O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!Let some young Florentine each eventideBring coronals of that enchanted flowerWhich the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,And deck the marble tomb wherein he liesWhose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;
Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,Being tempest-driven to the farthest rimWhere Chaos meets Creation and the wingsOf the eternal chanting CherubimAre pavilioned on Nothing, passed awayInto a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,
He is not dead, the immemorial FatesForbid it, and the closing shears refrain.Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strainFor the vile thing he hated lurks withinIts sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.
Still what avails it that she sought her caveThat murderous mother of red harlotries?At Munich on the marble architraveThe Grecian boys die smiling, but the seasWhich wash Ægina fret in lonelinessNot mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless
For lack of our ideals, if one starFlame torch-like in the heavens the unjustSwift daylight kills it, and no trump of warCan wake to passionate voice the silent dustWhich was Mazzini once! rich NiobeFor all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,
What Easter Day shall make her children rise,Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feetShall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyesShall see them bodily? O it were meetTo roll the stone from off the sepulchreAnd kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,
Our Italy! our mother visible!Most blessed among nations and most sad,For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fellThat day at Aspromonte and was gladThat in an age when God was bought and soldOne man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,
See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyvesBind the sweet feet of Mercy: PovertyCreeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knivesCuts the warm throats of children stealthily,And no word said:—O we are wretched menUnworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen
Of austere Milton? where the mighty swordWhich slew its master righteously? the yearsHave lost their ancient leader, and no wordBreaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:While as a ruined mother in some spasmBears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm
Genders unlawful children, AnarchyFreedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigalLicence who steals the gold of LibertyAnd yet has nothing, Ignorance the realOne Fraticide since Cain, Envy the aspThat stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp
Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed GreedFor whose dull appetite men waste awayAmid the whirr of wheels and are the seedOf things which slay their sower, these each daySees rife in England, and the gentle feetOf Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.
What even Cromwell spared is desecratedBy weed and worm, left to the stormy playOf wind and beating snow, or renovatedBy more destructful hands: Time’s worst decayWill wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.
Where is that Art which bade the Angels singThrough Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the airSeems from such marble harmonies to ringWith sweeter song than common lips can dareTo draw from actual reed? ah! where is nowThe cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow
For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of OneWho loved the lilies of the field with allOur dearest English flowers? the same sunRises for us: the seasons naturalWeave the same tapestry of green and grey:The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away.
And yet perchance it may be better so,For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,Murder her brother is her bedfellow,And the Plague chambers with her: in obsceneAnd bloody paths her treacherous feet are set;Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!
For gentle brotherhood, the harmonyOf living in the healthful air, the swiftClean beauty of strong limbs when men are freeAnd women chaste, these are the things which liftOur souls up more than even Agnolo’sGaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,
Or Titian’s little maiden on the stairWhite as her own sweet lily and as tall,Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—Ah! somehow life is bigger after allThan any painted angel, could we seeThe God that is within us! The old Greek serenity
Which curbs the passion of that level lineOf marble youths, who with untroubled eyesAnd chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrineAnd mirror her divine economies,And balanced symmetry of what in manWould else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the span
Between our mother’s kisses and the graveMight so inform our lives, that we could winSuch mighty empires that from her caveTemptation would grow hoarse, and pallid SinWould walk ashamed of his adulteries,And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes.
To make the body and the spirit oneWith all right things, till no thing live in vainFrom morn to noon, but in sweet unisonWith every pulse of flesh and throb of brainThe soul in flawless essence high enthroned,Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,
Mark with serene impartialityThe strife of things, and yet be comforted,Knowing that by the chain causalityAll separate existences are wedInto one supreme whole, whose utteranceIs joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance
Of Life in most august omnipresence,Through which the rational intellect would findIn passion its expression, and mere sense,Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,And being joined with it in harmonyMore mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,
Strike from their several tones one octave chordWhose cadence being measureless would flyThrough all the circling spheres, then to its LordReturn refreshed with its new emperyAnd more exultant power,—this indeedCould we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed.
Ah! it was easy when the world was youngTo keep one’s life free and inviolate,From our sad lips another song is rung,By our own hands our heads are desecrate,Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessedOf what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.
Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,And of all men we are most wretched whoMust live each other’s lives and not our ownFor very pity’s sake and then undoAll that we lived for—it was otherwiseWhen soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies.
But we have left those gentle haunts to passWith weary feet to the new Calvary,Where we behold, as one who in a glassSees his own face, self-slain Humanity,And in the dumb reproach of that sad gazeLearn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.
O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn!O chalice of all common miseries!Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borneAn agony of endless centuries,And we were vain and ignorant nor knewThat when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew.
Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds,The night that covers and the lights that fade,The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds,The lips betraying and the life betrayed;The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but weLords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy.
Is this the end of all that primal forceWhich, in its changes being still the same,From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame,Till the suns met in heaven and beganTheir cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man!
Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and thoughThe bloody sweat falls from our brows like rainLoosen the nails—we shall come down I know,Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole again,No need have we of hyssop-laden rod,That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God.
Eagleof Austerlitz! where were thy wingsWhen far away upon a barbarous strand,In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,Or ride in state through Paris in the vanOf thy returning legions, but insteadThy mother France, free and republican,
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead placeThe better laurels of a soldier’s crown,That not dishonoured should thy soul go downTo tell the mighty Sire of thy race
That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,And found it sweeter than his honied bees,And that the giant wave DemocracyBreaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
Theapple trees are hung with gold,And birds are loud in Arcady,The sheep lie bleating in the fold,The wild goat runs across the wold,But yesterday his love he told,I know he will come back to me.O rising moon! O Lady moon!Be you my lover’s sentinel,You cannot choose but know him well,For he is shod with purple shoon,You cannot choose but know my love,For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,And he is soft as any dove,And brown and curly is his hair.
The turtle now has ceased to callUpon her crimson-footed groom,The grey wolf prowls about the stall,The lily’s singing seneschalSleeps in the lily-bell, and allThe violet hills are lost in gloom.O risen moon! O holy moon!Stand on the top of Helice,And if my own true love you see,Ah! if you see the purple shoon,The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,Tell him that I am waiting whereThe rushlight glimmers in the Farm.
The falling dew is cold and chill,And no bird sings in Arcady,The little fauns have left the hill,Even the tired daffodilHas closed its gilded doors, and stillMy lover comes not back to me.False moon! False moon! O waning moon!Where is my own true lover gone,Where are the lips vermilion,The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?Why spread that silver pavilion,Why wear that veil of drifting mist?Ah! thou hast young EndymionThou hast the lips that should be kissed!
Thelily’s withered chalice fallsAround its rod of dusty gold,And from the beech-trees on the woldThe last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflowerHangs black and barren on its stalk,And down the windy garden walkThe dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milkAre blown into a snowy mass:The roses lie upon the grassLike little shreds of crimson silk.
Awhitemist drifts across the shrouds,A wild moon in this wintry skyGleams like an angry lion’s eyeOut of a mane of tawny clouds.
The muffled steersman at the wheelIs but a shadow in the gloom;—And in the throbbing engine-roomLeap the long rods of polished steel.
The shattered storm has left its traceUpon this huge and heaving dome,For the thin threads of yellow foamFloat on the waves like ravelled lace.
Underthe rose-tree’s dancing shadeThere stands a little ivory girl,Pulling the leaves of pink and pearlWith pale green nails of polished jade.
The red leaves fall upon the mould,The white leaves flutter, one by one,Down to a blue bowl where the sun,Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
The white leaves float upon the air,The red leaves flutter idly down,Some fall upon her yellow gown,And some upon her raven hair.
She takes an amber lute and sings,And as she sings a silver craneBegins his scarlet neck to strain,And flap his burnished metal wings.
She takes a lute of amber bright,And from the thicket where he liesHer lover, with his almond eyes,Watches her movements in delight.
And now she gives a cry of fear,And tiny tears begin to start:A thorn has wounded with its dartThe pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
And now she laughs a merry note:There has fallen a petal of the roseJust where the yellow satin showsThe blue-veined flower of her throat.
With pale green nails of polished jade,Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,There stands a little ivory girlUnder the rose-tree’s dancing shade.
Againstthese turbid turquoise skiesThe light and luminous balloonsDip and drift like satin moonsDrift like silken butterflies;
Reel with every windy gust,Rise and reel like dancing girls,Float like strange transparent pearls,Fall and float like silver dust.
Now to the low leaves they cling,Each with coy fantastic pose,Each a petal of a roseStraining at a gossamer string.
Then to the tall trees they climb,Like thin globes of amethyst,Wandering opals keeping trystWith the rubies of the lime.
Ihaveno storeOf gryphon-guarded gold;Now, as before,Bare is the shepherd’s fold.Rubies nor pearlsHave I to gem thy throat;Yet woodland girlsHave loved the shepherd’s note.
Then pluck a reedAnd bid me sing to thee,For I would feedThine ears with melody,Who art more fairThan fairest fleur-de-lys,More sweet and rareThan sweetest ambergris.
What dost thou fear?Young Hyacinth is slain,Pan is not here,And will not come again.No horned FaunTreads down the yellow leas,No God at dawnSteals through the olive trees.
Hylas is dead,Nor will he e’er divineThose little redRose-petalled lips of thine.On the high hillNo ivory dryads play,Silver and stillSinks the sad autumn day.
Thiswinter air is keen and cold,And keen and cold this winter sun,But round my chair the children runLike little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kioskThe mimic soldiers strut and stride,Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hideIn the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse consHer book, they steal across the square,And launch their paper navies whereHuge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,And now they rush, a boisterous band—And, tiny hand on tiny hand,Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,And children climbed me, for their sakeThough it be winter I would breakInto spring blossoms white and blue!
I.
Ogoat-footGod of Arcady!This modern world is grey and old,And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in gleeThrow apples at thy wattled fold,O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one seeThy soft brown limbs, thy beard of goldAnd what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,For here the winds are chill and cold,O goat-loot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegySleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,O goat-foot God of Arcady!Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,Thy satyrs and their wanton play,This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,For Faun and nymph are old and grey,Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where libertyLit grave-browed Milton on his way,This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalryWhere gentle Sidney saw the day,Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,This England lacks some stronger lay,This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,And give thine oaten pipe away,Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!This modern world hath need of thee!
Outof the mid-wood’s twilightInto the meadow’s dawn,Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,And his shadow dances along,And I know not which I should follow,Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!O Nightingale, catch me his strain!Else moonstruck with music and madnessI track him in vain!
Anomnibus across the bridgeCrawls like a yellow butterflyAnd, here and there, a passer-byShows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hayAre moored against the shadowy wharf,And, like a yellow silken scarf,The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fadeAnd flutter from the Temple elms,And at my feet the pale green ThamesLies like a rod of rippled jade.
Todrift with every passion till my soulIs a stringed lute on which can winds can play,Is it for this that I have given awayMine ancient wisdom and austere control?Methinks my life is a twice-written scrollScrawled over on some boyish holidayWith idle songs for pipe and virelay,Which do but mar the secret of the whole.Surely there was a time I might have trodThe sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonanceStruck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:Is that time dead? lo! with a little rodI did but touch the honey of romance—And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?
Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed awayFrom these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of oursSeems fallen into ashes dull and grey,And the age changed unto a mimic playWherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:For all our pomp and pageantry and powersWe are but fit to delve the common clay,Seeing this little isle on which we stand,This England, this sea-lion of the sea,By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,Who love her not: Dear God! is this the landWhich bare a triple empire in her handWhen Cromwell spake the word Democracy!
Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bonesStill straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?And was Thy Rising only dreamed by herWhose love of Thee for all her sin atones?For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of painFrom those whose children lie upon the stones?Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloomCurtains the land, and through the starless nightOver Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!If Thou in very truth didst burst the tombCome down, O Son of Man! and show Thy mightLest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
Iwanderedthrough Scoglietto’s far retreat,The oranges on each o’erhanging sprayBurned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleetMade snow of all the blossoms; at my feetLike silver moons the pale narcissi lay:And the curved waves that streaked the great green bayLaughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hoursHad drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.
Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been;In the first days thy sword republicanRuled the whole world for many an age’s span:Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;And now upon thy walls the breezes fan(Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)The hated flag of red and white and green.When was thy glory! when in search for powerThine eagles flew to greet the double sun,And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.Montre Mario
Comedown, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,For I am drowning in a stormier seaThan Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,My heart is as some famine-murdered landWhence all good things have perished utterly,And well I know my soul in Hell must lieIf I this night before God’s throne should stand.‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,Like Baal, when his prophets howled that nameFrom morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,The wounded hands, the weary human face.
Howsteep the stairs within King’s houses areFor exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,And O how salt and bitter is the breadWhich falls from this Hound’s table,—better farThat I had died in the red ways of war,Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,Than to live thus, by all things comradedWhich seek the essence of my soul to mar.
‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?He hath forgotten thee in all the blissOf his gold city, and eternal day’—Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded barsI do possess what none can take away,My love and all the glory of the stars.
Theseare the letters which Endymion wroteTo one he loved in secret, and apart.And now the brawlers of the auction martBargain and bid for each poor blotted note,Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quoteThe merchant’s price. I think they love not artWho break the crystal of a poet’s heartThat small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ranWith torches through the midnight, and beganTo wrangle for mean raiment, and to throwDice for the garments of a wretched man,Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?
Thesin was mine; I did not understand.So now is music prisoned in her cave,Save where some ebbing desultory waveFrets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.And in the withered hollow of this landHath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,That hardly can the leaden willow craveOne silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is thisWho cometh in dyed garments from the South?It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kissThe yet unravished roses of thy mouth,And I shall weep and worship, as before.