VII.—SONNET: OUR DEAD

Alone on the shore in the pause of the night-timeI stand and I hear the long wind blow light;I view the constellations quietly, quietly burning;I hear the wave fall in the hush of the night.Long after I am dead, ended this bitter journey,Many another whose heart holds no lightShall your solemn sweetness, hush, awe, and comfort,O my companions, Wind, Waters, Stars, and Night.Near Gold Cap,1916.

Alone on the shore in the pause of the night-timeI stand and I hear the long wind blow light;I view the constellations quietly, quietly burning;I hear the wave fall in the hush of the night.

Long after I am dead, ended this bitter journey,Many another whose heart holds no lightShall your solemn sweetness, hush, awe, and comfort,O my companions, Wind, Waters, Stars, and Night.

Near Gold Cap,1916.

They have not gone from us. O no! they areThe inmost essence of each thing that isPerfect for us; they flame in every star;The trees are emerald with their presences.They are not gone from us; they do not roamThe flaw and turmoil of the lower deep,But have now made the whole wide world their home,And in its loveliness themselves they steep.They fail not ever; theirs is the diurnSplendour of sunny hill and forest grave;In every rainbow's glittering drop they burn;They dazzle in the massed clouds' architrave;They chant on every wind, and they returnIn the long roll of any deep blue wave.

They fail not ever; theirs is the diurnSplendour of sunny hill and forest grave;In every rainbow's glittering drop they burn;They dazzle in the massed clouds' architrave;They chant on every wind, and they returnIn the long roll of any deep blue wave.

Out of the Night! out of the Night I come:Free at last: the whole world is my home:I have lost self: I look not on myself again,But if I do I see a man among men.Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Flesh:Soul I know not from Body within thy mesh:Accepting all that is, I cannot divide the same:I accept the smoke because I accept the flame.Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Friends:O all my dead, think ye our friendship ends?Harold, Kenneth, Dick, many hearts that were true,While I breathe breath, I am breathing you.Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Power:Many a fight to be won, many an awful hour;Many an hour to wish death ere I go to death,Many an hour to bless breath ere I cease from breath.Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Soul:Give thanks to the Night: Night and Day are the Whole.I count mere life-breath nothing now I know Life's worthLies all in spending! that known, love Life and Earth.

Out of the Night! out of the Night I come:Free at last: the whole world is my home:I have lost self: I look not on myself again,But if I do I see a man among men.

Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Flesh:Soul I know not from Body within thy mesh:Accepting all that is, I cannot divide the same:I accept the smoke because I accept the flame.

Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Friends:O all my dead, think ye our friendship ends?Harold, Kenneth, Dick, many hearts that were true,While I breathe breath, I am breathing you.

Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Power:Many a fight to be won, many an awful hour;Many an hour to wish death ere I go to death,Many an hour to bless breath ere I cease from breath.

Out of the Night! out of the Night, O Soul:Give thanks to the Night: Night and Day are the Whole.I count mere life-breath nothing now I know Life's worthLies all in spending! that known, love Life and Earth.

'O Fantaisie, emporte-moi sur tes ailes pour désennuyer ma tristesse!'Flaubert.Roughly planned in Spring, 1914, at Oxford. "Midday in Arcadia" composed July, 1914; "Catch for Spring" adapted from version of 1912 during the same month: both at Grayshott. Taken up again in February, 1916, continued at the Hut, Bray, and, after being frequently interrupted, finished on February 18, 1917, at Ilsington.The author intends the "hulli" and the "lulli" of the Faun's call in 'Faun's Rally' to be pronounced as if they rhymed with such a word as "fully."

'O Fantaisie, emporte-moi sur tes ailes pour désennuyer ma tristesse!'

Flaubert.

Roughly planned in Spring, 1914, at Oxford. "Midday in Arcadia" composed July, 1914; "Catch for Spring" adapted from version of 1912 during the same month: both at Grayshott. Taken up again in February, 1916, continued at the Hut, Bray, and, after being frequently interrupted, finished on February 18, 1917, at Ilsington.

The author intends the "hulli" and the "lulli" of the Faun's call in 'Faun's Rally' to be pronounced as if they rhymed with such a word as "fully."

Of the Faun's Awakening.

Hark! a sound. Is it I sleep?Wake I? or do my senses keepCommune yet with thoughtful nightAnd dream they feel, not see, the lightThat, with a chord as if a lyreWere upward swept by tongues of fire,Spreads in all-seeing majestyOver crag, dale, curved shore, and sea?If this be sleep, I do not sleep.I hear the little woodnote weepOf a shy, darkling bird which criesIn a sweet-fluted, sharp surpriseAt glimpse of me, the faun-beast, sleepingNigh under her. My crook'd leg, sweepingSome dream away, perhaps, awoke her,For dew shook from a bough doth soak her.And all elsewhere how still it is!—The mist beyond the precipiceSmokes gently up. The bushes hangOver the gulph 'cross which I sprangLast midnight,—though the unicorn,Who with clanged hooves and lowered hornRaging pursued, now hidden liesAmid the cragside dewberriesAnd sweats his frosty flanks in sleep,Dreaming he views again my leapThrice hazardous.The silver chasmSighs, and many a blithe phantasmTurns in the sunlight's quivering ray.I couch in peace. Thoughts fond and gayFeed on my sense of maiden hoursAnd earth refreshed by suns and showersOf nightly dew and heavy quiet.—Though last night rang with dinning riot:Dionysos in headlong moodRanged through the labyrinthine wood;Fleet maids sped, yelping, on with him,Brandishing a torn heifer's limb,Dissonant cymbals, or black bowlOf wine and blood; a wolfish howlFled ululant with them....Now there isDepth, the white mist, the great sun, peace.

If this be sleep, I do not sleep.I hear the little woodnote weepOf a shy, darkling bird which criesIn a sweet-fluted, sharp surpriseAt glimpse of me, the faun-beast, sleepingNigh under her. My crook'd leg, sweepingSome dream away, perhaps, awoke her,For dew shook from a bough doth soak her.

And all elsewhere how still it is!—The mist beyond the precipiceSmokes gently up. The bushes hangOver the gulph 'cross which I sprangLast midnight,—though the unicorn,Who with clanged hooves and lowered hornRaging pursued, now hidden liesAmid the cragside dewberriesAnd sweats his frosty flanks in sleep,Dreaming he views again my leapThrice hazardous.The silver chasmSighs, and many a blithe phantasmTurns in the sunlight's quivering ray.I couch in peace. Thoughts fond and gayFeed on my sense of maiden hoursAnd earth refreshed by suns and showersOf nightly dew and heavy quiet.—Though last night rang with dinning riot:Dionysos in headlong moodRanged through the labyrinthine wood;Fleet maids sped, yelping, on with him,Brandishing a torn heifer's limb,Dissonant cymbals, or black bowlOf wine and blood; a wolfish howlFled ululant with them....Now there isDepth, the white mist, the great sun, peace.

Of the Faun's Descent from the Mountain.

Too numb such sunshine!—Let me henceOut of the solemn imminenceOf yon chill spire whose shadow creepsToward me from the stagnant deepsOf the ravine. For now I willDescend and take again my fillOf fancy wild and musing joy,Such as each dawn brings to alloyThe long affliction of a spiritWho a complete world did inherit,And feels it crumbling.I will downWhither twin bluffs of sheer stone frownOver sunk seas of billowing pineTerrace on terrace, line on line,Below whose heads the broad downs slopeAway, away till senses gropeAt something rather felt than seen:The sea,—not wave-tops, but a sheenUnder the dazed and distant sky....Curled on a cliff-top let me lie.(For yonder, hap, a breeze is blowing,And the sun's first gleam is showingUnder far wreckage: since our heightInherits day while yet their lightQuakes gold under the low clouds' rift.)Down, then! Miraculously swiftThese limbs the gods have given me!...Couched mid the gorse, anon I see,Opposing this my bluff, the faceOf the sheer rock, and 'long it traceA sill scarce ample for a goat,Yet midway in the ledge-path noteA cave's mouth, which thick creepers hideFallen in a silvery tideFrom a slant crevice overhead.And, lo! the creeper stirs, is shed—And all falls quiet.Till at lastIssues a voice deep, young and vast:

THE CENTAUR'S MORNING SONG.

Centaur.Up! the ag'd centaurs lie yet sleeping,While crouch I palled of this cavern lairAnd watch the stretched sea-eagle sweepingDown the grey-blue drizzling air.The sea-nymphs, too, will now be waking,If sickle-eyed they have not playedAcross the moonlight sets me aching,Longing and slinking, half afraid,Down the feathery, tawny sandOn sighing treadDeep into banks of glistering shell,To halt in dreadLest my hoof-scrunch break the spellOf the syren-chants that swellFrom the dim shoals toward the land.But this morn the breeze is blowingFreshly: I hear lightly flowingFrom the bending giant beamBars the forehead of our doorThe golden raindrops in a streamPattering on the steamy floor.Faun.It is the Centaur's voice I hear!Young and lusty, deep and clear:And the Panisks at his voiceIn their fastnesses rejoice,Emerging from the creviced cragOr cave beneath the mountain's jag,Merry, shaggy, light of hoof,To run along the narrow roof,And upon the shelvèd heightDance before the swimming light.

But this morn the breeze is blowingFreshly: I hear lightly flowingFrom the bending giant beamBars the forehead of our doorThe golden raindrops in a streamPattering on the steamy floor.

Faun.It is the Centaur's voice I hear!Young and lusty, deep and clear:And the Panisks at his voiceIn their fastnesses rejoice,Emerging from the creviced cragOr cave beneath the mountain's jag,Merry, shaggy, light of hoof,To run along the narrow roof,And upon the shelvèd heightDance before the swimming light.

THE CENTAUR'S MORNING SONG (continued)

Centaur.And I see upon the ledge,Astir over the hanging edge,A russet briar cold with dewAnd beyond, forlornly pentIn a grey cloud's gliding rent,A pure pool of the brightest blue:So near it seems I've but to castA flint out on the forward vastTo mark it flashing blithely through!And now at last!At lastThe great Sun,The Sudden One,Stamps upon the cloudy floor;The heavens are split, and through the floorHeaven's golden treasures tumbling pour....And the Sun himself, divine,Doth descendIn such a bursting blaze of shineThat his glorious hair is shookOver the wide world's craggiest end!And, even I, I dare not look.

And now at last!At lastThe great Sun,The Sudden One,Stamps upon the cloudy floor;The heavens are split, and through the floorHeaven's golden treasures tumbling pour....And the Sun himself, divine,Doth descendIn such a bursting blaze of shineThat his glorious hair is shookOver the wide world's craggiest end!And, even I, I dare not look.

I will shout! I will ramp!Just three bounds: then out and stampWhere the air like water isEddying up over the precipice;—Wind with an edge to it, sea-damp,Blowing from the canyon's raceWhere the dripping sea-wind heavesThrough a tunnel of the rocksSea-water up in thunderous sheavesAgainst the precipitous water-rapids,To whip from off th' high-hurtled shocksBursts of mist which soak the leavesOf each scented bush that cleavesTo the cliffs. Till Fauns and LapithsDance in the sun-bewildered brakes,Till even flushed Silenus wakes,And—with a short deep-throated trollTo the wind and to the wine,Both delirious, both divine!—Starts, as he drains the tilted bowl,At din, to rolling uproar grown,Of rocks dislodged and bounding down,With splinter of pines and flint-shocked flashes,From the ridge whereon we danceIn a loud exuberanceOf rattling hoofs whose echoes drownThe squealing joy or reedy piningOf Pan's pipe, where Pan recliningPlays in the clouded mountain's crown!

III

The Faun hails the Centaur.

Faun.It is the Centaur's voice I hear.The creeper tresses toss with fear,Then part before a pow'rful hand.See, see, O see the Centaur standWith ruggëd head erect and proud,Whose rounded mouth yet chants aloudThe Joy of Mind fulfilled in Force:Glory of Man, glory of Horse.Hail thou, the sov'reign of the hill!Hail thou, upon whose locks distilFresh dews when mid majestic nightThou pacest, hid, along the height.Thine are the solitudes of snowBetween bare peaks, thy hooves alsoAre heard within the dusk defileWhere Titans of a sunless whileFashioned huge sphinxes in whose eyesThe Kite now skulks or, girding, cries.Thine, too, the sole and sinking pineBurned by the sunset—ay, and thineThe ledges whence a sudden siftOf snow sighs downward, thine the swiftUproar of avalanche and allThe mountain echoes. To thee call,When the snow melts and there are seenCrocuses blazing mid the greenOf the dewed grass, the Sylvan folk:The Dryads from the leafless oakOr budded elder, that at lengthThou mayst release them by the strengthOf thy tough fingers; 'tis on theeThe nymphs cry should the runnels beExhausted of the midsummer sun,Sith, stamping, thou canst make to runThe hoarded waters of the wold.And among men thou art of oldThought's emblem: for to thee belongAll gifts of deep, wise, epic song.Hail, then, whom Earth and mankind hails.And Ocean, whose high-spouting whalesAnd dripping serpents, that ariseSwinging their gold crests to the skiesTo drink in all thy bold descantHail, though they cannot view thee chant,As I who now behold in soothThy lighted eyes and singing mouth.

Hail thou, the sov'reign of the hill!Hail thou, upon whose locks distilFresh dews when mid majestic nightThou pacest, hid, along the height.Thine are the solitudes of snowBetween bare peaks, thy hooves alsoAre heard within the dusk defileWhere Titans of a sunless whileFashioned huge sphinxes in whose eyesThe Kite now skulks or, girding, cries.Thine, too, the sole and sinking pineBurned by the sunset—ay, and thineThe ledges whence a sudden siftOf snow sighs downward, thine the swiftUproar of avalanche and allThe mountain echoes. To thee call,When the snow melts and there are seenCrocuses blazing mid the greenOf the dewed grass, the Sylvan folk:The Dryads from the leafless oakOr budded elder, that at lengthThou mayst release them by the strengthOf thy tough fingers; 'tis on theeThe nymphs cry should the runnels beExhausted of the midsummer sun,Sith, stamping, thou canst make to runThe hoarded waters of the wold.And among men thou art of oldThought's emblem: for to thee belongAll gifts of deep, wise, epic song.Hail, then, whom Earth and mankind hails.And Ocean, whose high-spouting whalesAnd dripping serpents, that ariseSwinging their gold crests to the skiesTo drink in all thy bold descantHail, though they cannot view thee chant,As I who now behold in soothThy lighted eyes and singing mouth.

Of the Centaur's Beauty.

O grape-hung locks! glorious face,Capacious frame, sinewy graceOf arm that lifts a skully lyreWhose dithyramb whirls ever higher!Deep breast-bone, belly, curvèd thews—Such as the tussling oak doth useUpon the crumbled scarp to grip—Striking from trunk down through the hipInto the stallion's massive shouldersGlossy as moonlit ice-bound boulders!Stiff, stalwart forelegs, heavy hoofYet fleeter far on heights aloofThan ev'n such doubled hares as raceBlue 'thwart dim fells, or, speck in space,Osprey, gale-swept across the tides!Thy man's trunk glisters; on thy sidesA soft and silver shagginess,Inviting slim hands to caress,Hangs dewy——Centaur.Faun, Faun, art thou near?Faun.Behold me stand, proud Centaur, hereUpon the bluff where 'neath me liesThe sunned pool of the precipice.

Centaur.Faun, Faun, art thou near?

Faun.Behold me stand, proud Centaur, hereUpon the bluff where 'neath me liesThe sunned pool of the precipice.

Of the Centaur's Ardour.

Centaur.Faun, in my veins the blood 'gins race,The new sun sweats upon my face,Dazzles my pupils, golden swimsOver my flushed and fervid limbs.I feel in me my spirit riseGriffon-like flogging up tall skies.Now is the Morning of the World,And through my heart a flood is hurledOf onerous joyance, of desireTo clutch the sun and spill its fireDown heaven's blue bulwarks! to snatch lifeAnd drain its lusty full in strifeOf all my body with the bentWrestle of every element:Close with the whirlwind, front the tideAnd turn its moony press aside.But in the world I cannot findA match in strength, a foe in mind....At dawn, at eve the waters burn;All night the constellations turnRound the dark pole, and none knows why....None seeks to know save only IAnd thou, O Faun. We are alone....Yet sometimes, when the wind is goneAnd all below shines sunned and still,I feel depart from me the willMerely to know, to know and wait:I would do more: I would create.Though what I know not; but I wouldSpend this my mind and hardihood.Yet find no means save physic force:—Sing as a man, stride as a horse.Then stride I? Swift I overcomeThe fleetest. Sing I? All are dumb.Natheless my heart demands in griefArdour, endurance and relief;Asks, but receives not.Faun.Shall not IEcho thy pain, whom Fates denyAnswer to thought,—as they to theeThe lust-of-action's fill? But weAccept too much, O Sire. 'Twere best,Though idly, to fulfil our zest.

But in the world I cannot findA match in strength, a foe in mind....At dawn, at eve the waters burn;All night the constellations turnRound the dark pole, and none knows why....None seeks to know save only IAnd thou, O Faun. We are alone....Yet sometimes, when the wind is goneAnd all below shines sunned and still,I feel depart from me the willMerely to know, to know and wait:I would do more: I would create.Though what I know not; but I wouldSpend this my mind and hardihood.Yet find no means save physic force:—Sing as a man, stride as a horse.Then stride I? Swift I overcomeThe fleetest. Sing I? All are dumb.Natheless my heart demands in griefArdour, endurance and relief;Asks, but receives not.

Faun.Shall not IEcho thy pain, whom Fates denyAnswer to thought,—as they to theeThe lust-of-action's fill? But weAccept too much, O Sire. 'Twere best,Though idly, to fulfil our zest.

Of the Challenge.

Four leagues this canyon runs betweenUs twain or ever there is seenThe arch of rock whose massy graceBridges yon gap of golden space.Deignest thou, then, to race with meFrom such tall eyries to the sea,If even now I upward leap?Centaur.Leap then! I catch thee e'er the steepSubsides in woodland or in down.

Centaur.Leap then! I catch thee e'er the steepSubsides in woodland or in down.

And of the Manner of the Running.

Away! My rapping footfalls drownAll but the sobbing of the windWithin my ears and loud behindThe thunder of the Centaur's hoovesWhere, like a hailstorm, down he moves.Past me the spun pines rock and hiss,Behind my feet stones pelted whizz,Hills rise before me, backward flow,The bare downs, bright'ning, mount below....On. On. Down. Down. But, ah, no more!My breath comes keener than the froreIndraught of age-long mountain frost;My head turns dizzy, feet are lost.Yet scamper feet! A rock—a mound:Rap! Rap! I soar it at a bound.On. On. Down. Down. A sudden brook,And now—in mid-air—lo! there lookLaughingly up at me the eyesOf Hyads, and their fading criesRing in my ears. Can they have seenThe Centaur hurtle by betweenThem and the clouds? The downs up-fly.Now earth's bowl rocks and reels the skyAnd through my chilly flaming tearsThe molten sun swoops, bursts, and veers....

The Faun falls.

Still rap my hoofs, though but the soundTells me they yet rocket the ground.The uproar loudens more behind.My crook'd legs cross, my eyes go blind.I claw the sky: for, O! I canScarce lurch. I feel the sudden fanOf the great Centaur's galey breathUpon my nape, and like chill deathHis hand descends. But, ah! he laughsEven as Bacchus when he quaffsIn jest or taunt a double bowl.I, choking, reel, and, tripping, rollWildly aside. See! as I fallA rampant shape majesticalStorms vehement by, and, storming, swingsHand across rushing lyre, which ringsTo strains, like rolling breakers tossedHigh o'er an adamantine coast,In praise of elemental Mirth,Strength, Beauty and the Golden Earth!

Of Downs beloved by Pan.

Beyond the rocks, below the trees,The great downs lie; nought but the breezeIs heard upon them. All day longThe shadows of the great clouds throngAcross their sides: a noiseless rout.Sometimes a peewit, blown aboutBy airy surge, cries a lone cryEre hurtled down the clarid sky;Sometimes is heard a shepherd's voiceShouting, and after it the noiseOf many-pattering crowded sheepHerded within the gay dog's keep,Who also, barking, shouts. Save theseNought breaks the breezy silencesOf the green sun-swept, cloud-swept spaces....Such downs Pan loves, and ofttime placesHis lonely altars on them.IOne of such now behold. A highMound bears it, and its nakednessOf festal fruit and fragrant dressHints 'tis new-built.Up, then, and soundA rally to the sacred ground:

Such downs Pan loves, and ofttime placesHis lonely altars on them.IOne of such now behold. A highMound bears it, and its nakednessOf festal fruit and fragrant dressHints 'tis new-built.Up, then, and soundA rally to the sacred ground:

FAUN'S RALLY.

Faun.Come ye, merry shepherds all,Hulli-lulli-li-lo!Listen to my piping call:Hulli-li-lo!Hasten to Pan's festival;Leave your sheep.Cannot Pan a shrewd watch keepO'er his own?Safe are they as pent in stall;Safe are they, for Pan has thrownFear about them like a wall.Wherefore, shepherds, hither run.I have set my pipes to lip;Now they cry despondinglyAs mid shaken locks I dip.Now shrill—as hark!—I lift them highTo swirl the tune about the sky!Up and down and round the skyTill want I further force to blow....Wherefore, shepherds, hither run,Dance behind me as I skip;Strike the tóssed támbours in únison,Dance, dance and make to dance the sunTo your Hulli-li-lo!Shepherds.Faun, I come. I hear. We hear—Faun.This my Hulli-li-lo:Now afar and now anear.Shepherds.Never sped the midnight deerHalf so fast'Fore Diana's star-ringed spearAs now haste we to appearAt thy Hulli-li-lo!Faun.Joy, O shepherds, at the sound:Hulli-lulli-li-lo!Pan's new altar I have found:Hulli-li-lo!Cowslips prank its holy mound,With ivy have I wreathed it round—But not yetIs the altar's dress completeTill with flowers its horns are bound.Shepherds.Faun, we hear, and from the brookFlags are pulled; and now we hookHoneysuckle high, lowDown to us with shepherd's crook;Breathing floss,Clematis twines, rushy stook,Apple blossom, down is shookAt thy Hulli-li-lo!Faun.Wreathe the pedestal anew;Hulli-lulli-li-lo!Scatter violets scattering dew;Hulli-li-lo!Honey that the brown bees brewPour, and rosy blossoms strew;Spill such wineAs in dim-bloomed clusters grewOn your father's father's vine.Dance you now.I my pipe cease—thus—to blow:Dance you on.Dance about the sacred mound,Dance when every sound is gone....Now the timbrels softly, sprightlyBeat, and foot it gaily, lightly;Tiptoe o'er the secret ground,Dance the round.Next, to the sole, trilling fluteAnd your own subduèd laughterFlutter all in throngs and mazes,Chase in streams of ardent faces,With bright eyes and oped mouth mute.Now alone,One by one,Dance and dream, and dreaming floatTill the multitude drifts after,And I wake a quicker note:Clap your hands aloft and cry;Surge in line tumultuously;Cry, and with a whirl of voicesFright the pigeons whickering by!Praise the God of field and fold!Shout until the hills have told,By their sudden echoes flying,Flying, crying, falling, dying,That upon his name we call,Who beside the river lyingHears us keep his festival.

Wherefore, shepherds, hither run.

I have set my pipes to lip;Now they cry despondinglyAs mid shaken locks I dip.Now shrill—as hark!—I lift them highTo swirl the tune about the sky!Up and down and round the skyTill want I further force to blow....Wherefore, shepherds, hither run,Dance behind me as I skip;Strike the tóssed támbours in únison,Dance, dance and make to dance the sunTo your Hulli-li-lo!

Shepherds.Faun, I come. I hear. We hear—

Faun.This my Hulli-li-lo:Now afar and now anear.

Shepherds.Never sped the midnight deerHalf so fast'Fore Diana's star-ringed spearAs now haste we to appearAt thy Hulli-li-lo!

Faun.Joy, O shepherds, at the sound:Hulli-lulli-li-lo!Pan's new altar I have found:Hulli-li-lo!Cowslips prank its holy mound,With ivy have I wreathed it round—But not yetIs the altar's dress completeTill with flowers its horns are bound.

Shepherds.Faun, we hear, and from the brookFlags are pulled; and now we hookHoneysuckle high, lowDown to us with shepherd's crook;Breathing floss,Clematis twines, rushy stook,Apple blossom, down is shookAt thy Hulli-li-lo!

Faun.Wreathe the pedestal anew;Hulli-lulli-li-lo!Scatter violets scattering dew;Hulli-li-lo!Honey that the brown bees brewPour, and rosy blossoms strew;Spill such wineAs in dim-bloomed clusters grewOn your father's father's vine.

Dance you now.I my pipe cease—thus—to blow:Dance you on.Dance about the sacred mound,Dance when every sound is gone....Now the timbrels softly, sprightlyBeat, and foot it gaily, lightly;Tiptoe o'er the secret ground,Dance the round.

Next, to the sole, trilling fluteAnd your own subduèd laughterFlutter all in throngs and mazes,Chase in streams of ardent faces,With bright eyes and oped mouth mute.Now alone,One by one,Dance and dream, and dreaming floatTill the multitude drifts after,And I wake a quicker note:Clap your hands aloft and cry;Surge in line tumultuously;Cry, and with a whirl of voicesFright the pigeons whickering by!Praise the God of field and fold!Shout until the hills have told,By their sudden echoes flying,Flying, crying, falling, dying,That upon his name we call,Who beside the river lyingHears us keep his festival.

The Faun enters the Valley.

Wearied of solitary hills,On which the wannish sunlight spills,And which the glooms of high clouds cross,Clouds wandering ever at a lossAbout th' immeasurable sky,I will descend. And by-and-byGlimpse beneath the shouldered downA hamlet reeking golden-brown;Creep through a willow copse to viewUnder an orchard avenue,A lithe girl in a sun-splashed smockCalling her perchëd pigeon flock,And as they coo and flutter overLaughing and carolling of her lover.Girl.'Little pigeon, grave and fleet'—All the golden grain you'd eat,Greedy! let the little birdPick some. Sweet, your cooing's heard;You shall have this. There! Be bolder:Light you now upon my shoulder....Cooroo? Cooroo in my ear?Darling, yes, I hear, I hear:From this hand, then, you shall pluck it.Foolish love! your wings have struck it,Spilt the grain the grass among.—Flutter! Flutter!—where's my song?'Little pigeon, grave and fleet'—Too late now your wings you beatBy my face: look in the ground;There, they say, all gold is found.

Girl.'Little pigeon, grave and fleet'—All the golden grain you'd eat,Greedy! let the little birdPick some. Sweet, your cooing's heard;You shall have this. There! Be bolder:Light you now upon my shoulder....Cooroo? Cooroo in my ear?Darling, yes, I hear, I hear:From this hand, then, you shall pluck it.Foolish love! your wings have struck it,Spilt the grain the grass among.—Flutter! Flutter!—where's my song?'Little pigeon, grave and fleet'—Too late now your wings you beatBy my face: look in the ground;There, they say, all gold is found.

THE PIGEON SONG.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet,Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings,Think you that you can discoverOn what great green down my loverLies by his sunny sheep and sings?If you can, O go and greetHim from me; say: She is waiting....Not for him, O no! but, sweet,Say June's nigh and doves, remating,Fill the dancing noontide heatWith melodious debating.Say the swift swoops from the beam;Soon the cuckoo must cease calling;Kingcups flare beside the stream,That not glides now but runs brawling;That wet roses are asteamIn the sun and will be falling.Say the chestnut sheds his bloom;Honey from straw hivings oozes;There's a nightjar in the coombe;Venus nightly burns, and choosesMost to blaze above my room;That the laggard 'tis that loses.Say the nights are warm and free,And the great stars swarm above him;But soon starless night must be.Yet if all these do not move him,Tell, O tell—but not too plainly!—That I long for him and love him.Little pigeon, grave and fleet,Fly you swiftly, tell him this;And I'll give you grain so goldenMidas' self has ne'er beholdenAught so gold, and—yes!—a kiss.Smiling at her eager voice,I will grant the girl her choice,Whispering to the pigeon: "Lo!Yon's the way for you to go:Over the willows, past the copse,To where a sylph-like lime-tree topsA lonely knoll; then on and onToward where yesternight there shoneA silver comet, scarce descried,Against the fainting eventide."

Little pigeon, grave and fleet,Eye-of-fire, sweet Snowy-wings,Think you that you can discoverOn what great green down my loverLies by his sunny sheep and sings?

If you can, O go and greetHim from me; say: She is waiting....Not for him, O no! but, sweet,Say June's nigh and doves, remating,Fill the dancing noontide heatWith melodious debating.

Say the swift swoops from the beam;Soon the cuckoo must cease calling;Kingcups flare beside the stream,That not glides now but runs brawling;That wet roses are asteamIn the sun and will be falling.

Say the chestnut sheds his bloom;Honey from straw hivings oozes;There's a nightjar in the coombe;Venus nightly burns, and choosesMost to blaze above my room;That the laggard 'tis that loses.

Say the nights are warm and free,And the great stars swarm above him;But soon starless night must be.Yet if all these do not move him,Tell, O tell—but not too plainly!—That I long for him and love him.

Little pigeon, grave and fleet,Fly you swiftly, tell him this;And I'll give you grain so goldenMidas' self has ne'er beholdenAught so gold, and—yes!—a kiss.

Smiling at her eager voice,I will grant the girl her choice,Whispering to the pigeon: "Lo!Yon's the way for you to go:Over the willows, past the copse,To where a sylph-like lime-tree topsA lonely knoll; then on and onToward where yesternight there shoneA silver comet, scarce descried,Against the fainting eventide."

VII

Of the Faun's Whimseys.

Away then! crashing through the wood,Prancing in a whimsey mood,To yowl as a she-wolf does at darkUntil th' infuriate watch-dogs bark;Or bid hushed tales of ghosts go round,Of warnings heard, but nothing found,By whistling at the village boor;Or poke my rogue face round a doorAnd scare a huffy wife to fits,Who swears, "'Tis Pan himself!" or, "It'sThat grizzled sailor-man who slewHis mate 'twixt Bogs and Dead Man's Yew!"Next through the dairy steal to slakeMy thirst with cream, with honeycakeCram my sweet maw; slip in the churnA farm cat, that the tub may turnAnd fright maid Molly. I will seekStrawberries and stain chin, mouth and cheekWith nuzzling in their scarlet bowl;Then in the goodman's bed I'll rollBecause he loves me not; I'll singUntil the crowded rafters ringThe while about my ears I hangBobbed cherries.... Lastly I will clangAmong the clattering pots and pans,Shout, cry "Oh help!" snatch up a man'sCloak, and slip out.

The Pursuit.

Whoop! Whoop! They run:The hare once spied, the hunt's begun!—Goodman and goodman's wife, pert Polly,Clown Colin, Wiggen and maid Molly,Pant, crying, "Thief!" The while behindShrunk Dorcas hops, and fills the windWith apish merriment, shrill malice,And cries of—"Well run, Poll! Run, Alice!Run, child! The master's cloak and all!How sad the goodman's ta'en a fall!Mistress down, too—he! he! what pity!Run, Alice child, my bird, my pretty;Show 'em how nimble thou canst be,—Ay, but the girl runs prettily.Run, Hobbinol, thou gawky man!Thou mayest kiss if catch thou can!Odd's me! and what's it all about?A thief? That mischief Faun!"A shoutStartles the pigeons from the croft:"We've circled him!" "He's in the loft."But as they, silent, crowd unto 'tI jump. For am not I a goat?From out the hayloft's height I leapO'er their craned heads into the deepGrass of the orchard. Thence I runAcross lush meadows. One by oneThey fall behind....A scarecrow INow seek, and 'bout it carefullyEnwrap the newly pilfered cloak....Scarecrows are such poor crazy folk....

VIII

The Faun hides.

So to a thorny thicket denseWith rosy-coloured may-bloom, whenceI can hear a torrent rumble,And, peering forth, behold it tumbleCumbrously into a pool whose whiteTumult sears the giddied sight.There, half dozed, silent, smile to hearA babble of voices drawing near,Spy many a boy and laughing lassRacing hands-linked across the grass.

A CATCH FOR SPRING.

Boys and Girls.Now has the blue-eyed SpringSped dancing through the plain.Girls weave a daisy chain;Boys race beside the sedge;Dust fills the blinding lane;May lies upon the hedge:All creatures love the spring!The clouds laugh on, and wouldDance with us if they could;The larks ascend and shrill;A woodpecker fills the wood;Jays laugh crossing the hill:All creatures love the spring!The lithe cloud-shadows chaseOver the whole earth's face,And where winds ruffling veerO'er wooded streams' dark waysMad fish upscudding steer:All creatures love the spring!Into the dairy coolRun, girls, to drink thick cream!Race, boys, to where the streamWinds through a rumbling pool,And your bright bodies flingInto the foaming cool!For we'll enjoy our spring!

The clouds laugh on, and wouldDance with us if they could;The larks ascend and shrill;A woodpecker fills the wood;Jays laugh crossing the hill:All creatures love the spring!

The lithe cloud-shadows chaseOver the whole earth's face,And where winds ruffling veerO'er wooded streams' dark waysMad fish upscudding steer:All creatures love the spring!

Into the dairy coolRun, girls, to drink thick cream!Race, boys, to where the streamWinds through a rumbling pool,And your bright bodies flingInto the foaming cool!For we'll enjoy our spring!

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