[11]For notes on this poem seeend of volume.
[11]For notes on this poem seeend of volume.
I do not choose to dream; there cometh on meSome strange old lust for deeds.As to the nerveless hand of some old warriorThe sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmetBrings momentary life and long-fled cunning,So to my soul grown old—Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray,Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going—Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;So doth he flame again with might for action,Forgetful of the council of the elders,Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle,Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to himSo doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
Phoebus shineth ere his splendour fliethAurora drives faint light athwart the landAnd the drowsy watcher crieth,"ARISE."RefO'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appearethIt passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth.They be careless of the gates, delaying,Whom the ambush glides to hinder,Whom I warn and cry to, praying,"ARISE."RefO'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appearethIt passeth vigil and the shadows cleareth.Forth from out Arcturus, North Wind blowethThe stars of heaven sheathe their gloryAnd sun-driven forth-goethSettentrion.Ref.O'er sea mist, and mountain is the dawn display'dIt passeth watch and maketh night afraid.From a tenth-century MS.
The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provença: he being in Syria a crusader.
The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provença: he being in Syria a crusader.
In April when I see all throughMead and garden new flowers blow,And streams with ice-bands broken flow,Eke hear the birds their singing do;When spring's grass-perfume floateth byThen 'tis sweet song and birdlet's cryDo make mine old joy come anew.Such time was wont my thought of oldTo wander in the ways of love.Burnishing arms and clang thereof,And honour-services manifoldBe now my need. Whoso combineSuch works, love is his bread and wine,Wherefore should his fight the more be bold.Song bear I, who tears should bringSith ire of love mak'th me annoy,With song think I to make me joy.Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing:"He sings who sorrow's guise should wear."Natheless I will not despairThat sometime I'll have cause to sing.I should not to despair give wayThat some while I'll my lady see.I trust well He that lowered meHath power again to make me gay.But if e'er I come to my Love's landAnd turn again to Syrian strand,God keep me there for a fool, alway!God for a miracle well shouldHold my coming from her away,And hold me in His grace alwayThat I left her, for holy-rood.An I lose her, no joy for me,Pardi, hath the wide world in fee.Nor could He mend it, if He would.Well did she know sweet wiles to takeMy heart, when thence I took my way.'Thout sighing, pass I ne'er a dayFor that sweet semblance she did makeTo me, saying all in sorrow:"Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?""Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?"ENVOIBeyond sea be thou sped, my song,And, by God, to my Lady sayThat in desirous, grief-filled wayMy nights and my days are full long.And command thou William the Long-SeerTo tell thee to my Lady dear,That comfort be her thoughts among.
The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.—E.P.
The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.—E.P.
Wearied by wind and wave death goesWith gin and snare right near alwayUnto my sight. Behind me bayAs hounds the tempests of my foes.Ever on ward against such woes,Pistols my pillow's service pay,Yet Love makes me the poet play.Thou know'st the rime demands repose,So if my line disclose distress,The soldier and my restlessnessAnd teen, Pardon, dear Lady mine,For since mid war I bear love's pain'Tis meet my verse, as I, show signOf powder, gun-match and sulphur stain.
A poor clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me,And because I have small mind to sitDay long, long day cooped on a stoolA-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin,I ha' taken to rambling the South here.The Vicomte of Beziers's not such a bad lot.I made rimes to his lady this three year:Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon,Alfonso the half-bald, took to hangingHishelmet at Beziers.Then came what might come, to wit: three men and one woman,Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his ladySinging the stars in the turrets of Beziers,And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschalTo the end that you see, friends:Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers—Bored to an inch of extinction,Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier,Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,Stringing long verse for the Burlatz;All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the Aragonese,Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.And if when I am deadThey take the trouble to tear out this wall here,They'll know more of Arnaut of MarvoilThan half his canzoni say of him.As for will and testament I leave none,Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of BeziersIn return for the first kiss she gave me."May her eyes and her cheek be fairTo all men except the King of Aragon,And may I come speedily to BeziersWhither my desire and my dream have preceded me.O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleurAs ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee withthis parchment,So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes,And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterlymy thought.Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrowThat I have not the Countess of BeziersClose in my arms here.Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur,And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind,Keep yet my secret in thy breast here;Even as I keep her image in my heart here.Mihi pergamena deest.
I would shake off the lethargy of this our time,and giveFor shadows—shapes of powerFor dreams—men."It is better to dream than do"?Aye! and, No!Aye! if we dream great deeds, strong men,Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.No! if we dream pale flowers,Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidlyDrop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees.If so we live and die not life but dreams,Great God, grant life in dreams,Not dalliance, but life!Let us be men that dream,Not cowards, dabblers, waitersFor dead Time to reawaken and grant balmFor ills unnamed.Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only dreams,Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble atAnd know we be its rulers though but dreams!Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble atAnd know we be its masters though but shadow!Great God, if men are grown but pale sick phantomsThat must live only in these mists and tempered lightsAnd tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loudOr tread too violent in passing them;Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera,I bid thee grapple chaos and begetSome new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stirThis earth again.
"Aye! I am a poet and upon my tombShall maidens scatter rose leavesAnd men myrtles, ere the nightSlays day with her dark sword."Lo! this thing is not mineNor thine to hinder,For the custom is full old,And here in Nineveh have I beheldMany a singer pass and take his placeIn those dim halls where no man troublethHis sleep or song.And many a one hath sung his songsMore craftily, more subtle-souled than I;And many a one now doth surpassMy wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers,Yet am I poet, and upon my tombShall all men scatter rose leavesEre the night slay lightWith her blue sword."It is not, Raama, that my song rings highestOr more sweet in tone than any, but that IAm here a Poet, that doth drink of lifeAs lesser men drink wine."
I ha' seen them mid the clouds on the heather.Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,When the white hart breaks his coverAnd the white wind breaks the morn."'Tis the white stagy Fame, we're a-hunting,Bid the world's hounds come to horn!"
Beautiful, tragical faces,Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,That are so sodden and drunken,Who hath forgotten you?O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!The gross, the coarse, the brazen,God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do,But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,Who hath forgotten you?
NOTE PRECEDENT TO "LA FRAISNE"
"When the soul is exhausted of fire, then doth the spirit return unto its primal nature and there is upon it a peace great and of the woodland
"magna pax et silvestris."
Then becometh it kin to the faun and the dryad, a woodland-dweller amid the rocks and streams
"consociis faunis dryadisque inter saxa sylvarum."Janus of Basel.[1]
Also has Mr. Yeats in his "Celtic Twilight" treated of such, and I because in such a mood, feeling myself divided between myself corporal and a self aetherial "a dweller by streams and in woodland," eternal because simple in elements
"Aeternus quia simplex naturae."
Being freed of the weight of a soul "capable of salvation or damnation," a grievous striving thing that after much straining was mercifully taken from me; as had one passed saying as one in the Book of the Dead,
"I, lo I, am the assembler of souls," and had taken it with him leaving me thussimplex naturae, even so at peace and transsentient as a wood pool I made it.
The Legend thus: "Miraut de Garzelas, after the pains he bore a-loving Riels of Calidorn and that to none avail, ran mad in the forest.
"Yea even as Peire Vidal ran as a wolf for her of Penautier though some say that twas folly or as Garulf Bisclavret so ran truly, till the King brought him respite (See 'Lais' Marie de France), so was he ever by the Ash Tree."
Hear ye his speaking: (low, slowly he speaketh it, as one drawn apart, reflecting) (égaré).
[1]Referendum for contrast. "Daemonalitas" of the Rev. Father Sinistrari of Ameno (1600 circ.) "A treatise wherein is shown that there are in existence on earth rational creatures besides man, endowed like him with a body and soul, that are born and die like him, redeemed by our Lord Jesus Christ, and capable of receiving salvation or damnation." Latin and English text, pub. Liseux, Paris, 1879.
[1]Referendum for contrast. "Daemonalitas" of the Rev. Father Sinistrari of Ameno (1600 circ.) "A treatise wherein is shown that there are in existence on earth rational creatures besides man, endowed like him with a body and soul, that are born and die like him, redeemed by our Lord Jesus Christ, and capable of receiving salvation or damnation." Latin and English text, pub. Liseux, Paris, 1879.
NOTES ON NEW POEMS
VISION OF ITALY.
1. "che lo glorifico." In the Piazza dei Signori, you will find an inscription which translates thus:
"It is here Can Grande della Scala gave welcome to Dante Alighieri, thesame which glorified him, dedicating to him that third his song eternal."
"C.G. vi accolse D.A. che loglorifico dedicandogli la terza,delle eterne sue cantiche."
2. Ref. Richard of St. Victor. "On the preparation of the soul for contemplation," where he distinguishes between cogitation, meditation, and contemplation.
In cogitation the thought or attention flits aimlessly about the subject.
In meditation it circles round it, that is, it views it systematically, from all sides, gaining perspective.
In contemplation it radiates from a centre, that is, as light from the sun it reaches out in an infinite number of ways to things that are related to or dependent on it.
The words above are my own, as I have not the Benjamin Minor by me.
Following St. Victor's figure of radiation: Poetry in its acme is expression from contemplation.
3. San Pietro Incarnato. There are several rows of houses intervening between it and the river.
ALBA BELINGALIS
MS. in Latin, with refrain,
"L alba par umet mar atras el poyPas abigil miraclar Tenebris."
It was and may still be the oldest fragment of Provençal known.
MARVOIL
The Personae are:Arnaut of Marvoil, a troubadour, date 1170-1200.The Countess (in her own right) of Burlatz, and of Beziers, beingthe wife ofThe Vicomte of Beziers.Alfonso IV of Aragon.Tibors of Mont-Ausier. For fuller mention of her see the"razos" on Bertran of Born. She is contemporary with theother persons, but I have no strict warrant for dragging her nameinto this particular affair.
Marco Londonio's Italian version of "Nel Biancheggiar":
Nel biancheggiar di delicata rosaRisplendono i coloriD' occidentali fioriPrima che l'alba, in esultanza ascosaVoglia baciarli. Ed aleggiar io sentoQual su dolce lïutoNel lor linguaggio mutoFiorir di gioia e tocco di tormentoCosi un' arcano senso di languore,Le sue sognanti ditaFanno scordar la vitaSpirando in verso tutto pien d'amore....Senza morir: chè sanno i suoni alati,Vedendo il nostro stato,Ch' è dal dolor turbato,Di lasciarci, morendo, desolati.