The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCharmides, and Other PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Charmides, and Other PoemsAuthor: Oscar WildeRelease date: September 1, 1997 [eBook #1031]Most recently updated: September 19, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARMIDES, AND OTHER POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Charmides, and Other PoemsAuthor: Oscar WildeRelease date: September 1, 1997 [eBook #1031]Most recently updated: September 19, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price
Title: Charmides, and Other Poems
Author: Oscar Wilde
Author: Oscar Wilde
Release date: September 1, 1997 [eBook #1031]Most recently updated: September 19, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARMIDES, AND OTHER POEMS ***
Transcribed from 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BYOSCAR WILDE
METHUEN & CO. LTD.36 ESSEX STREET W.C.LONDON
This volume was first published in 1913
Wilde’s Poems,a selection of which is given in this volume,were first published in volume form in1881,and were reprinted four times before the end of1882.A new Edition with additional poems,including Ravenna,The Sphinx,and The Ballad of Reading Goal,was first published(limited issues on hand-made paper and Japanese vellum)by Methuen & Co. in March1908.A further Edition(making the seventh)with some omissions from the issue of1908,but including two new poems,was published in September, 1909.Eighth Edition,November1909.Ninth Edition,December1909.Tenth Edition,December1910.Eleventh Edition,December, 1911.Twelfth Edition,May, 1913.
A further selection of the poems,including The Ballad of Reading Gaol,is published uniform with this volume.
PAGE
Charmides
9
Requiescat
67
San Miniato
69
Rome Unvisited
71
Humanitad
77
Louis Napoleon
114
Endymion
116
Le Jardin
119
La Mer
120
Le Panneau
121
Les Ballons
124
Canzonet
126
Le Jardin Des Tuileries
129
Pan: Double Villanelle
131
In the Forest
135
Symphony in Yellow
136
Sonnets
Hélas!
139
To Milton
140
On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria
141
Holy Week at Genoa
142
Urbs Sacra Æterna
143
E Tenebris
144
At Verona
145
On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters
146
The New Remorse
147
I.
Hewas a Grecian lad, who coming homeWith pulpy figs and wine from SicilyStood at his galley’s prow, and let the foamBlow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,And holding wave and wind in boy’s despitePeered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.
Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spearLike a thin thread of gold against the sky,And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,And bade the pilot head her lustilyAgainst the nor’west gale, and all day longHeld on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song.
And when the faint Corinthian hills were redDropped anchor in a little sandy bay,And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,And washed his limbs with oil, and from the holdBrought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,
And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juiceWhich of some swarthy trader he had boughtUpon the sunny quay at Syracuse,And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,And by the questioning merchants made his wayUp through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day
Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feetCrept to the fane unnoticed by the crowdOf busy priests, and from some dark retreatWatched the young swains his frolic playmates bringThe firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling
The crackling salt upon the flame, or hangHis studded crook against the temple wallTo Her who keeps away the ravenous fangOf the base wolf from homestead and from stall;And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,
A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,A fair cloth wrought with cunning imageryOf hounds in chase, a waxen honey-combDripping with oozy gold which scarce the beeHad ceased from building, a black skin of oilMeet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil
Stolen from Artemis that jealous maidTo please Athena, and the dappled hideOf a tall stag who in some mountain gladeHad met the shaft; and then the herald cried,And from the pillared precinct one by oneWent the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done.
And the old priest put out the waning firesSave that one lamp whose restless ruby glowedFor ever in the cell, and the shrill lyresCame fainter on the wind, as down the roadIn joyous dance these country folk did pass,And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.
Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,And the rose-petals falling from the wreathAs the night breezes wandered through the shrine,And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoonTill through the open roof above the full and brimming moon
Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,And flinging wide the cedar-carven doorBeheld an awful image saffron-cladAnd armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glaredFrom the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared
Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeledThe Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled,And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and coldIn passion impotent, while with blind gazeThe blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.
The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lampFar out at sea off Sunium, or castThe net for tunnies, heard a brazen trampOf horses smite the waves, and a wild blastDivide the folded curtains of the night,And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.
And guilty lovers in their veneryForgat a little while their stolen sweets,Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;And the grim watchmen on their lofty seatsRan to their shields in haste precipitate,Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.
For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,And the air quaked with dissonant alarumsTill huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.
Ready for death with parted lips he stood,And well content at such a price to seeThat calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,The marvel of that pitiless chastity,Ah! well content indeed, for never wightSince Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.
Ready for death he stood, but lo! the airGrew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;For whom would not such love make desperate?And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate
Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,And bared the breasts of polished ivory,Till from the waist the peplos falling downLeft visible the secret mysteryWhich to no lover will Athena show,The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.
Those who have never known a lover’s sinLet them not read my ditty, it will beTo their dull ears so musicless and thinThat they will have no joy of it, but yeTo whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile.
A little space he let his greedy eyesRest on the burnished image, till mere sightHalf swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,And then his lips in hungering delightFed on her lips, and round the towered neckHe flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check.
Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,For all night long he murmured honeyed word,And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissedHer pale and argent body undisturbed,And paddled with the polished throat, and pressedHis hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.
It was as if Numidian javelinsPierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violinsIn exquisite pulsation, and the painWas such sweet anguish that he never drewHis lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.
They who have never seen the daylight peerInto a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,And with dull eyes and wearied from some dearAnd worshipped body risen, they for certainWill never know of what I try to sing,How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.
The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,The sign which shipmen say is ominousOf wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,And the low lightening east was tremulousWith the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.
Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fastClomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ranLike a young fawn unto an olive woodWhich in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;
And sought a little stream, which well he knew,For oftentimes with boyish careless shoutThe green and crested grebe he would pursue,Or snare in woven net the silver trout,And down amid the startled reeds he layPanting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.
On the green bank he lay, and let one handDip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,And soon the breath of morning came and fannedHis hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonlyThe tangled curls from off his forehead, whileHe on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.
And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloakWith his long crook undid the wattled cotes,And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smokeCurled through the air across the ripening oats,And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayedAs through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.
And when the light-foot mower went afieldAcross the meadows laced with threaded dew,And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,Some woodmen saw him lying by the streamAnd marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,
Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,‘It is young Hylas, that false runawayWho with a Naiad now would make his bedForgetting Herakles,’ but others, ‘Nay,It is Narcissus, his own paramour,Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.’
And when they nearer came a third one cried,‘It is young Dionysos who has hidHis spear and fawnskin by the river sideWeary of hunting with the Bassarid,And wise indeed were we away to fly:They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.’
So turned they back, and feared to look behind,And told the timid swain how they had seenAmid the reeds some woodland god reclined,And no man dared to cross the open green,And on that day no olive-tree was slain,Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,
Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pailWell slung upon his back, with leap and boundRaced on the other side, and stopped to hail,Hoping that he some comrade new had found,And gat no answer, and then half afraidPassed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade
A little girl ran laughing from the farm,Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,And when she saw the white and gleaming armAnd all his manlihood, with longing eyesWhose passion mocked her sweet virginityWatched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.
Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise,And now and then the shriller laughter whereThe passionate purity of brown-limbed boysWrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,And now and then a little tinkling bellAs the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.
Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,In sleek and oily coat the water-ratBreasting the little ripples manfullyMade for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to boughHopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.
On the faint wind floated the silky seedsAs the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reedsAnd flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass,Which scarce had caught again its imageryEre from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.
But little care had he for any thingThough up and down the beech the squirrel played,And from the copse the linnet ’gan to singTo its brown mate its sweetest serenade;Ah! little care indeed, for he had seenThe breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.
But when the herdsman called his straggling goatsWith whistling pipe across the rocky road,And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notesBoomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bodeOf coming storm, and the belated cranePassed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain
Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,And from the gloomy forest went his wayPast sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,And came at last unto a little quay,And called his mates aboard, and took his seatOn the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet,
And steered across the bay, and when nine sunsPassed down the long and laddered way of gold,And nine pale moons had breathed their orisonsTo the chaste stars their confessors, or toldTheir dearest secret to the downy mothThat will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth
Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyesAnd lit upon the ship, whose timbers creakedAs though the lading of three argosiesWere in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked,And darkness straightway stole across the deep,Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,
And the moon hid behind a tawny maskOf drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s margeRose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!And clad in bright and burnished panoplyAthena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!
To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened looksSeemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feetOnly the spume that floats on hidden rocks,And, marking how the rising waters beatAgainst the rolling ship, the pilot criedTo the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side
But he, the overbold adulterer,A dear profaner of great mysteries,An ardent amorous idolater,When he beheld those grand relentless eyesLaughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.
Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,One dancer left the circling galaxy,And back to Athens on her clattering carIn all the pride of venged divinityPale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.
And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flewWith mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,And the old pilot bade the trembling crewHoist the big sail, and told how he had seenClose to the stern a dim and giant form,And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.
And no man dared to speak of CharmidesDeeming that he some evil thing had wrought,And when they reached the strait SymplegadesThey beached their galley on the shore, and soughtThe toll-gate of the city hastily,And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.
II.
Butsome good Triton-god had ruth, and bareThe boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land,And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hairAnd smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand;Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.
And when he neared his old Athenian home,A mighty billow rose up suddenlyUpon whose oily back the clotted foamLay diapered in some strange fantasy,And clasping him unto its glassy breastSwept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!
Now where Colonos leans unto the seaThere lies a long and level stretch of lawn;The rabbit knows it, and the mountain beeFor it deserts Hymettus, and the FaunIs not afraid, for never through the dayComes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.
But often from the thorny labyrinthAnd tangled branches of the circling woodThe stealthy hunter sees young HyacinthHurling the polished disk, and draws his hoodOver his guilty gaze, and creeps away,Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day
The Dryads come and throw the leathern ballAlong the reedy shore, and circumventSome goat-eared Pan to be their seneschalFor fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.
On this side and on that a rocky cave,Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, standsSmooth is the beach, save where some ebbing waveLeaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,As though it feared to be too soon forgotBy the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot
So small, that the inconstant butterflyCould steal the hoarded money from each flowerEre it was noon, and still not satisfyIts over-greedy love,—within an hourA sailor boy, were he but rude enowTo land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow,
Would almost leave the little meadow bare,For it knows nothing of great pageantry,Only a few narcissi here and thereStand separate in sweet austerity,Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.
Hither the billow brought him, and was gladOf such dear servitude, and where the landWas virgin of all waters laid the ladUpon the golden margent of the strand,And like a lingering lover oft returnedTo kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,
Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frostHad withered up those lilies white and redWhich, while the boy would through the forest range,Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.
And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spiedThe boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,And like bright sunbeams flitting through a gladeEach startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.
Save one white girl, who deemed it would not beSo dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s armsCrushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,And longed to listen to those subtle charmsInsidious lovers weave when they would winSome fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin
To yield her treasure unto one so fair,And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth,Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,And with hot lips made havoc of his mouthAfraid he might not wake, and then afraidLest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,
Returned to fresh assault, and all day longSat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,Then frowned to see how froward was the boyWho would not with her maidenhood entwine,Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine;
Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,He will awake at evening when the sunHangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;This sleep is but a cruel treacheryTo make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea
Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s lineAlready a huge Triton blows his horn,And weaves a garland from the crystallineAnd drifting ocean-tendrils to adornThe emerald pillars of our bridal bed,For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd head,
We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,And a blue wave will be our canopy,And at our feet the water-snakes will curlIn all their amethystine panoplyOf diamonded mail, and we will markThe mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,
Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy goldLike flakes of crimson light, and the great deepHis glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,And we will see the painted dolphins sleepCradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocksWhere Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.
And tremulous opal-hued anemonesWill wave their purple fringes where we treadUpon the mirrored floor, and argosiesOf fishes flecked with tawny scales will threadThe drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.’
But when that baffled Lord of War the SunWith gaudy pennon flying passed awayInto his brazen House, and one by oneThe little yellow stars began to strayAcross the field of heaven, ah! then indeedShe feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,
And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moonWashes the trees with silver, and the waveCreeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,The croaking frogs are out, and from the caveThe nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass.
Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,For in yon stream there is a little reedThat often whispers how a lovely boyLay with her once upon a grassy mead,Who when his cruel pleasure he had doneSpread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.
Be not so coy, the laurel trembles stillWith great Apollo’s kisses, and the firWhose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hillHath many a tale of that bold ravisherWhom men call Boreas, and I have seenThe mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen.
Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,And every morn a young and ruddy swainWoos me with apples and with locks of hair,And seeks to soothe my virginal disdainBy all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove
With little crimson feet, which with its storeOf seven spotted eggs the cruel ladHad stolen from the lofty sycamoreAt daybreak, when her amorous comrade hadFlown off in search of berried juniperWhich most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager
Of the blue grapes, hath not persistencySo constant as this simple shepherd-boyFor my poor lips, his joyous purityAnd laughing sunny eyes might well decoyA Dryad from her oath to Artemis;For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;
His argent forehead, like a rising moonOver the dusky hills of meeting brows,Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noonLeads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouseFor Cytheræa, the first silky downFringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown;
And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herdsOf bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,And many an earthen bowl of yellow curdsIs in his homestead for the thievish flyTo swim and drown in, the pink clover meadKeeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.
And yet I love him not; it was for theeI kept my love; I knew that thou would’st comeTo rid me of this pallid chastity,Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foamOf all the wide Ægean, brightest starOf ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!
I knew that thou would’st come, for when at firstThe dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of springSwelled in my green and tender bark or burstTo myriad multitudinous blossomingWhich mocked the midnight with its mimic moonsThat did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes
Startled the squirrel from its granary,And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasyCrept like new wine, and every mossy veinThrobbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.
The trooping fawns at evening came and laidTheir cool black noses on my lowest boughs,And on my topmost branch the blackbird madeA little nest of grasses for his spouse,And now and then a twittering wren would lightOn a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.
I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chaseThe timorous girl, till tired out with playShe felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.
Then come away unto my ambuscadeWhere clustering woodbine weaves a canopyFor amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shadeOf Paphian myrtles seems to sanctifyThe dearest rites of love; there in the coolAnd green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,
The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,For round its rim great creamy lilies floatThrough their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boatSteered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraidTo leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made
For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,One arm around her boyish paramour,Strays often there at eve, and I have seenThe moon strip off her misty vestitureFor young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.
Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine,Back to the boisterous billow let us go,And walk all day beneath the hyalineHuge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,And watch the purple monsters of the deepSport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.
For if my mistress find me lying hereShe will not ruth or gentle pity show,But lay her boar-spear down, and with austereRelentless fingers string the cornel bow,And draw the feathered notch against her breast,And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the quest
I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at leastLet me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slakeMy parchèd being with the nectarous feastWhich even gods affect! O come, Love, come,Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’
Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering treesShook, and the leaves divided, and the airGrew conscious of a god, and the grey seasCrawled backward, and a long and dismal blareBlew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.
And where the little flowers of her breastJust brake into their milky blossoming,This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.
Sobbing her life out with a bitter cryOn the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,Sobbing for incomplete virginity,And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,And all the pain of things unsatisfied,And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.
Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,And very pitiful to see her dieEre she had yielded up her sweets, or knownThe joy of passion, that dread mysteryWhich not to know is not to live at all,And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.
But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,Who with Adonis all night long had lainWithin some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,On team of silver doves and gilded wainWas journeying Paphos-ward, high up afarFrom mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,
And when low down she spied the hapless pair,And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,Whose cadence seemed to play upon the airAs though it were a viol, hastilyShe bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.
For as a gardener turning back his headTo catch the last notes of the linnet, mowsWith careless scythe too near some flower bed,And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,And with the flower’s loosened lonelinessStrews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness
Driving his little flock along the meadTreads down two daffodils, which side by aideHave lured the lady-bird with yellow bredeAnd made the gaudy moth forget its pride,Treads down their brimming golden chalicesUnder light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;
Or as a schoolboy tired of his bookFlings himself down upon the reedy grassAnd plucks two water-lilies from the brook,And for a time forgets the hour glass,Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.
And Venus cried, ‘It is dread ArtemisWhose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,Or else that mightier maid whose care it isTo guard her strong and stainless majestyUpon the hill Athenian,—alas!That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.’
So with soft hands she laid the boy and girlIn the great golden waggon tenderly(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearlJust threaded with a blue vein’s tapestryHad not yet ceased to throb, and still her breastSwayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)
And then each pigeon spread its milky van,The bright car soared into the dawning sky,And like a cloud the aerial caravanPassed over the Ægean silently,Till the faint air was troubled with the songFrom the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.
But when the doves had reached their wonted goalWhere the wide stair of orbèd marble dipsIts snows into the sea, her fluttering soulJust shook the trembling petals of her lipsAnd passed into the void, and Venus knewThat one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,
And bade her servants carve a cedar chestWith all the wonder of this history,Within whose scented womb their limbs should restWhere olive-trees make tender the blue skyOn the low hills of Paphos, and the FaunPipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.
Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ereThe morning bee had stung the daffodilWith tiny fretful spear, or from its lairThe waking stag had leapt across the rillAnd roused the ouzel, or the lizard creptAthwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.
And when day brake, within that silver shrineFed by the flames of cressets tremulous,Queen Venus knelt and prayed to ProserpineThat she whose beauty made Death amorousShould beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.
III
Inmelancholy moonless Acheron,Farm for the goodly earth and joyous dayWhere no spring ever buds, nor ripening sunWeighs down the apple trees, nor flowery MayChequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethæan wellYoung Charmides was lying; wearilyHe plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,And with its little rifled treasuryStrewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glassAnd through his brown hair’s curly tangles scannedHis own wan face, a shadow seemed to passAcross the mirror, and a little handStole into his, and warm lips timidlyBrushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,And ever nigher still their faces came,And nigher ever did their young mouths drawUntil they seemed one perfect rose of flame,And longing arms around her neck he cast,And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,And all her maidenhood was his to slay,And limb to limb in long and rapturous blissTheir passion waxed and waned,—O why essayTo pipe again of love, too venturous reed!Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essayTo pipe again of passion! fold thy wingsO’er daring Icarus and bid thy laySleep hidden in the lyre’s silent stringsTill thou hast found the old Castalian rill,Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had beenA fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,Could in the loveless land of Hades gleanOne scorching harvest from those fields of flameWhere passion walks with naked unshod feetAnd is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existencesSeemed narrowed to one single ecstasyWhich dies through its own sweetness and the stressOf too much pleasure, ere PersephoneHad bade them serve her by the ebon throneOf the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
Treadlightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.
All her bright golden hairTarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,Lie on her breast,I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hearLyre or sonnet,All my life’s buried here,Heap earth upon it.
Avignon
See, I have climbed the mountain sideUp to this holy house of God,Where once that Angel-Painter trodWho saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moonThe Virginal white Queen of Grace,—Mary! could I but see thy faceDeath could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!My heart is weary of this lifeAnd over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!O crowned by Christ the Holy One!O listen ere the searching sunShow to the world my sin and shame.
I.
Thecorn has turned from grey to red,Since first my spirit wandered forthFrom the drear cities of the north,And to Italia’s mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,For all my pilgrimage is done,Although, methinks, yon blood-red sunMarshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost holdUpon the seven hills thy reign!O Mother without blot or stain,Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feetI lay this barren gift of song!For, ah! the way is steep and longThat leads unto thy sacred street.
II.
Andyet what joy it were for meTo turn my feet unto the south,And journeying towards the Tiber mouthTo kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pinesThat break the gold of Arno’s stream,To see the purple mist and gleamOf morning on the Apennines
By many a vineyard-hidden home,Orchard and olive-garden grey,Till from the drear Campagna’s wayThe seven hills bear up the dome!
III.
Apilgrimfrom the northern seas—What joy for me to seek aloneThe wondrous temple and the throneOf him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with goldCome priest and holy cardinal,And borne above the heads of allThe gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I dieThe only God-anointed king,And hear the silver trumpets ringA triumph as he passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrineHolds high the mystic sacrifice,And shows his God to human eyesBeneath the veil of bread and wine.
IV.
Forlo, what changes time can bring!The cycles of revolving yearsMay free my heart from all its fears,And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling goldIs garnered into dusty sheaves,Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leavesFlutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,And caught the torch while yet aflame,And called upon the holy nameOf Him who now doth hide His face.
Arona
Itis full winter now: the trees are bare,Save where the cattle huddle from the coldBeneath the pine, for it doth never wearThe autumn’s gaudy livery whose goldHer jealous brother pilfers, but is trueTo the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew
From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hayLie on the sharp black hedges, where the wainDragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s dayFrom the low meadows up the narrow lane;Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheepPress close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep
From the shut stable to the frozen streamAnd back again disconsolate, and missThe bawling shepherds and the noisy team;And overhead in circling listlessnessThe cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack
Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reedsAnd flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,And hoots to see the moon; across the meadsLimps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;And a stray seamew with its fretful cryFlits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.
Full winter: and the lusty goodman bringsHis load of faggots from the chilly byre,And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flingsThe sappy billets on the waning fire,And laughs to see the sudden lightening scareHis children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;
Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom againWith nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,For with the first warm kisses of the rainThe winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers
From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runsOver the mossy knoll, and blackbirds flyAcross our path at evening, and the sunsStay longer with us; ah! how good to seeGrass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery
Dance through the hedges till the early rose,(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)Burst from its sheathèd emerald and discloseThe little quivering disk of golden fireWhich the bees know so well, for with it comePale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.
Then up and down the field the sower goes,While close behind the laughing younker scaresWith shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,And on the grass the creamy blossom fallsIn odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals
Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillonsEach breezy morn, and then white jessamine,That star of its own heaven, snap-dragonsWith lolling crimson tongues, and eglantineIn dusty velvets clad usurp the bedAnd woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed
Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,Chrysanthemums from gilded argosyUnload their gaudy scentless merchandise,And violets getting overbold withdrawFrom their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.
O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smockAnd crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flockBack to the pasture by the pool, and soonThrough the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.
Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nunsVale-lilies in their snowy vestitureWill tell their beaded pearls, and carnationsWith mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.
Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,And to the kid its little horns, and bringThe soft and silky blossoms to the vine,Where is that old nepenthe which of yoreMan got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!
There was a time when any common birdCould make me sing in unison, a timeWhen all the strings of boyish life were stirredTo quick response or more melodious rhymeBy every forest idyll;—do I change?Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?
Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who seekTo vex with sighs thy simple solitude,And because fruitless tears bedew my cheekWould have thee weep with me in brotherhood;Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dareTo taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!
Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched soulTakes discontent to be its paramour,And gives its kingdom to the rude controlOf what should be its servitor,—for sureWisdom is somewhere, though the stormy seaContain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’
To burn with one clear flame, to stand erectIn natural honour, not to bend the kneeIn profitless prostrations whose effectIs by itself condemned, what alchemyCan teach me this? what herb Medea brewedWill bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?
The minor chord which ends the harmony,And for its answering brother waits in vainSobbing for incompleted melody,Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.
The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,The little dust stored in the narrow urn,The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic tomb,—Were not these better far than to returnTo my old fitful restless malady,Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?
Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd godIs like the watcher by a sick man’s bedWho talks of sleep but gives it not; his rodHath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,Death is too rude, too obvious a keyTo solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.
And Love! that noble madness, whose augustAnd inextinguishable might can slayThe soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I mustFrom such sweet ruin play the runaway,Although too constant memory never canForget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian
Which for a little season made my youthSo soft a swoon of exquisite indolenceThat all the chiding of more prudent TruthSeemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O henceThou huntress deadlier than Artemis!Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.
My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—Though Love himself should turn his gilded prowBack to the troubled waters of this shoreWhere I am wrecked and stranded, even nowThe chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.
More barren—ay, those arms will never leanDown through the trellised vines and draw my soulIn sweet reluctance through the tangled green;Some other head must wear that aureole,For I am hers who loves not any manWhose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.
Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,With net and spear and hunting equipageLet young Adonis to his tryst repair,But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spellDelights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.
Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boyWho from Mount Ida saw the little cloudPass over Tenedos and lofty TroyAnd knew the coming of the Queen, and bowedIn wonder at her feet, not for the sakeOf a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.
Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!And, if my lips be musicless, inspireAt least my life: was not thy glory hymnedBy One who gave to thee his sword and lyreLike Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!
And yet I cannot tread the PorticoAnd live without desire, fear and pain,Or nurture that wise calm which long agoThe grave Athenian master taught to men,Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.
Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipseHath come on Wisdom, and MnemosyneIs childless; in the night which she had madeFor lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.
Nor much with Science do I care to climb,Although by strange and subtle witcheryShe drew the moon from heaven: the Muse TimeUnrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestryTo no less eager eyes; often indeedIn the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read
How Asia sent her myriad hosts to warAgainst a little town, and panopliedIn gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the MedeBetween the waving poplars and the seaWhich men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ
Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,And on the nearer side a little broodOf careless lions holding festival!And stood amazèd at such hardihood,And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er
Some unfrequented height, and coming downThe autumn forests treacherously slewWhat Sparta held most dear and was the crownOf far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knewHow God had staked an evil net for himIn the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,
Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feelWith such a goodly time too out of tuneTo love it much: for like the Dial’s wheelThat from its blinded darkness strikes the noonYet never sees the sun, so do my eyesRestlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.
O for one grand unselfish simple lifeTo teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hillsOf lone Helvellyn, for this note of strifeShunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,Where is that Spirit which living blamelesslyYet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!
Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is heWhose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soulWhose gracious days of uncrowned majestyThrough lowliest conduct touched the lofty goalWhere love and duty mingle! Him at leastThe most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;
But we are Learning’s changelings, know by roteThe clarion watchword of each Grecian schoolAnd follow none, the flawless sword which smoteThe pagan Hydra is an effete toolWhich we ourselves have blunted, what man nowShall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?
One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!Gone is that last dear son of Italy,Who being man died for the sake of God,And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour
Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, orThe Arno with its tawny troubled goldO’er-leap its marge, no mightier conquerorClomb the high Capitol in the days of oldWhen Rome was indeed Rome, for LibertyWalked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery
Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cellWith an old man who grabbled rusty keys,Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knellWith which oblivion buries dynastiesSwept like a wounded eagle on the blast,As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.
He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,And now lies dead by that empyreal domeWhich overtops Valdarno hung in airBy Brunelleschi—O MelpomeneBreathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!
Breathe through the tragic stops such melodiesThat Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the NineForget awhile their discreet emperies,Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrineLit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!