierce and melt,
Cypris!
in later age, half grey,
I bow the neck to thee to-day.
Pallas,
that was my lady, thou
Dost more triumphant vanquish now,
Than
when thou gained’st, over seas,
The apple of the Hesperides.
Thirty-six is the term that the prophets assign,
And the students
of stars to the years that are mine;
Nay, let thirty suffice, for
the man who hath passed
Thirty years is a Nestor, and he
died at last!
(From the Latin of Ménage.)
What do I see! Oh gods divine
And goddesses,—this
Book of mine,—
This child of many hopes and fears,—
Is
published by the Elzevirs!
Oh perfect Publishers complete!
Oh
dainty volume, new and neat!
The Paper doth outshine the snow,
The
Print is blacker than the crow,
The Title-Page, with crimson bright,
The
vellum cover smooth and white,
All sorts of readers do invite,
Ay,
and will keep them reading still,
Against their will, or with their
will!
Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lack
The Publisher
has given them back,
As Milliners adorn the fair
Whose charms
are something skimp and spare.
Oh dulce decus, Elzevirs!
The
pride of dead and dawning years,
How can a poet best repay
The
debt he owes your House to-day?
May this round world, while aught
endures,
Applaud, and buy, these books of yours!
May purchasers
incessant pop,
My Elzevirs, within your shop,
And learned
bards salute, with cheers,
The volumes of the Elzevirs,
Till
your renown fills earth and sky,
Till men forget the Stephani,
And
all that Aldus wrought, and all
Turnebus sold in shop or stall,
While
still may Fate’s (and Binders’) shears
Respect, and
spare, the Elzevirs!
Within the streams, Pausanias saith,
That down Cocytus valley
flow,
Girdling the grey domain of Death,
The spectral fishes
come and go;
The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.
Persephone,
fulfil my wish,
And grant that in the shades below
My ghost
may land the ghosts of fish.
Φη λογοποιος
ανηρ, δνοφερων
εντοσθε ρεεθρων
οσσα
περιξ Αιδην εις
’Αχεροντα ρεει
ιχθυες
ως αν’ αφεγγες
υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσιν
ειδωλ’
ειδωλοις νηχομενα
πτερυγων.
Φερσεφονη,
συ θανοντι δ’
εμοι κρηηνον
εελδωρ,
καν
Αιδη σκιερους
ιχθυας εξερυσαι.
L. C.
Footnotes:
{1} January 26, 1885.
{2} M. Antoninus iv 23.
{3} From the Romaic.
{4} Aphrodite—Avril.
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